the infernal regions than, even for one night,
abide beneath the roof of Wuthering Heights again.'

Isabella ceased speaking, and took a drink of tea; then she rose, and
bidding me put on her bonnet, and a great shawl I had brought, and
turning a deaf ear to my entreaties for her to remain another hour, she
stepped on to a chair, kissed Edgar's and Catherine's portraits, bestowed
a similar salute on me, and descended to the carriage, accompanied by
Fanny, who yelped wild with joy at recovering her mistress. She was
driven away, never to revisit this neighbourhood: but a regular
correspondence was established between her and my master when things were
more settled. I believe her new abode was in the south, near London;
there she had a son born a few months subsequent to her escape. He was
christened Linton, and, from the first, she reported him to be an ailing,
peevish creature.

Mr. Heathcliff, meeting me one day in the village, inquired where she
lived. I refused to tell. He remarked that it was not of any moment,
only she must beware of coming to her brother: she should not be with
him, if he had to keep her himself. Though I would give no information,
he discovered, through some of the other servants, both her place of
residence and the existence of the child. Still, he didn't molest her:
for which forbearance she might thank his aversion, I suppose. He often
asked about the infant, when he saw me; and on hearing its name, smiled
grimly, and observed: 'They wish me to hate it too, do they?'

'I don't think they wish you to know anything about it,' I answered.

'But I'll have it,' he said, 'when I want it. They may reckon on that!'

Fortunately its mother died before the time arrived; some thirteen years
after the decease of Catherine, when Linton was twelve, or a little more.

On the day succeeding Isabella's unexpected visit I had no opportunity of
speaking to my master: he shunned conversation, and was fit for
discussing nothing. When I could get him to listen, I saw it pleased him
that his sister had left her husband; whom he abhorred with an intensity
which the mildness of his nature would scarcely seem to allow. So deep
and sensitive was his aversion, that he refrained from going anywhere
where he was likely to see or hear of Heathcliff. Grief, and that
together, transformed him into a complete hermit: he threw up his office
of magistrate, ceased even to attend church, avoided the village on all