Work Text:
When I'd first heard the news from Kenneth, I sat myself on the porch-steps of the Grange, and wept, my body shaking with uncontrollable sobs.
Hindley was dead, and I was miserable in a way I hadn't thought possible.
Despite having had a small inclination that his end would come soon—given how you could scarcely ever encounter him without a bottle of brandy in his hand—it still troubled me greatly.
I had thought back, with terrible grief, to my earliest memories at Wuthering Heights, when I had first arrived.
I was of the working-class from birth; my mother had been a servant, before marrying my father. It did little to raise her status, however, as he was not a particularly high-class individual himself.
If I met my father, I have no recollection of it; I believe he died a mere few months after my birth.
He had befriended old Mr. Earnshaw, I'm aware; as my mother had informed me, and in that way, my mother was a friend of his also.
I remember vividly the first time I visited Wuthering Heights with my mother, and beheld the face of my dear brother; he had been only two years of age then, me five.
His soft baby features held not the slightest hint of the cruelty or malice they would later present.
How sweet of a child he used to be!—how kind and full of life!
Two years later, my mother passed away from an illness; the specifics of her death, I'm not sure.
Mr. Earnshaw thought it only right to keep me at the Heights, at least for the remainder of my childhood, as I had no aunts or uncles living nearby, and since he'd known my father so well.
I suppose he felt a sense of duty towards his old friend, to raise me when no one else could.
I was sitting atop a chair, crying into my hands for grief of my mother, when I felt a tug on my skirt.
Looking down, I saw Hindley’s innocent face staring back at me—he was about four then.
“Nelly?” He said quietly, tugging on my clothes again, more gently this time. “What's wrong? Why are you crying?”
No one had told him the horrible news yet, which left the task to me.
“My mother…” I began, voice shaking. “She's.. she's dead!” And at once, I was brought back to tears.
Hindley paused for a moment, unsure how to console me, before crawling into my lap, prying my hands away from my face, and clumsily wiping my tears.
“Don't cry,” He said. “Father says it don't change nothing, so there's no point.”
Although the advice was rather harsh, and not particularly helpful, I knew he meant well.
I let out a ragged, trembling breath; the boy's straightforwardness seemed to calm me, in an odd sort of way.
“What was she like? Your mother,” Hindley prompted, looking up at me with curious eyes.
Almost automatically, I started to tell him; I went on about how beautiful she was (at least to me), how she was a stern woman, but fair in her judgment of others.
My recount brought on another wave of sadness, though not so debilitating as before; it was a kind of melancholy, a bittersweetness when I called upon her memory.
I remembered a time—at the age of nine—playing a game of hide-and-seek with Hindley.
There were little places to conceal oneself on the moors, so we took to playing in the house instead—much to Mrs. Earnshaw's annoyance, though her husband didn't seem to mind much, so long as we were quiet.
I discovered Hindley hiding in a closet (quite easily, as he wasn't keeping breathing down), and when I opened the doors, yelling "found you!", he let out a childish giggle, and ran past me.
I chased him round the house for several minutes, before catching up to him, out of breath, but happy.
Late in the evening, after everyone had retired to their chambers, I was left to tuck the roundy Hindley into bed (both his parents had tried already, to no success).
I read him a story, and was just about to leave, when he seized me by the arm; his strength was little, but his grip was insistent.
“Nelly,” He said, a pleading look on his face. “Stay with me, please; I've been having nightmares.”
After a moments’ hesitation, I agreed, sliding under the covers beside him; the master and his mistress might chastise me on the morrow, but it wasn't a worry in my mind, as a lay next to Hindley, lulled to sleep by his soft, steady breathing.
It was at the age of eight, after the birth of Catherine (though I'm sure the event had nothing to do with it), that his arrogance and petulance began to present itself.
I don't think—however—it had ever been as clear to me, as on a dreary day, three years afterward, when Hindley snapped at me, for taking my time in preparing his supper.
“Good Lord, Nelly!” Said he, looking up from a toy he was playing with. “Could you move any slower? I fear I might starve to death, at this rate!”
I was greatly hurt by his impatience; Hindley had never scolded me; if he did, it was always in a teasing manner.
But now, he treated me as if I were no more than a servant, to order around as he pleased; no friend or companion of his.
Several years passed; Hindley—my dear, sorrowful brother—had fallen into despair, after the death of Frances, and was driven to alcohol and gambling, as a means to cope with the tragedy.
I had never felt fear around Hindley since the day I met him—or any emotion relating to it—until that day.
When he held a knife between my teeth, and threatened my life.
Though I remained composed in the moment, something had changed; my brother, whom I had always admired and loved, was no longer Hindley, but Mr. Earnshaw—the tyrannical dictator that ruled over Wuthering Heights with an iron fist.
One evening, when I had ushered Mr. Linton out of the house, and its occupants to their chambers, Mr. Earnshaw pushed open the front door, and stepped hastily inside.
He had—not the ferocity I expected—but a distressed look on his countenance.
“Are you alright, sir?” I inquired.
My master sank into the couch, answering "no", with a voice that carried restrained anger and despair.
When I questioned what was the matter, Hindley ignored me, and asked, in a strange manner—
"Is Heathcliff here?"
“I'm not sure; I believe he's outside somewhere still.”
"Don't let him in,"
Hindley said, spitefully, though with an odd kind of panic.
Mr. Earnshaw looked terribly distressed; he tugged roughly at his coat, as if struggling to breathe, looking round every few seconds, supposing a demon was going to jump out from the shadows.
Thoroughly concerned, I asked—with growing agitation—what was the matter.
"I had an awful dream, Ellen," Said he, “I fear the gipsy might kill me!—demon!—sent from the pits of hell to torment my soul,” He went on.
"Oh," Hindley moaned sorrowfully, putting a hand to his forehead. "Frances, save me—where did you go?" His voice trailed off into incomprehensible murmurs of despair.
"No, she won't save me; not now," I heard him say to himself, in quiet tones.
He turned to me, seizing my arm with desperation.
“Nelly—you'll save me, won't you? Be a fair woman, and keep that wretch outside! I don't wish to see him; not ever again!”
“I'll do what I can,” Replied I, if only to ease my brother's conscience. “But please, you should drink something,”
"Yes," Hindley agreed with a sigh; the outburst of emotion must have wearied him. “Get me a glass of brandy, would you?”
“I meant water, sir,” I corrected, daring to challenge him.
Seeing him like this, he didn't feel like a threat, but merely a man—a tired, broken man.
Hindley, if he disapproved, said nothing about it, drinking the water with some reluctance when I brought it to him.
That was the last peaceful moment I ever had with him—not that there were many chances to have any moments at all.
After I had been sent to Thrushcross Grange, to work for Mr. Linton, I hardly saw Hindley.
I still visit his grave from time to time—sitting next to his wife's on the desolate moors—with a melancholic sweetness.
There isn't a day that goes by where I don't miss him, and long to say goodbye one last time; but now, it doesn't hurt so much.