house was invisible; it rather dips down on the other side. Both the room and its occupants, and the scene they gazed on, looked wondrously peaceful. I shrank reluctantly from performing my errand; and was actually going away leaving it unsaid, after having put my question about the candles, when a sense of my folly compelled me to return, and mutter, “A person from Gimmerton wishes to see you ma’am.”
“What does he want?” asked Mrs. Linton.
“I did not question him,” I answered.
“Well, close the curtains, Nelly,” she said; “and bring up tea. I’ll be back again directly.”
She quitted the apartment; Mr. Edgar inquired, carelessly, who it was.
“Someone mistress does not expect,” I replied. “That Heathcliff—you recollect him, sir—who used to live at Mr. Earnshaw’s.”
“What! The gipsy—the ploughboy?” he cried. “Why did you not say so to