Chapter Text
“Yah’ve sure got yerseln a fine lass now, maister; ‘Aw niver seed soa handsome a lady afore – un niver thowt a divil like ye could brin’ one into this hoile: ye mun hev’ drag’d her hither by th’ hair!” croaked Joseph to the ‘maister’, Heathcliff, who sat quietly at the end of the sitting-room’s hearthstone, a liver-coloured bitch pointer at his side nursing a swarm of squealing puppies and basking in the warmth of the blazing fire. The litter had been born on the wintry day of the master’s return to the Heights after months of absence – a decidedly long while, for the abode had fallen into quite disarray within only weeks; yet within weeks of his return, Heathcliff’s stern hand had restored affairs to their proper (dis)order – or, however close one could get, for with him, on that very same day, their carriage accompanied by a great storm and tumult of wind, the new mistress had arrived: ‘Lady Victoire’, Heathcliff had that once called her, only ever to address her as ‘his lamb’ thereon. He’d use the endearment even in his speech to the servants, who harkened at the newfound tenderness in their cruel master’s disposition.
Heathcliff, betraying his ignitable temper now also, left Joseph’s crude remark without reaction; he merely glared at the withered elder and nursed his pipe in brooding silence broken only by the crackling fire and occasional growl of the canine mother, irritated as she was when the teeth of her cubs would nick her swollen teats: soon, the puppies would have to be weaned. Joseph, apparently unsatisfied with the response (or rather, lack thereof) which his remark had produced, suddenly erupted into a loud cackle of a laugh, which quieted only when the master finally raised his dark brow in question. Joseph leaned back in his creaking stool, exposed his scarce row of rotting teeth in a sneer, and continued with his speech as though he’d never quit it:
“Ay, a fine lass yer lam’ is; but – Lord help ye! for shoo’d sartinly mak’ a handsomer lad!”
And Heathcliff, finally relinquishing his weak farce of unflappability as his short patience for Joseph’s provocations came to its end, rose without a word, and placed his pipe onto a small table on the hearth with phlegm; no hurry in his stride, he walked to the still-cackling elder, adjusted the golden rings of his right hand, and struck with his ruthless fist the withered face. The bitch pointer roused at the commotion and soon began her raucous barking as she sprang to her master’s side; the harsh noise ceased not when Heathcliff commanded her ‘Quiet!’ for the groans of the man cast onto the floor provoked her on: a kick to her small ribs drew a yelp from the dog and quieted her ruckus into low whines; pitifully, she shied from her master, but soon wagged her tail once more in excitement, as Heathcliff pried the bloodied teeth he’d knocked loose from the wailing Joseph’s rancid maw, and handed them to the canine.
When asked later that evening by Heathcliff over supper whether anything had disturbed his reading in the kitchen that afternoon, Victor shook his head ‘no’, and Heathcliff smiled a pleased smile in turn, the expression ever wrong on his dark features meant for sulking. Victor avoided the man’s fiery gaze: his denial wasn’t exactly untrue, for his reading had, indeed, not been disturbed; yet, it would have been quite impossible for even the deafest man to leave unnoted the old man’s shrieks, which had rattled even the lattices of the building’s deeply set windows.