Read Online Heathcliff's Tale by Emma Tennant - Free Book Online Page B

window, at the farmer and his wife at their marital breakfast—though I did quickly glance in—for it was the very positioning of back door, pantry, and small stable there which drew my care and thought. Was it not in an arrangement of buildings like these—and with moor and hill looming beyond—that my hero Heathcliff heard the death-dealing words of loss of love from Cathy? Did she not proclaim to the old housekeeper, Mrs Dean, that she would never marry a stable lad such as Heathcliff, and find herself looked down on by the world?
    The old shepherd indoors must have had sufficient of his breakfast, for he came out the back and stood puffing at his pipe as the last stars faded from the sky and the false dawn was succeeded by a stronger light of day. He was old, I saw, as I slunk away to the side of what appeared to be a wash-house, my footsteps muffled by the freshly fallen snow. This ancient keeper of the flock could never have walked back up the hill, in search of missing sheep. I wondered for a moment at his wife being so much younger—then I ran, for suddenly I was exposed, once the wash-house eaves ended and my coverwas gone. I ran I had no idea where—down towards Haworth as I hoped and prayed, drawn by the idea of transport, comfort or advice as to a way out of the place. But truly I had no notion, now, of where the village with its steep cobbled street might lie.
    A solitary man trudged along a track where snow had been shovelled to one side, leaving a path no wider than would allow a single file progression along it. Already a further fall needed no predicting, as the sky had turned heavy and dark; and even as I went, keeping at a discreet distance behind the walker, a whirl of snowflakes began to descend on the landscape, obliterating the bank made by a previous digger and adding to the uniform whiteness.
    All the same, I walked on. The man before me appeared undeterred by the conditions—or was, perhaps, so familiar with the region that he could pay little attention to the weather. I was glad of his presence there, I confess. No lights showed anywhere; I might have been following him into the wilderness; but I was uncommonly glad not to find myself alone.
    After a while, as I kept pace with the steady rhythm of my guide, a faint glow did appear on the horizon. But, unsure as to whether this was a delusion, like those said to be undergone in the desert by explorers lost and desperate for the sight of an oasis, I quenched the hope that rose in my breast and trudged on. It was this new resolve—or perhaps only the limitation of an apparently sightless man leading the way was the cause—but suddenly I found myself brought up against him. I felt my legs slide beneath me, as I tried to curb my steady and not inconsiderable speed. In short, I ran right into the back of the stranger; and, not surprisingly, he halted also and swivelled round to inspect what manner of attack he was about to undergo.
    It is as difficult here to describe my sensations on seeing the unknown walker’s face as it would be to set down an accurate account of leaving this life and of going to meet the denizens beyond the gates of Hell. For the character who turned and looked down at me was handsome—he was devilishly handsome, I expect some would say, yet every feature and lineament was marked—or so it seemed to me—by a profound sadness. Who was this lachrymose fiend?—for soon I saw I was right, and that he wept: tears flowed down his rugged cheeks which could not have been caused by an icy wind or a fresh fall of snow. How had he sinned?—and for what crime, if this was the case, did he repent? Or had he, as it came to me in slow degrees of horror, simply lost his heart’s desire, the love of his life? Did he survive only to regret each passing day on earth? Did he exist solely to be reunited with his passion in the grave?
    So I speculated, and before long there was not one trace