The old servant confirmed this statement, but muttered:
'I'd rayther he'd goan hisseln for t' doctor! I sud ha,' taen tent
o' t' maister better nor him - and he warn't deead when I left,
naught o' t' soart!'
I insisted on the funeral being respectable. Mr. Heathcliff said I
might have my own way there too: only, he desired me to remember
that the money for the whole affair came out of his pocket. He
maintained a hard, careless deportment, indicative of neither joy
nor sorrow: if anything, it expressed a flinty gratification at a
piece of difficult work successfully executed. I observed once,
indeed, something like exultation in his aspect: it was just when
the people were bearing the coffin from the house. He had the
hypocrisy to represent a mourner: and previous to following with
Hareton, he lifted the unfortunate child on to the table and
muttered, with peculiar gusto, 'Now, my bonny lad, you are MINE!
And we'll see if one tree won't grow as crooked as another, with
the same wind to twist it!' The unsuspecting thing was pleased at
this speech: he played with Heathcliff's whiskers, and stroked his
cheek; but I divined its meaning, and observed tartly, 'That boy
must go back with me to Thrushcross Grange, sir. There is nothing
in the world less yours than he is!'
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