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“And why didn’t Mamma speak to me about him?” persevered
the child. “She often talked of Uncle, and I learnt to love him long
ago. How am I to love Papa? I don’t know him.”
“Oh, all children love their parents,” I said. “Your mother,
perhaps, thought you would want to be with him if she mentioned
him often to you. Let us make haste. An early ride on such a
beautiful morning is much preferable to an hour’s more sleep.”
“Is she to go with us,” he demanded, “the little girl I saw
“Not now,” replied I.
“Is Uncle?” he continued.
“No, I shall be your companion there,” I said.
Linton sank back on his pillow, and fell into a brown study.
“I won’t go without Uncle,” he cried at length; “I can’t tell
where you mean to take me.”
I attempted to persuade him of the naughtiness of showing
reluctance to meet his father; still he obstinately resisted any
progress towards dressing, and I had to call for my master’s
assistance in coaxing him out of bed.
The poor thing was finally got off, with several delusive
assurances that his absence should be short, that Mr. Edgar and
Cathy would visit him, and other promises, equally ill-founded,
which I invented and reiterated at intervals throughout the way.
The pure heather-scented air, and the bright sunshine, and the
gentle canter of Minny, relieved his despondency, after a while. He
began to put questions concerning his new home, and its
inhabitants, with greater interest and liveliness.
“Is Wuthering Heights as pleasant a place as Thrushcross
Grange?” he inquired, turning to take a last glance into the valley,