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‘The farmer was somewhat abashed at this response, but he bethought him that, whatever he did now, he had surely lost the Brownie’s goodwill for ever, so if he did not want to sink back into his former penury, he had better demand his wishes, and gain wealth for himself all at once. He told the Brownie that he meant him no harm, and would release him as soon as he agreed to grant him three wishes. “Ah, so that’s what you are about,” said the Brownie. “You are a greedy fellow indeed, if all your comfort and prosperity has bred nothing better in you than a desire for what you have not. But what makes you think I can grant you any wishes at all? I am only a Brownie. If my magical abilities extended so far as that, do you think you could catch and hold me as you have done?”
‘“Do not try to fool me,” replied the farmer, “I have heard enough stories of wishes granted by just such creatures as you that I have no doubt you could give me what I ask. If you refuse, I will just keep you in this cage, and make my fortune by selling you to a huckster at a fair.”
‘“Please, no!” the Brownie howled. “The very touch of sunlight on my skin would burn like a red-hot coal on yours. Take pity on me, sir; remember all my kindness to you, and do not condemn me to such a fate!” Whereupon the Brownie began weeping and rocking back and forth, his whole body trembling and his eyes wide with dread, but the farmer remained adamant in his demands. “Very well,” said the Brownie at last, with an ill grace, “I will give you three wishes. But I tell you again: do not imagine that I am some Arabian genie who can conjure golden coaches and chests of gems from the ends of the earth. You must moderate your wishes, and not ask for more than could be found within three leagues of this place.”
‘Now, the farmer had hoped to wish for just such things as the Brownie mentioned, but he was well pleased to have gained his point at all, and immediately began running over the possibilities in his mind – thinking of one man’s landed estate, another’s bustling woollen mills, and still another’s thriving grocery trade, considering which would bring him the greatest wealth and eminence with the least effort. At last he made up his mind: “For my first wish—”
‘“Wait,” said the Brownie. “You must take time to think of what you will wish for, and I must gather my powers to grant it, for I am sure it will be no small thing. Release me now, and I promise you that when the sun goes down on the next Sabbath, I will grant you your heart’s wish. The same will I do on each of the two succeeding Sabbaths. But after that, you must make the best of what you have gained, for I will be your Brownie no more.”
‘“How am I to be sure that you will keep your promise?” asked the farmer.
‘“I have never betrayed anyone’s trust in me,” the little man said, with a look and tone that clearly showed he thought the same could not be said for his captor. “The same stories from which you gleaned the knowledge to lure me to your house and capture me will have taught you that our promises are sacred to us, and not a word of mine will I abate, I assure you.
‘“After the sun touches the horizon, and before it sinks altogether below it, stand on the hearthstone here and speak your desire. You will not see me, but I will hear you. By sunrise the next day, your heart’s wish will be granted.”
‘Well, the farmer was obliged to be satisfied with this. He cut the cords that tied on the floor of the cage, and pulled on the rope to raise the trap. As soon as a gap appeared, the creature scuttled out through it, and disappeared like a wisp of smoke into the crack between the hearthstone and the floor.
‘The next day, so full was the farmer’s mind of all the good things that were coming to him that he scarcely noticed when the dairymaid came to tell him that one of the cows had borne a dead calf, and another was showing signs of milk fever, or when a labourer came from the fields to say that a trio of wild moor ponies had jumped a stone wall and trampled a fine crop of young oats into the ground. But, as the day wore on, the evidence mounted that the Brownie had not only withdrawn his favour from the household, but called down bad luck upon them: all the poultry were found with their throats torn out by a weasel, and the pig escaped from its pen and ran squealing away over the moors as if it were being chased by a devil. The very coal in the hearth would not light properly, but only smouldered and filled the house with evil-smelling smoke. This rather shook the farmer’s good spirits – he had grown so used to having everything belonging to him go as well as it possibly could do that he had come to think such success was natural to him, so it was painful to be reminded how fragile was the prosperity of his family. “But,” he reflected to himself, “that only shows all the more how wise it was of me to seek for greater security. I shall wish first for a landed estate. Rich men need not fear a few strokes of bad luck – their rents come in all the same, and it is the tenants who must tighten their belts to make up the sum, as I well remember.” So he went about his work in good spirits, disregarding these ominous misfortunes with a cheerfulness that astonished and impressed the servants.
‘When Sunday came, the farmer was far too preoccupied with imagining his coming prosperity to go to church, or even to say prayers at home. He thought of going for a long walk, just to pass the time, for the weather looked fair and sunny, and the heather was all in bloom, but no sooner did he step outside than a powerful wind came up and drew a pall of angry-looking thunderclouds over the whole sky. When he went inside, the sky cleared as quickly as it had clouded before, so out he went again, but the same thing happened. So he resigned himself to pacing about within the house, and thinking about his coming wish. “I wonder how the Brownie will give me what I ask,” he reflected. “Will it materialize all around me during the night, or will I wake the next day to find it nearby, and only waiting for me to move in and take possession?” It then occurred to him for the first time that in either case his neighbours would surely find it strange to have an entire hall appear where none had been before. “It will do me little good to be made master of a fine estate if it makes folk think I have had dealings with the Devil,” he thought; “I must be careful to word my wish so as to avoid that result.”
‘At last the sun touched the horizon. Eagerly, the farmer stepped onto the hearthstone and said the words he had been rehearsing all day: “I wish to be master of an estate just like Morton Hall, which is to come to me without the appearance of magic.” Silence greeted this statement, and then suddenly a strong gust of wind blew down the chimney, sending smoke and ash into the farmer’s face, and forcing him to step back off the hearth and retreat to the far end of the house. “If you meant to prevent my claiming my wish, Brownie,” he called out, “you moved too late. The wish is spoken, and now you must keep your word by granting it.”
‘The farmer had expected a sleepless night, but to his surprise he slept heavily and long, and did not awake until broad day. As he dressed, he looked about the room eagerly, but all seemed just as it had been the day before. The same proved true of the rest of the house. Then the farmer went out-of-doors to see if anything new might be spied, but all he saw was his wife and family at a distance in their pony and trap, returning from their visit, as planned. The farmer set out at a brisk pace to meet them, reasoning that he had best tell his wife of their great good fortune before she learned of the many small misfortunes that had fallen upon them since the Brownie had withdrawn his favour from them. But when he came near, it was his wife who rushed forward. “Such news! Such news!” she gasped. “The most shocking thing has come to pass – the whole town is talking of it – such a terrible thing!”
‘“What is it?” asked the farmer, an ominous chill touching his heart.
‘“Why, just think, the whole family at Morton Hall, all killed at once!”
‘“Killed! All of them! How can that be?”
‘“It came about last night. They all sat down to supper shortly after dark, as usual, the parents and all eight children, but no sooner did they eat it than they were all rolling about in agonies on the floor. The doctor came, but all his labours were in vain: by morning every one of them was dead! It is thought that the food must have been poisoned, and the cook has been taken up on suspicion, though why she would do such a thing I cannot think, for she has a good position, and has been with the family most of her life, and what could she gain by their deaths? The will is to be read tomorrow, as soon as the solicitor can get here from York, and it is hoped that will cast some light on the matter. But why so pale, husband, and why do you tremble? It is a dreadful thing, to be sure, that there could be so much evil in the world, and so near by us. But it is nothing to us – we are all safe and sound, thank God.”
‘But this was small comfort to the farmer, as he turned and walked silently homeward beside the pony and cart. Gone now was any plan of telling his wife about his success with the Brownie. For once, the farmer longed to disbelieve in his own magic.
‘His wife, meanwhile, was clucking the pony forward into a trot, eager to get home and see how her flock, her dairy, and her garden had been getting on in her absence. The farmer lagged behind, preferring to let the servants be the ones to deliver the bad news, and the cries of dismay coming from the direction of the barn soon told him she was in full possession of it. Then his wife herself appeared, tears streaming down her face, for amid all the other losses was that of her favourite dairy cow, Belle, who had been with them since their poorer days, and was like one of the family, and she felt this death of a beloved beast more deeply than the deaths of all the strangers at Morton Hall. “What evil has come upon us?” she sobbed to her husband. “It seems as if all the goodness has gone from the world at once – children murdered in the bosom of their family in town, and here it seems as if all Nature is turned against us at once, my flock destroyed, and the garden trampled, and poor Belle …” Then, seeing her husband trembling like an aspen, she asked more pointedly, “What do you know of this?”
‘“Nothing,” he stammered awkwardly. “We have had more than our share of good luck these last few years, have we not? And now we have a little taste of the bad, to balance it, but we shall weather it all right – we have food in the house, and money in the bank, and soon all will be to rights again, you will see.”
‘“What of the Brownie?” she asked. “I thought our good fortune was his doing?”
‘“I am a little afeared,” said the farmer carefully, “that the Brownie may have, eh, heard me speak of my plan to capture him, and so he has taken offence, bringing these punishments upon us. We must let him know how sorry we are, and leave out better vittles and drink than ever, and we will soon put all to rights, I am sure.”
‘“Perhaps so,” said his wife, “but it seems hard that my own dairy and flock should be the ones to suffer, when he must know that I spoke against your plan, and I hope he will take that into account.” She spoke this last rather loudly, as if hoping the Brownie might be in earshot even then. “And as for you, you should take this lesson to heart, not to be wishing for wealth and idleness when you have prosperity enough already.”
‘“I have indeed,” said the farmer feelingly. He was already resolved that on the following Sunday he would ask the Brownie to reverse all he had done, and then forgo his last wish altogether – which, with some tempting offerings each night, might perhaps appease the Brownie, and return him to his former complaisance. True, it seemed unlikely that the creature’s powers would be great enough to bring the Mortons all back to life again – if indeed he had had anything to do with their deaths – but doubtless relatives would arrive to take possession in their place. As for himself, he thought, he would work with a good heart to the end of his days, with never a complaint, if but the burden of this horror could be lifted from his conscience.
‘But this was not to be. The next morning, while the family were at breakfast, a strange young man on horseback cantered up to the door, and, with pardons for interrupting the family at their meal, introduced himself as a clerk to the Morton family’s solicitor, with urgent business for the man of the house. The family’s eyes widened, as the farmer, with a sinking heart, rose and went outside to speak to the clerk. There he was informed that the solicitor, in going over the papers in Mr Morton’s study, had discovered a will of more recent date than the one he had prepared for his client.
‘“How recent?” gasped the farmer, terror gripping him.
‘“Oh, some two or three years back,” said the clerk, a little puzzled at this response, “but the one my master prepared is older than that, so this newer one, which was prepared by a different solicitor, is the one that will be read this afternoon. And it seems that you are named in it, no doubt for some small bequest, so I am come to bid you be present at the reading.”
‘The farmer went in and told this news to his wife, doing his best to act as if it were the most natural thing in the world, while straining his mind to invent a plausible explanation. “I never mentioned it to you at the time,” he said, “but some years ago I pulled young Master Morton from a bog in which he was stuck fast and sinking. It was a small enough service, but the lad had been badly frightened, and assured me I had saved his life. No doubt he told his father the same, and so Mr Morton has left me a little something in gratitude. You see our luck is turning again already,” he added, forcing a smile.
‘“That is lucky,” his wife said, “and I only hope it is a sum of money you are left and not some useless trinket like a ring or a cane, for I shall have to buy a whole new flock at the next market day, and perhaps another cow as well, and we are pinched already, with all the trouble your foolish talk has brought upon us.”
‘The farmer was glad enough, after that, to escape into town to hear the will. So he found himself sitting alongside a parcel of Morton relations from a nearby town, whose genuine grief at the horrific end of all their esteemed relations at once mingled with anticipation of their own likely good fortune as a result of it. But the contents of the will astonished them all. The farmer’s father, it explained, had been the natural son of Mr Morton’s grandfather by a serving maid, and was hence half-brother to this Mr Morton’s father. This secret had been hushed up by the girl’s marriage to a poor local farmer, and the bastard child himself had grown up knowing nothing of his true parentage. But, on his deathbed, the old man had repented of his neglect, and charged his only grandson and heir with making some amends to the boy’s descendants, should they prove worthy. With eight children of his own to provide for, and the family honour to consider, Mr Morton had not seen fit to do anything in his own lifetime, but upon enquiring after the character of his unknown uncle’s only surviving son, and finding him to be prosperous and held in high respect locally despite poor beginnings, he did alter his will to provide him with a small bequest, and, in the unlikely event that none of his own numerous children survived to inherit, with the reversion of the whole estate, as being the only other living descendant of his grandfather.
‘Great was the amazement that greeted this news, and even the farmer, who had dimly expected something along these lines, knew not what to make of it. After the reading, he hurried up to question the solicitor. Was the will really so old, he wanted to know, and how could they tell it was authentic?
‘“The authenticity of the will cannot be in doubt,” said the solicitor. “It was prepared by a different firm, but I well know the hand and seal of the late colleague who prepared it.”
‘“Late?”
‘“He died eighteen months ago,” the solicitor replied.
‘“How can that be?” the farmer stammered. “How could the will have been there all those years, and no one know about it at all? And my father, all the time half-brother to Mr Morton – can all this really be true?”
‘“Please sit down, sir,” said the solicitor kindly. “I fear this shock has been too much for you – the more so as it comes on the heels of this strange and sinister tragedy. Here, take a glass of brandy, and try to calm yourself a little.” The solicitor then turned to attend to the disappointed relations, who were as wonderstruck as the farmer, but with whom the solicitor had rather less patience as they were not likely to become his clients, and bustled them out of the room.
‘Thereupon he addressed himself respectfully to the farmer. “Good sir,” he said, “it speaks well of your heart that you show such distress at news that most men would find cause for rejoicing, and that you are so solicitous to assure yourself of the justice of your claim to good fortune. Of course, none of us can know the truth about private events that took place before we were born, and the participants in which are all now deceased. But I have looked into the household and parish records, and they do corroborate what the will says – your grandmother was indeed employed at Morton Hall until just before her marriage, and your father’s birth took place only six months after it. Did you know anything about this?
‘“Nothing,” said the farmer, beginning to recover his wits a little. “I knew that my grandmother had been in service before her marriage, but not where – she never spoke of it. And I am sure my father never had any cause to doubt he was his father’s son.”
‘“Well, I don’t doubt you,” the solicitor replied, “and you may rest assured that no suspicion will attach to you in these strange deaths, for I can attest that nothing could be more genuine than the shock and distress you displayed when the will was read. I watched you closely, given the suspicious circumstances of the family’s deaths, and saw that your face went suddenly ashen, and you began shaking like a leaf, when the revelation of your heritage was made. Expressions and manner may be feigned, as any lawyer knows, but the most thoroughgoing scoundrel could not counterfeit such a response. How and why the family came to be murdered, or whether it was only some horrible mishap, we have yet to learn, but you are innocent of any hand in it – I would stake my life that you knew nothing of that will or its contents before it was read.”
‘“I thank you, sir,” said the farmer. The horror that had struck him when he first heard his wife’s news was now beginning to abate, as it dawned on him that he might actually take possession of Morton Hall without losing the good opinion of his neighbours, or exciting any suspicions in the town, since even his own dismay at the news was taken as evidence of his innocence and good character. “Furthermore,” he thought to himself, “it appears that I am in truth the near relation of the late Mr Morton – for these are matters of record from many years ago, and surely no Brownie’s magic could extend to altering the past.” So the farmer reasoned, and if he could but have felt assured that his wish had played no part in the deaths of all the family, he would have been happy to believe that the inheritance was no more than was due to his parentage and proven merit, but about that his heart misgave him a little. “Even so, though,” he thought, “surely I myself am innocent of these deaths, for I would never have framed my wish in such terms if I had known what would be the result. The evil in this is the Brownie’s, not mine. But I have learned my lesson. I will rest content with what I have, and ask no more of the Brownie than I have already got.” Gone now, however, was his plan of asking the Brownie to revoke the wish he had already made – it would be better, he decided, to leave further wishing alone altogether, for however cautiously he framed his wish, might not the cunning Brownie find a way to turn it to evil? And it would certainly be pleasant to be master of Morton Hall.
‘The solicitor wished him to remain at Morton Hall and send for his family to tell them the news – offering to send his clerk again to carry the message – but the farmer thought it best to inform his wife in greater privacy. But he did have one of Mr Morton’s saddle horses readied, that he might ride home in comfort and style. As he walked the fine beast down the main street of the town he saw fingers pointing and heard on all sides the wondering murmurs in which the news of his inheritance spread. No one turned aside from him or cast looks of suspicion, and if there were a few of the better-born folk who showed a hint of scorn at his sudden elevation, there were many more who smiled, and bowed or curtseyed, already seeking favour with the new master at Morton Hall. All this lifted the farmer’s heart considerably. But it still remained to inform his wife of their change in fortunes.
‘When he came within sight of the cottage, it was his wife this time who hurried down the road to greet him. “So he has left you a horse!” she exclaimed. “Well, it looks like a very fine one. But we will have to sell it of course. These fancy saddle horses take a good deal of care and rich feeding, and we certainly could never hitch him to the plough. Still, it is a start on better times for us, I suppose – and the more cheering that it results from your own good deed to that poor lad.”
‘“The horse is the least of it, wife,” the farmer replied, choosing to ignore her last remark. “You cannot imagine what good fortune has befallen us. I am to inherit all of Morton Hall!” And he went on to explain about the revelations in the will, hoping that news of their elevation to prosperity and position would do away all his wife’s anger and grief.
‘But his wife’s suspicions were roused. She had had a day to discover the full scope of the Brownie’s revenge, and now she remembered too how strangely the farmer had first taken the news of the Mortons’ deaths. “There is something you are not telling me,” she said sharply, “what is it?” The farmer stammered out a denial, but his red face and frightened manner betrayed him. “Do not attempt to hide anything from me,” she added sternly, “you know I always see through your disguises.”
‘The farmer saw then that nothing less than the truth would satisfy his wife, and so, with downcast face and heavy heart, he confessed to her all that he had done. But he stressed also the date of the will and the evidence of the long-ago parish records. “It has all come about very strangely,” he said, “but it seems that I am indeed kin to the Mortons, and rightfully heir to their estate. As for their deaths, I wished no ill on them, nor did them any. If the Brownie has done this evil – which may not even be so – the sin is surely on his head, not mine. And I will make no more wishes, I am resolved.”
‘“What sort of man are you?” cried his wife. “How can you doubt that their deaths are your doing, whether you meant it or not? How did you think you could get possession of an estate of the size of Morton Hall in this neighbourhood without any appearance of magic, unless you were to get Morton Hall itself? And how might that come about, but by disposing of the current inhabitants? Their deaths are on your head, and if we take this ill-gotten inheritance, they will be on mine too! Think of it – first you betray that good little Brownie, who was the author of all our prosperity, and now ten people have died in agony, the youngest but five years old, to satisfy your greed and indolence – oh, it is horrible, horrible!” and his wife threw herself on the ground, sobbing in her grief and dismay.
‘The farmer endeavoured to reason away her distress, but in vain. Her mind was clearer and her heart truer than the selfish farmer’s, and she continued to reproach him with the evil he had brought upon them all.
‘“No,” she said, “I will tell you what we must do. We must tell the whole tale to the vicar in the village, and take his advice on the matter.” This suggestion filled the farmer with alarm. Convincing as he believed his own excuses to be, he had no wish to try their force on an educated clergyman. Who knew what conclusions he might come to? It was not so many years back that there had been trials for witchcraft in the area, tales of which still lingered in those hills, and for all he knew he might still be liable for prosecution. These points he urged on his wife, and, when he saw her resolve weaken a little, followed up with the plan he had formed earlier.
‘“Two wishes yet remain of those the Brownie promised me,” he said. “This Sunday evening I will ask him to undo all he can of my previous wish, and return us to our former condition, and I will forgo the last wish altogether. Then, when we have made what amends we can, we will try to go on as if none of this had happened at all.”
‘At first his wife would not hear of it. “Look how much evil came of your first wish,” she said. “How can you know the second will not bring worse?”
‘“We will guard against it in the wording of the wish,” the farmer assured her, “by telling him that no harm is to come to anyone in the fulfilment of it, just as I told him before that there was to be no appearance of magic.” Reluctantly his wife agreed to this, only stipulating that she should determine precisely what he was to say, and that she might still go to the vicar if the results failed to satisfy her conscience. The farmer then sent word to Morton Hall that his family would take some time to settle their affairs locally before taking possession of the estate. That Saturday, the children were sent to relations in town, and the servants dismissed, that there might be no mishap or interruption when they called upon the Brownie the following evening.
‘Now, when the farmer had suggested that they ask the Brownie to return them to their former condition, he had meant, of course, the condition of prosperity that the Brownie had first brought about on their poor farm. So he was dismayed to discover that his wife, in the sternness of her conscience, had resolved that they must renounce even that, and return to all the poverty of their early years. But he was desperate to silence his wife’s bitter reproaches (which she still made continually), and above all, to prevent her from going to the vicar, and so he agreed to whatever she suggested. His wife was anxious that there should be no mistake in the wording of the wish, so she had the farmer repeat it to her again and again, to be certain he had got it correctly, and she resolved to be present at the crucial moment, to prompt or correct him should it be needed.
‘When the sun began to sink towards the horizon on the appointed day, she stationed herself in the doorway to watch for the precise moment when it touched the earth, while the farmer paced in front of the hearth, muttering bitterly under his breath against his wife’s stubbornness, which would reduce them all to the direst poverty. But when she signalled that the moment had come, he stepped forward onto the hearth, heart pounding, and repeated the form of words his wife had taught him, asking the Brownie to reverse all the magic he had ever done for them that could be reversed without causing harm to anyone. No sooner had he done so than he heard a loud shriek from his wife, and she fell to the ground. He ran to her, and found she was dead!’
‘But how can that be?’ I interrupted in some annoyance. ‘The wish said clearly that no one was to be hurt!’ I disliked fairy stories with morals to them, and this one was shaping up to be of that objectionable variety.
‘If you will but let me finish the story, Nell, you will find out. Now hush.
‘When the farmer found his wife was dead, he cried out at once and reproached the Brownie for breaking his word – see, Nell? – To his surprise, the Brownie himself appeared on the hearth. “I have kept my promise,” he said.
‘“But I said that no one was to be harmed, and here is my own wife, dead!”
‘“I told you to speak a wish, but I did not promise to grant the wish you spoke,” the Brownie replied with a cruel smile. “You spoke the wish of your mouth, but I gave you the wish of your heart.”
‘Then the farmer saw that he had been tricked, and that all the while he spoke the words his wife had taught him, he had longed in his heart for everything that she would deny him while she lived. “Is my heart so evil then, that I could wish her death?” he cried.
‘“Can you deny it?” the Brownie replied.
‘Then the farmer fell to his knees, sobbing. “Alas, I see that it is so. But I will repent me now of my greed and my anger. I beg your pardon, Brownie, for my poor treatment of you. I will ask no more wishes from you, but will use all my remaining years to make amends for my sins, and pray to God to take away my heart of stone, and give me a heart of flesh.”
‘“Pray all you please,” the Brownie replied, “but I told you once that I would abate no word of my promise, and so I will not. When the sun goes down on the next Sabbath, whether you are dumb or whether you speak, whether you stand on the hearth or a thousand miles away, you will be granted the inmost wish of your heart.” And with that he disappeared. The farmer called and called for him to return, and pleaded with the empty air to be freed from this final wish, which he now regarded with terror, but to no avail.
‘Then the farmer, seeing that the Brownie would not help him, set about to examine his heart, and bring it into a better frame, that his heart’s wish would not bring such horrors upon him as it had done hitherto. But, like many another man who has left repentance to the last, he found that the time was too short; through unchecked selfishness and greed, the evil of his heart had grown too great to be uprooted in the few days remaining before the wish was granted. As the sun began to sink on the Sabbath, he could not take his mind from the shame and degradation he would face if the neighbours discovered his secret, and he grew terrified, in his guilt and despair, that in some unsearched corner of his heart he might be wishing the annihilation of the whole neighbourhood around, as he had that of his wife. So he snatched up a knife from the table and, before the sun touched the horizon, plunged it into his heart. He was found thus the next morning, and pinned to his breast was a note in a queer, crabbed hand that read, “He got his heart’s wish.”’
‘But how could the Brownie know the wish of his inmost heart, even a thousand miles off?’ I interrupted again. ‘I thought only God could know that. And the Brownie said before that he could not fetch things by magic more than three leagues distant!’
‘Well, you are a sharp cross-questioner, Nelly,’ said my mother. ‘There is no fooling you. I suppose the Brownie was not being strictly truthful there. No doubt he had heard the farmer’s mutterings against his wife, and made out the wish of his heart from that, and as for the rest, he counted on the farmer’s fear and dismay to cloud his thinking. A man haunted by a guilty conscience thinks everyone can see into his heart. But the tale is true enough, for all that, as is pretty widely known about here. The man was buried as a suicide, in an unmarked grave at a crossroads just the other side of Gimmerton. I have seen the place myself. When I was still a girl, there was a man going around the fairs who showed what he said was the bloodstained knife and the note, at a penny a look, and I begged my mother to let me see them, but she said he could have written the note and stained the dagger himself, and no one would be the wiser, and she would not waste so much as a farthing on such trumpery shows. But the tale itself she always averred to be quite true, to her own knowledge, and she never lied. Take it to heart, Nell, and do not get in the habit of imagining yourself entitled to more than you have earned by your own labours. Leave off making idle wishes.’
Wise advice, no doubt, to anyone who could follow it. As for me, she might as well have told me to leave off breathing. But the story has haunted me since, and in my darkest times I have wondered, was there something I did in my youth, some unfledged sparrow I returned to its nest, or a moth I freed from a spider’s web, that made me the recipient, all unwitting, of some such sinister boon? How many things that my wayward heart has wished for have come true, yet in a manner crueller than their denial could ever be? That very night, I wished fervently that my father might be to me henceforth as he had been these last few days. And so he was, in the sense that I never saw him otherwise, for before I saw again, he was dead.
FIVE (#u9c184a54-7fdc-56f3-8370-8fe645567535)
Now, why did I write that? I am sure I thought nothing of the kind at the time. Indeed that friendly visit had been a great relief to my conscience, in freeing me of many a guilty unbidden daydream in which my father’s death figured prominently. And though it might certainly be said that I wished for his love, it was a wish I both prayed for and intended to work for – resolving to show him in future such a mixture of dutiful respect and easy affection as would assure him I had forgiven and forgotten the wrongs of the past. How could such a wish be wrong? It is true that my mother’s story came in time to haunt me, but that was years later, after other, darker events, and less innocent wishes. And I am getting ahead of myself again.
I had expected that I would see my father on my next month’s day off, but in the meantime, he was called away for a large job at some distance from our home. An old friend of his boyhood – a lad as poor as himself, but with a genius for all things mechanical – had risen in the world, and was now the owner of some prosperous mills outside Brassing, about thirty miles away from us. He had bought a good-sized piece of land, and was having built for himself a large manor house, and he took it into his head that none other than his old friend should oversee all the stonework, and at pay several times what my father could earn locally. My father wished to move there outright with my mother – there would be work for at least a year or two just on the house, and he counted on getting more through the connection after. But my mother flatly refused to leave the neighbourhood so soon, not wishing to be gone so far from me while I was new to my duties, or to give up the small farm into which she had poured so much work over the years, without more certain prospects elsewhere. There were hard words between them about this, as I gathered from my mother’s hints, but the result was that my father left alone, with the understanding that my mother would join him in a year or two if the situation proved as good as he thought. And so he passed from my life again, though on better terms than before, certainly. I wrote to him now and again, printing in large letters so that he could read them easily, and saying as little about the Earnshaws as possible, on my mother’s instructions.
When I returned to Wuthering Heights to take up my position as a maidservant, I found my new duties easier in some respects, and harder in others, than I had anticipated. Mrs Earnshaw kept to the intention she expressed to my mother, and was an easy, indulgent mistress. Had her commands been all I had to consider, I would have seen little difference in the tenor of my life at the Heights. She had no wish to banish me from the lessons she superintended with Hindley and Cathy, for in truth they were both more refractory pupils in my absence. Hindley could not keep his mind to a schoolroom task for five minutes together, and his mother quickly lost patience with him without me there to devise games or rhymes or riddles to keep him to his task, and make him learn his lessons in spite of himself. Cathy was much better, but she was motivated primarily by a desire to outshine Hindley, and when that became easier, her own progress slowed accordingly. So when it was time for lessons, Mrs Earnshaw would generally call me to suspend whatever I was doing and join them. And then, having included me in the labours of the schoolroom, she was too kind to deny me its holidays, too, so when Cathy and Hindley were released outside to run off the ill effects of two or three hours of sedentary application, I would be told to join them.
But my mother put a stop to this arrangement, when she came to hear of it, and there were words between her and the mistress about it, too. These I did not manage to overhear, but I saw the signs of them clearly enough, in my mother’s set face and the mistress’s quiet tears after they had been shut up together. After that my mother made time to walk over to the Heights nearly every morning, to instruct me in household duties and set my tasks for the day. These tasks, she made clear to me, were to be performed faithfully, whatever the mistress might say to the contrary – so that, in performing my new duties, I had to fight not only my own inclinations, but those of all around me. I did not take well to the change – I could not see why, if Mrs Earnshaw thought it worth my wages to have my assistance in the schoolroom, I should be denied the benefit of being there, and by my own mother, too. After a week of the new arrangement, I finally made bold to put this to her.
‘You are paid wages as a servant, Nelly, and have a duty to do the service you are paid for, even if Mrs Earnshaw is too kind to ask it of you.’
‘But you don’t know what it is like for her, teaching Hindley and Cathy without me there,’ I protested. ‘She can keep no order at all, and Hindley learns nothing without me there to help him. She said herself that it is little help to her to have me shelling peas in the kitchen while she is driven to distraction by the two of them – she would rather shell them herself later, and have my assistance where it is most needed. And I want to keep learning.’
‘Yes, she told me that, too.’ She sighed and motioned me to sit down. ‘This is hard for you, Nelly, I know. But there is not only Mrs Earnshaw to consider. The master permitted you to return on the footing of a servant, and it is he that pays your wages. He has been much occupied this week with moving the sheep to fresh pastures, but when that is done he will be looking into the household again, and there will be anger for all of us, the mistress not excluded, if he has reason to feel that we have connived in circumventing his commands. And he would have reason to feel that. You do see that Nell, do you not?’
I said nothing, but looked downward and felt my face flush. I knew she was right, but it was a bitter draught to swallow, for all that, and I should have preferred to put it off as long as I could. But that was never my mother’s way: she preferred to face unpleasant duties ‘head on’, as she said. It was the hardest of all the lessons she taught me, but it was a good one, and has stood me in better stead than all the rest combined. So I bid farewell to the schoolroom, and took some comfort in the general grumbling at this change, without adding much to it myself.
There was actually much to learn in my new sphere: I had to know all about the proper management of a dairy, from scouring and scalding the milk pans, to skimming and churning the cream, making up the butter, and straining curds to make cheese. I had to learn how to keep the fire in the kitchen hot enough for our daily needs without making it so hot that it burned the oatcakes and wasted the coal, and how to make the smooth, thick oat porridge we ate daily, without creating lumps from too much haste in adding the oats, or burning the bottom through too little stirring – and a great many other things which it would bore you to hear, no doubt. In time, as my mother predicted, I came to take almost the same pride in my quickness and efficiency at these duties that I had in my book learning before, and I had the added comfort of knowing that these skills would allow me to earn a living anywhere – which could not be said of my command of the principal rivers of Asia, or my familiarity with the longest words in Johnson’s Dictionary.
There were other changes in the schoolroom at this time besides that of my absence. Heathcliff too had been excluded from it at first, on the grounds that he was too young and could not speak our language – but it was really because no one in the house wanted him there – and so he fell to my charge. I soon found, though, that it was only that his accent was so queer we could not make out what he was saying, nor he us. He must have been a bright lad at base, because within a few weeks that had changed, and he and I could make shift to understand each other well enough. By that time the master was back, and he made it known that Heathcliff was to have his lessons with the other children. And so he was settled on a footstool in the far corner, and given Cathy’s old hornbook to begin learning his letters. At first, both Cathy and Hindley made faces at him and jeered at his ignorance, every chance they got. But Heathcliff took no notice of it, except to turn his back to them and hunch more tightly over his hornbook, and Cathy soon tired of this sport and began to take an interest in the lad’s progress. Her first kind words to him brought forth a grateful devotion: he began following her about like a puppy, and taking her commands with such joyful alacrity that it is no wonder she was soon won over to loving him.
We have a saying that ‘a four-wheeled cart is steady, and a two-wheeled cart is quick, but a three-wheeled cart is good for naught but landing in a ditch’. Before Heathcliff came, Hindley and I were the two-wheeled cart, and Cathy was often left behind on our excursions, or excluded from our sports, on the grounds that she was too little to participate. Now, with Heathcliff arrived and me gone from the schoolroom, Cathy saw that the tables could be turned, and Hindley would be the third wheel. And so it fell out.
The effect of all this on Hindley’s behaviour was not good. He became, as I said, more refractory in the schoolroom, and often uncontrollable out if it, except by his father, who enforced obedience with fear rather than love. Even the mistress, who had always loved Hindley best despite all his waywardness – or perhaps for it – lost all patience with him, and took to reporting his more egregious misdeeds directly to the master, something she had never used to do before, as it invariably earned the boy a beating. Hindley had always been a difficult, wilful child, but he began now to exhibit signs of real maliciousness and ill temper. And his favourite object for these was the new boy in the household. Heathcliff learned early not to carry tales to the master or mistress, except in extreme cases. Not that they were not ready enough to credit his tale and punish Hindley accordingly, but the master’s bitterness too often spilled over – most unreasonably – onto Cathy as well, which Heathcliff could not bear to see. Also, every flogging Hindley received on Heathcliff’s behalf only lengthened the score of the former’s vengeance, and heightened his violence when the next opportunity presented itself. Cathy, for her part, would fight like a wild cat to defend her favourite, or if that failed, scurry off with him to nurse his wounds with kisses and plot some petty revenge. I would remonstrate with Hindley, and if possible interfere between them, if only for Hindley’s sake, but we would neither of us carry tales, partly from the old loyalty of the schoolroom, and more because we could see that it did more harm than good. Even old Joseph, though normally he liked nothing better than to get any of us into trouble with the master, disliked Heathcliff too much to take up his defence. And so it became a more or less constant game of cat-and-mouse between Heathcliff and Hindley. Hindley knew that, if he could catch Heathcliff out of sight and hearing of either of his parents – and what was more difficult, away from Cathy as well – he could do pretty near whatever he liked to the boy with impunity, only provided he restrained himself from producing conspicuous injuries.
I saw it all with a heavy heart. Towards me, and me alone, had Hindley retained any of his old warmth and boyish sense of fun, and I felt I had still some good influence over him, but we had little time together any more.
One day, about a month after Heathcliff’s arrival, we contrived to go off for a whole day together. It was the first of my monthly holidays, but my father being away, and my mother still a regular visitor at the Heights, I was not expected at home. Hindley had just succeeded (with much secret assistance from me of an evening) in keeping the whole of some hundred lines of Shakespeare in his mind at once, in honour of which achievement he had been granted a day’s freedom from lessons. The day being sunny, we had resolved to go to Pennistone Crag for a picnic. Mrs Earnshaw made up a packet of oatcakes and cheese for us to take along, which Hindley put in an old sack and slung over his shoulder, and off we went. But the day was unseasonably hot, so we chose to stop instead at another favourite place about midway there, a little hollow graced by a burbling stream and a small waterfall that stayed always cool and refreshing even when the rest of the world was baking.
It was a beautiful little grotto, naturally walled with stone, where the water ran in over flat slabs of bedrock and then dropped in little waterfalls through multiple pools of varying shapes and levels. The water was coloured orange by the iron-rich soil, which also drifted to the bottom and made the pools red. There was one in particular in which a narrow fall dropped straight into still water, causing it to roil up in red bubbles. We had always called this ‘the pool of blood’, and avoided touching its contents with as much superstitious horror as if it had been blood indeed. At another place, the sunlight somehow came through the water from the back, though there was only stone behind it, so that the little waterfall, no more than a hand’s-breadth across, danced with an orange glow like flames. We called it the ‘the waternixie’s bonfire’, and liked to imagine tiny fairy-like creatures dancing behind it. Once, Hindley put out his hand and caught up the water’s flow, so we could see behind it and ‘catch them at it’ as he said, but there was nothing but bare stone behind. ‘Too quick for us,’ I said.
We took off our shoes and sat on a rock to dangle our feet in the stream. Then Hindley scooped up some water in his hand to cool his face and neck, and I did the same. By chance, a bit of it splashed onto Hindley, and he responded by flinging some on me. Then I returned fire, and soon we were in full battle, chasing each other about, splashing and laughing until we both collapsed, sopping wet and exhausted, on the bank. In that state, we found the shaded hollow a little too cool, so we went back up into the sunlight, where we rolled about on the dry heather, and lay in the hot sun to dry our clothes. After a time, Hindley declared us ‘toasted to perfection’ – neither too hot, nor too cold – and said it was time to eat, so we made our way back to where we had left our provisions.
‘This is a bit like old times, is it not, Nelly?’ he said, as we sat ourselves on a patch of soft moss beside the stream.
‘Better,’ I said, ‘because these days are rarer for us now, and more precious accordingly.’ I was fond of wise sayings, then.
‘No, not better, because even now I can’t forget what I have to go home to,’ he replied bitterly. Then he burst out, ‘What am I to do, Nelly? Everybody hates me now, except you.’
Well I had a dozen answers on the tip of my tongue, beginning with ‘Leave Heathcliff alone’. But for once I knew better than to offer them. I made no answer but to lean against him, and he was silent too, for so long that I peeked over to see if he had fallen asleep. But his eyes were open, and I saw a steady trickle of tears making a path down the side of his face. When he saw me looking at him, he made a savage grunt and turned away, ashamed to have been caught weeping. But by then I’d caught the infection, and I was soon sobbing away myself, huddling myself against his back for comfort. And then he turned round, and we held each other until the worst of it passed. There was no need to speak. We both knew what we had lost. After a while I began to busy myself with our provisions: I spread my kerchief on the ground and started to empty the sack and arrange our meal on it. When that was done, we both ate, still silent, but not so grieved as we had been.
‘When I am grown up and Wuthering Heights is mine,’ Hindley said at last, ‘I shall marry you, Nelly. I shall send Heathcliff packing, and Joseph too, and then we will be happy all day long.’
I made no reply to his announcement, but blushed, and no doubt looked as awkward as I felt. When we were small children, Hindley and I had often talked of marrying when we grew up, as if it were a matter of course. We had even gone a whole fortnight, once, pretending that we were secretly married already, with a ‘cottage’ marked out with a square of stones in a little hollow nearby. But, as we got older, we had become shy of such talk, so that there had been no mention of marriage between us for some years. I had retained some secret hopes on that score, though, and often wondered if he did the same – especially after I had transformed from playmate to maidservant.
Hindley looked a little dismayed at my reaction.
‘You will marry me, won’t you, Nell?’ he asked anxiously. I hastened to assure him that I loved him as dearly as ever, all my shyness dissolving in the face of his obvious distress. And then I had a marvellous thought.
‘Hindley,’ I said excitedly, ‘I tell you what we must do. We must not grieve for the past, but think to the future, and prepare ourselves to be a good master and mistress of Wuthering Heights, as we will be some day. I am learning a great deal about that already, and you must learn too. You must ask your father if you can help him more in managing the estate, and ask him a great many questions about everything.’ Hindley caught my enthusiasm, so much so that he proposed we should return home straight away to put this plan into action. And so we packed up our things and headed back to Wuthering Heights, both of us more cheerful than we had been in a month. I was particularly delighted with my own cleverness in finding a way to turn Hindley into a path more likely to win him his father’s approbation, and more conducive to general peace in the household. When we were nearly home, with but one little hillock hiding us from view of the house, Hindley stopped and quickly kissed me on the lips. It was but a child’s kiss, after all, but it seemed momentous to us, and we walked the rest of the way holding hands and feeling rather solemn.
Well, turning a person out of his wonted path is not like turning a sheep, to be accomplished with a single wave of a stick or a nip at the heels. It is more like trying to shift a stream out of its bed: it looks easy enough at the start, as the water will go wherever you send it, but your dam of pebbles and mud will only hold so long as you are there to tend it, and left alone the water soon finds its way into its old path again. So it was with Hindley. To be fair, it was not all his fault. He began with great enthusiasm, hovering about his father, offering his help, and asking all manner of questions. But the change was so sudden that his father was more puzzled than pleased, and suspected some hidden motive, the more so as he could not help but observe that the lad did not attend particularly well to his answers. I assured Hindley at every opportunity that the master would come round in time if he would but persevere, but in the end the father’s suspicions lasted longer than the son’s resolve. Not only did the waters return to their own path, but the release of dammed-up force only dug the channel deeper: to the master, Hindley’s short-lived reformation seemed to confirm that the boy would never come to anything, while Hindley took his father’s refusal to credit his good intentions as proof that any further effort to please his father would be fruitless. And I, who had been so pleased with my own hand in bringing this about, felt sick at heart, and feared I had done more harm than good.
Despite this, however, Hindley and I still spoke privately of our marriage as a settled thing, and I continued in my own resolve to learn as much as I could of household management, against the day that I would be mistress there, and to steer Hindley into good behaviour whenever I could, and comfort him when I couldn’t.
As the weeks passed, my mother’s visits to the Heights became more infrequent, and my own responsibilities increased. I was still but a girl, of course, and not likely to be placed in command of servants older and longer-serving than myself, but I soon saw that it would not be long before I attained that eminence. At that time there were two maidservants employed at the Heights besides myself: one assigned to the dairy, and the other to the kitchen and household. They were both good, obedient, hard-working girls, like most rural folk, but rather slow of mind. They grew anxious when left to direct even their own work for very long, let alone anyone else’s, and, when faced with an unexpected obstacle, would come to a puzzled halt, like a sheep encountering a wall, until it was removed. Furthermore, neither of them expected to spend more than a few years at the Heights before leaving for homes of their own. When they did so, I foresaw, their replacements would naturally look to me for instructions when the mistress was not available, which was more often than not, and I would be housekeeper in effect, if not in name.
During this period, I received my first and, did I but know it, only letter from my father, all but the signature written not in his own painstaking, coarse print but in a flowing script that told me he had pressed someone into service as a scribe. I have it still. It reads:
Dear Nelly,
I hope this finds you well. I am well myself. I have five men working under me. They are all good men now but one was a lazy sot so I had to let him go and find another to fill his place. You would like to see the house I am building. It is very grand. It will have two floors above the ground plus the attics. The stones for the ground floor are very large and we must use a tackle to move them, but they are all dressed stone and easy enough to work with once they are in place. They have a better sort of mortar here too, smooth as butter. I am boarding at a house in town. It is a clean place and the landlady is very kind but not so good a cook as your mother. I hope your mother will come here soon. This house will need many servants when it is done and I am sure they would take you on if I said the word. Also you would get better wages I guess than you do now. Meantime, work hard and be a good girl. Be sure to save your wages and take them to your mother.
Your loving father,
THOMAS DEAN
