XIII

former a great deal too fine, but the latter, I’m sure, as sad as he could desire) with sovereign contempt. I walked round the yard, and through a wicket, to another door, at which I took the liberty of knocking, in hopes some more civil servant might show himself. After a short suspense, it was opened by a tall, gaunt man, without neckerchief, and otherwise extremely slovenly; his features were lost in masses of shaggy hair that hung on his shoulders; and his eyes, too, were like a ghostly Catherine’s with all their beauty annihilated. “What’s your business here?” he demanded, grimly. “Who are you?” “My name was Isabella Linton,” I replied. “You’ve seen me before, sir. I’m lately married to Mr. Heathcliff, and he has brought me here⁠—I suppose, by your permission.” “Is he come back, then?” asked the hermit, glaring like a hungry wolf. “Yes⁠—we came just now,” I said; “but he left me by the kitchen door; and when I would have gone in, your little boy played sentinel over the place, and frightened me off by the help of a bulldog.” “It’s well the hellish villain has kept his word!” growled my future host, searching the darkness beyond me in expectation of discovering Heathcliff; and then he indulged in a soliloquy of execrations, and threats of what he would have done had the “fiend” deceived him. I repented having tried this second entrance, and was almost inclined to slip away before he finished cursing, but