Wuthering Heights
I would have asked why Mrs. Dean had deserted the Grange, but it was impossible to delay her at such a crisis, so I turned away and made my exit, rambling leisurely along, with the glow of a sinking sun behind, and the mild glory of a rising moon in front-one fading , and the other brightening -as I quitted the park , and climbed the stony by-road branching off to Mr. Heathcliff's dwelling.
*Arriving at the Heights, I went round the back to the kitchen. At the door sat Nelly Dean sewing I advanced and recognizing me she jumped and exclaimed "Why Mr. Lockwood! What a surprise! What brings you here?"
"I won't be here for long. I leave tomorrow. " I replied."I want to talk to Mr. Heathcliff about my rent."
"If you want to talk about the rent you must settle it with me" Nelly Dean said.
"With you?" I asked, astonished. "Why?"
"You don't know?" An expression of sorrow overcame Nelly Dean's face. "Heathcliff and young Cathy are dead."
"Heathcliff and Cathy dead!" I exclaimed. "How long ago?"
"About three months ago; but sit down and let me take your hat. I'll let you know all about it".
I was accommodated accordingly while Nelly Dean also took a chair and began her story.
I was summoned to Wuthering Heights a couple of days after your departure." she said; I was shocked and grieved to see her: she was so altered since I had last seen her. My presence made her happy at first. The poor thing had no one else to really talk to except me. However, Mr. Heathcliff had forbidden her from entering the garden and she was confined to the living room and kitchen most of the time. In a short amount of time, Cathy grew restless. She started to take out her anger on Hareton; always talking at him and commenting on his illiteracy; nagging at him and his idleness.
"He is just like a dog, is he not Nelly? All he does is eat, work, and sleep!" she once observed. "And so stupid. Why, I caught him trying to teach himself to read! Imagine that! I laughed so much at him that he burned the books and dropped it. What a fool."
During all this time, Hareton would clench his fists and stare sullenly into the fire. I should have suspected that Catherine's nagging was doing more to Hareton on the inside than we saw. To my regret, I saw nothing and took no intervention in Catherine's use of Hareton as a scapegoat.
Due to an accident, Hareton became fixed in the kitchen. His gun had burst while he had been out on the hills and a splinter had been placed on his arm. The consequence was that he was condemned to the fireside and the continual nagging from Catherine. He grew more morose and bitter at everyone. Catherine seemed to delight in Hareton's suffering and derived entertainment from bothering Hareton.
On Easter Monday, Joseph had taken some cattle to Gimmerton, and I was busy putting up linen in the kitchen. Catherine was amusing herself by drawing pictures on the window-panes and Hareton was nowhere to be seen. I went upstairs to gather more material when I heard a scream from downstairs. Alarmed, I ran downstairs into the kitchen. Rushing in, I was devastated to see Catherine laying on the floor in a pool of thickening blood. Her shining ringlets lay askew and her beautiful face was drenched in blood. Next to her lay a broken chair; the legs bent as if they had been thrown with force.
Here Nelly Dean faltered and covered her face. After a few minutes she raised her head and wiped her watery eyes saying "Excuse me Mr Lockwood. But it's still difficult for me to accept all that's happened." She then proceeded with her story.
It wasn't long before Mr. Heathcliff came running in to see what the noise was about. Thundering down the hall he came to a stop, aghast to see Catherine. His face grew queer and white; for a moment it seemed as if he saw his Catherine laying there. I do believe he went berserk for he took on a murderous glare and stormed through the open door.
I followed as fast as I could but soon fell behind Heathcliff. I wandered for about ten minutes until I happened to chance upon Heathcliff and Hareton, lying on the ground.
"What happened to Hareton?" I interrupted. "Surely he is not also dead?"
"No, Hareton is not dead. It seemed Heathcliff and Hareton had a struggle. Hareton was badly wounded but he survived. Mr. Heathcliff on the other hand, did not. Hareton is now in jail."
"But what possessed Hareton to kill Heathcliff?" I inquired. "I was under the impression that he looked up to him."
"You're forgetting it was Heathcliff who pursued him. Most likely Hareton had no choice but to defend himself."
Again, Nelly Dean was overcome with a fit of grief. "Imagine that. Two such fine families drawn to ruin. Many times I longed for the time when Wuthering Heights would be free from Heathcliff's reach but in this way? Perhaps it would have been better if Catherine had went away with you for she would at least had been alive."
I sat mute, absorbing the shock of all the events that had happened at the Heights. Regretfully, I thought of the beautiful Catherine and of what could have been mine.
Outside, the last golden rays of the sun descended and a cool quiet settled over the damp moorland. I said my goodbyes and left the Heights, despite Nelly Dean inviting me to stay a little longer.*
My walk home was lengthened by a diversion in the direction of the kirk. When beneath its walls, I perceived decay had made progress, even in seven months: many a window showed black gaps deprived of glass; and slates jutted off here and there, beyond the right line of the roof, to be gradually worked off in coming autumn storms.
I sought, and soon discovered, the three headstones on the slope next the moor: on middle one grey, and half buried in the heath; Edgar Linton's only harmonized by the turf and moss creeping up its foot; Heathcliff's still bare.
I lingered round them, under that benign sky: watched the moths fluttering among the heath and harebells, listened to the soft wind breathing through the grass, and wondered how any one could ever imagine unquiet slumbers for the sleepers in that quiet earth.
*Arriving at the Heights, I went round the back to the kitchen. At the door sat Nelly Dean sewing I advanced and recognizing me she jumped and exclaimed "Why Mr. Lockwood! What a surprise! What brings you here?"
"I won't be here for long. I leave tomorrow. " I replied."I want to talk to Mr. Heathcliff about my rent."
"If you want to talk about the rent you must settle it with me" Nelly Dean said.
"With you?" I asked, astonished. "Why?"
"You don't know?" An expression of sorrow overcame Nelly Dean's face. "Heathcliff and young Cathy are dead."
"Heathcliff and Cathy dead!" I exclaimed. "How long ago?"
"About three months ago; but sit down and let me take your hat. I'll let you know all about it".
I was accommodated accordingly while Nelly Dean also took a chair and began her story.
I was summoned to Wuthering Heights a couple of days after your departure." she said; I was shocked and grieved to see her: she was so altered since I had last seen her. My presence made her happy at first. The poor thing had no one else to really talk to except me. However, Mr. Heathcliff had forbidden her from entering the garden and she was confined to the living room and kitchen most of the time. In a short amount of time, Cathy grew restless. She started to take out her anger on Hareton; always talking at him and commenting on his illiteracy; nagging at him and his idleness.
"He is just like a dog, is he not Nelly? All he does is eat, work, and sleep!" she once observed. "And so stupid. Why, I caught him trying to teach himself to read! Imagine that! I laughed so much at him that he burned the books and dropped it. What a fool."
During all this time, Hareton would clench his fists and stare sullenly into the fire. I should have suspected that Catherine's nagging was doing more to Hareton on the inside than we saw. To my regret, I saw nothing and took no intervention in Catherine's use of Hareton as a scapegoat.
Due to an accident, Hareton became fixed in the kitchen. His gun had burst while he had been out on the hills and a splinter had been placed on his arm. The consequence was that he was condemned to the fireside and the continual nagging from Catherine. He grew more morose and bitter at everyone. Catherine seemed to delight in Hareton's suffering and derived entertainment from bothering Hareton.
On Easter Monday, Joseph had taken some cattle to Gimmerton, and I was busy putting up linen in the kitchen. Catherine was amusing herself by drawing pictures on the window-panes and Hareton was nowhere to be seen. I went upstairs to gather more material when I heard a scream from downstairs. Alarmed, I ran downstairs into the kitchen. Rushing in, I was devastated to see Catherine laying on the floor in a pool of thickening blood. Her shining ringlets lay askew and her beautiful face was drenched in blood. Next to her lay a broken chair; the legs bent as if they had been thrown with force.
Here Nelly Dean faltered and covered her face. After a few minutes she raised her head and wiped her watery eyes saying "Excuse me Mr Lockwood. But it's still difficult for me to accept all that's happened." She then proceeded with her story.
It wasn't long before Mr. Heathcliff came running in to see what the noise was about. Thundering down the hall he came to a stop, aghast to see Catherine. His face grew queer and white; for a moment it seemed as if he saw his Catherine laying there. I do believe he went berserk for he took on a murderous glare and stormed through the open door.
I followed as fast as I could but soon fell behind Heathcliff. I wandered for about ten minutes until I happened to chance upon Heathcliff and Hareton, lying on the ground.
"What happened to Hareton?" I interrupted. "Surely he is not also dead?"
"No, Hareton is not dead. It seemed Heathcliff and Hareton had a struggle. Hareton was badly wounded but he survived. Mr. Heathcliff on the other hand, did not. Hareton is now in jail."
"But what possessed Hareton to kill Heathcliff?" I inquired. "I was under the impression that he looked up to him."
"You're forgetting it was Heathcliff who pursued him. Most likely Hareton had no choice but to defend himself."
Again, Nelly Dean was overcome with a fit of grief. "Imagine that. Two such fine families drawn to ruin. Many times I longed for the time when Wuthering Heights would be free from Heathcliff's reach but in this way? Perhaps it would have been better if Catherine had went away with you for she would at least had been alive."
I sat mute, absorbing the shock of all the events that had happened at the Heights. Regretfully, I thought of the beautiful Catherine and of what could have been mine.
Outside, the last golden rays of the sun descended and a cool quiet settled over the damp moorland. I said my goodbyes and left the Heights, despite Nelly Dean inviting me to stay a little longer.*
My walk home was lengthened by a diversion in the direction of the kirk. When beneath its walls, I perceived decay had made progress, even in seven months: many a window showed black gaps deprived of glass; and slates jutted off here and there, beyond the right line of the roof, to be gradually worked off in coming autumn storms.
I sought, and soon discovered, the three headstones on the slope next the moor: on middle one grey, and half buried in the heath; Edgar Linton's only harmonized by the turf and moss creeping up its foot; Heathcliff's still bare.
I lingered round them, under that benign sky: watched the moths fluttering among the heath and harebells, listened to the soft wind breathing through the grass, and wondered how any one could ever imagine unquiet slumbers for the sleepers in that quiet earth.
Jane Eyre
This parlor looked gloomy: a neglected handful of fire burnt low in the grate; and, leaning over it, with his head supported against the high, old-fashioned mantelpiece, appeared the blind tenant of the room. His old dog, Pilot, lay on one side, removed out of the way, and coiled up as if afraid of being inadvertently trodden upon. Pilot pricked up his ears when I came in: then he jumped up with a yelp and a whine, and bounded towards me: he almost knocked the tray from my hands. I set it on the table; then patted him, and said softly, "Lie down!" Mr. Rochester turned mechanically to SEE what the commotion was: but as he SAW nothing, he returned and sighed.
"Give me the water, Mary," he said.
I approached him with the now only half-filled glass; Pilot followed me, still excited.
"What is the matter?" he inquired.
"Down, Pilot!" I again said. He checked the water on its way to his lips, and seemed to listen: he drank, and put the glass down. "This is you, Mary, is it not?"
"Mary is in the kitchen," I answered.
He put out his hand with a quick gesture, but not seeing where I stood, he did not touch me. "Who is this? Who is this?" he demanded, trying, as it seemed, to SEE with those sightless eyes-- unavailing and distressing attempt! "Answer me--speak again!" he ordered, imperiously and aloud.
"Will you have a little more water, sir? I spilt half of what was in the glass," I said.
"WHO is it? WHAT is it? Who speaks?"
*"Jane, sir" I replied.
Mr. Rochester's face turned puzzled. "Jane?" he pondered. "That name seems familiar; I can't recall..."
"Sir?" I began with trepidation. "It's me. Jane Eyre. Don't you recognize me?"
Mr. Rochester sighed. "Unfortunately, I cannot remember a Jane Eyre. All I can associate with the name is pain and longing."
Dread swam through me. Apparently Mr. Rochester somehow had no memory of me. I stood dumbfounded while Mr. Rochester looked impatiently.
"Well?" He asked. "I'm sorry but I cannot recall you Jane Eyre. What is it you want?"
Silence pervaded the room as speech continued to elude me.
"I... nothing sir" I faltered. "You-you don't remember me?" I asked agonizingly.
"No." Mr. Rochester's face took on a curious aspect as he heard the pain in my voice.
At his voice, I wheeled sharply around and managed an "excuse me sir" before I left the room.
John and Mary were waiting for me, looking apprehensive at my approach.
"What happened to him? I despaired. "He can't remember me!"
"We didn't know how to tell you" Mary replied. "His memory is queer. He can remember some things but on others, he can't recollect anything."
"It may have to do with feeling" John interposed. "His mind rejects memories of pain and feeling."
I was confounded as my mind grasped the implication which John was sending to me. "Is there no recovery or treatment? There must be something." I pleaded.
John shook his head. "The doctors said there is nothing that can be done. His mind won't open. He can't bear the memories."
Well, reader you may be thinking that I chose to stay with Mr. Rochester. And stay I did. However nothing I did could bring back his memory.
Mr. Rochester's state of mind grew worse with each passing day. To this day, he still cannot recollect who I am.
He sees me as no more than his housekeeper and companion. While it pains me to see M. Rochester like this, I cannot leave him. God brought us together again after all, but in a different manner.
"Give me the water, Mary," he said.
I approached him with the now only half-filled glass; Pilot followed me, still excited.
"What is the matter?" he inquired.
"Down, Pilot!" I again said. He checked the water on its way to his lips, and seemed to listen: he drank, and put the glass down. "This is you, Mary, is it not?"
"Mary is in the kitchen," I answered.
He put out his hand with a quick gesture, but not seeing where I stood, he did not touch me. "Who is this? Who is this?" he demanded, trying, as it seemed, to SEE with those sightless eyes-- unavailing and distressing attempt! "Answer me--speak again!" he ordered, imperiously and aloud.
"Will you have a little more water, sir? I spilt half of what was in the glass," I said.
"WHO is it? WHAT is it? Who speaks?"
*"Jane, sir" I replied.
Mr. Rochester's face turned puzzled. "Jane?" he pondered. "That name seems familiar; I can't recall..."
"Sir?" I began with trepidation. "It's me. Jane Eyre. Don't you recognize me?"
Mr. Rochester sighed. "Unfortunately, I cannot remember a Jane Eyre. All I can associate with the name is pain and longing."
Dread swam through me. Apparently Mr. Rochester somehow had no memory of me. I stood dumbfounded while Mr. Rochester looked impatiently.
"Well?" He asked. "I'm sorry but I cannot recall you Jane Eyre. What is it you want?"
Silence pervaded the room as speech continued to elude me.
"I... nothing sir" I faltered. "You-you don't remember me?" I asked agonizingly.
"No." Mr. Rochester's face took on a curious aspect as he heard the pain in my voice.
At his voice, I wheeled sharply around and managed an "excuse me sir" before I left the room.
John and Mary were waiting for me, looking apprehensive at my approach.
"What happened to him? I despaired. "He can't remember me!"
"We didn't know how to tell you" Mary replied. "His memory is queer. He can remember some things but on others, he can't recollect anything."
"It may have to do with feeling" John interposed. "His mind rejects memories of pain and feeling."
I was confounded as my mind grasped the implication which John was sending to me. "Is there no recovery or treatment? There must be something." I pleaded.
John shook his head. "The doctors said there is nothing that can be done. His mind won't open. He can't bear the memories."
Well, reader you may be thinking that I chose to stay with Mr. Rochester. And stay I did. However nothing I did could bring back his memory.
Mr. Rochester's state of mind grew worse with each passing day. To this day, he still cannot recollect who I am.
He sees me as no more than his housekeeper and companion. While it pains me to see M. Rochester like this, I cannot leave him. God brought us together again after all, but in a different manner.