Page 295 - WUTHERING HEIGHTS

Wuthering Heights

could get him to listen, I saw it pleased him that his sister
had left her husband; whom he abhorred with an intensity
which the mildness of his nature would scarcely seem to
allow. So deep and sensitive was his aversion, that he

refrained from going anywhere where he was likely to see
or hear of Heathcliff. Grief, and that together, transformed
him into a complete hermit: he threw up his office of
magistrate, ceased even to attend church, avoided the
village on all occasions, and spent a life of entire seclusion
within the limits of his park and grounds; only varied by
solitary rambles on the moors, and visits to the grave of his
wife, mostly at evening, or early morning before other
wanderers were abroad. But he was too good to be
thoroughly unhappy long. HE didn’t pray for Catherine’s
soul to haunt him. Time brought resignation, and a
melancholy sweeter than common joy. He recalled her
memory with ardent, tender love, and hopeful aspiring to
the better world; where he doubted not she was gone.
And he had earthly consolation and affections also. For
a few days, I said, he seemed regardless of the puny
successor to the departed: that coldness melted as fast as
snow in April, and ere the tiny thing could stammer a
word or totter a step it wielded a despot’s sceptre in his
heart. It was named Catherine; but he never called it the

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