Mrs. Dean jumped to her feet as she recognised me.  “Why, bless you, Mr. Lockwood!” she exclaimed.  “Pray step in!  Have you walked from Gimmerton?”

“No, from the Grange,” I replied; “and while they make me a lodging room there I want to finish my business with your master.”

“What business, sir?” said Nelly.

“About the rent,” I answered.

“Oh, then it is Catherine you must settle with, or rather me, as she has not learned to arrange her affairs yet.”

I looked surprised.

“Ah!  You have not heard of Heathcliff’s death, I see,” she continued.

“Heathcliff dead!” I exclaimed.  “How long ago?”

“Three months since; but sit down, and I’ll tell you all about it.”

“I was summoned to Wuthering Heights,” she said, “within a fortnight of your leaving us, and I went gladly for Catherine’s sake.  Mr. Heathcliff, who grew more and more disinclined to society, almost banished Earnshaw from his apartment, and was tired of seeing Catherine—­that was the reason why I was sent for—­and the two young people were thrown perforce much in each other’s company in the house, and presently Catherine began to make it clear to her obstinate cousin that she wished to be friends.  The intimacy ripened rapidly, and, Mr. Lockwood, on their wedding day there won’t be a happier woman in England than myself.  Joseph was the only objector, and he appealed to Heathcliff against ’yon flaysome graceless quean, that’s witched our lad wi’ her bold een and her forrad ways.’  But after a burst of passion at the news, Mr. Heathcliff suddenly calmed down and said to me, ’Nelly, there is a strange change approaching; I’m in its shadow.’

“Soon after that he took to wandering alone, in a state approaching distraction.  He could not rest; he could not eat; and he would not see the doctor.  One morning as I walked round the house I observed the master’s window swinging open and the rain driving straight in.  ’He cannot be in bed,’ I thought, ‘those showers would drench him through.’  And so it was, for when I entered the chamber his face and throat were washed with rain, the bed-clothes dripped, and he was perfectly still—­dead and stark.  I called up Joseph.  ’Eh, what a wicked ’un he looks, girning at death,’ exclaimed the old man, and then he fell on his knees and returned thanks that the ancient Earnshaw stock were restored to their rights.

“I shall be glad when they leave the Heights for the Grange,” concluded Mrs. Dean.

“They are going to the Grange, then?”

“Yes, as soon as they are married; and that will be on New Year’s Day.”

* * * * *

ROBERT BUCHANAN

The Shadow of the Sword