SUMMER drew to an end, and early
autumn: it was past Michaelmas,
but the harvest was late that
year, and a few of our fields
were still uncleared. Mr. Linton
and his daughter would frequently
walk out among the reapers; at
the carrying of the last sheaves
they stayed till dusk, and the
evening happening to be chill
and damp, my master caught a
bad cold, that settled obstinately
on his lungs, and confined him
indoors throughout the whole
of the winter, nearly without
intermission.
Poor Cathy, frightened from
her little romance, had been
considerably sadder and duller
since its abandonment; and her
father insisted on her reading
less, and taking more exercise.
She had his companionship no
longer; I esteemed it a duty
to supply its lack, as much as
possible, with mine: an inefficient
substitute; for I could only
spare two or three hours, from
my numerous diurnal occupations,
to follow her footsteps, and
then my society was obviously
less desirable than his.
On an afternoon in October,
or the beginning of November
- a fresh watery afternoon, when
the turf and paths were rustling
with moist, withered leaves,
and the cold blue sky was half
hidden by clouds - dark grey
streamers, rapidly mounting from
the west, and boding abundant
rain - I requested my young lady
to forego her ramble, because
I was certain of showers. She
refused; and I unwillingly donned
a cloak, and took my umbrella
to accompany her on a stroll
to the bottom of the park: a
formal walk which she generally
affected if low-spirited - and
that she invariably was when
Mr. Edgar had been worse than
ordinary, a thing never known
from his confession, but guessed
both by her and me from his increased
silence and the melancholy of
his countenance. She went sadly
on: there was no running or bounding
now, though the chill wind might
well have tempted her to race.
And often, from the side of my
eye, I could detect her raising
a hand, and brushing something
off her cheek. I gazed round
for a means of diverting her
thoughts. On one side of the
road rose a high, rough bank,
where hazels and stunted oaks,
with their roots half exposed,
held uncertain tenure: the soil
was too loose for the latter;
and strong winds had blown some
nearly horizontal. In summer
Miss Catherine delighted to climb
along these trunks, and sit in
the branches, swinging twenty
feet above the ground; and I,
pleased with her agility and
her light, childish heart, still
considered it proper to scold
every time I caught her at such
an elevation, but so that she
knew there was no necessity for
descending. From dinner to tea
she would lie in her breeze-rocked
cradle, doing nothing except
singing old songs - my nursery
lore - to herself, or watching
the birds, joint tenants, feed
and entice their young ones to
fly: or nestling with closed
lids, half thinking, half dreaming,
happier than words can express.
'Look, Miss!' I exclaimed,
pointing to a nook under the
roots of one twisted tree. 'Winter
is not here yet. There's a little
flower up yonder, the last bud
from the multitude of bluebells
that clouded those turf steps
in July with a lilac mist. Will
you clamber up, and pluck it
to show to papa?' Cathy stared
a long time at the lonely blossom
trembling in its earthy shelter,
and replied, at length - 'No,
I'll not touch it: but it looks
melancholy, does it not, Ellen?'
'Yes,' I observed, 'about as
starved and suckless as you your
cheeks are bloodless; let us
take hold of hands and run. You're
so low, I daresay I shall keep
up with you.'
'No,' she repeated, and continued
sauntering on, pausing at intervals
to muse over a bit of moss, or
a tuft of blanched grass, or
a fungus spreading its bright
orange among the heaps of brown
foliage; and, ever and anon,
her hand was lifted to her averted
face.
'Catherine, why are you crying,
love?' I asked, approaching and
putting my arm over her shoulder.
'You mustn't cry because papa
has a cold; be thankful it is
nothing worse.'
She now put no further restraint
on her tears; her breath was
stifled by sobs.
'Oh, it will be something worse,'
she said. 'And what shall I do
when papa and you leave me, and
I am by myself? I can't forget
your words, Ellen; they are always
in my ear. How life will be changed,
how dreary the world will be,
when papa and you are dead.'
'None can tell whether you
won't die before us,' I replied.
'It's wrong to anticipate evil.
We'll hope there are years and
years to come before any of us
go: master is young, and I am
strong, and hardly forty-five.
My mother lived till eighty,
a canty dame to the last. And
suppose Mr. Linton I were spared
till he saw sixty, that would
be more years than you have counted,
Miss. And would it not be foolish
to mourn a calamity above twenty
years beforehand?'
'But Aunt Isabella was younger
than papa,' she remarked, gazing
up with timid hope to seek further
consolation.
'Aunt Isabella had not you
and me to nurse her,' I replied.
'She wasn't as happy as Master:
she hadn't as much to live for.
All you need do, is to wait well
on your father, and cheer him
by letting him see you cheerful;
and avoid giving him anxiety
on any subject: mind that, Cathy!
I'll not disguise but you might
kill him if you were wild and
reckless, and cherished a foolish,
fanciful affection for the son
of a person who would be glad
to have him in his grave; and
allowed him to discover that
you fretted over the separation
he has judged it expedient to
make.'
'I fret about nothing on earth
except papa's illness,' answered
my companion. 'I care for nothing
in comparison with papa. And
I'll never - never - oh, never,
while I have my senses, do an
act or say a word to vex him.
I love him better than myself,
Ellen; and I know it by this:
I pray every night that I may
live after him; because I would
rather be miserable than that
he should be: that proves I love
him better than myself.'
'Good words,' I replied. 'But
deeds must prove it also; and
after he is well, remember you
don't forget resolutions formed
in the hour of fear.'
As we talked, we neared a door
that opened on the road; and
my young lady, lightening into
sunshine again, climbed up and
seated herself on the top of
the wall, reaching over to gather
some hips that bloomed scarlet
on the summit branches of the
wild-rose trees shadowing the
highway side: the lower fruit
had disappeared, but only birds
could touch the upper, except
from Cathy's present station.
In stretching to pull them, her
hat fell off; and as the door
was locked, she proposed scrambling
down to recover it. I bid her
be cautious lest she got a fall,
and she nimbly disappeared. But
the return was no such easy matter:
the stones were smooth and neatly
cemented, and the rose-bushes
and black-berry stragglers could
yield no assistance in re-ascending.
I, like a fool, didn't recollect
that, till I heard her laughing
and exclaiming - 'Ellen! you'll
have to fetch the key, or else
I must run round to the porter's
lodge. I can't scale the ramparts
on this side!'
'Stay where you are,' I answered;
'I have my bundle of keys in
my pocket: perhaps I may manage
to open it; if not, I'll go.'
Catherine amused herself with
dancing to and fro before the
door, while I tried all the large
keys in succession. I had applied
the last, and found that none
would do; so, repeating my desire
that she would remain there,
I was about to hurry home as
fast as I could, when an approaching
sound arrested me. It was the
trot of a horse; Cathy's dance
stopped also.
'Who is that?' I whispered.
'Ellen, I wish you could open
the door,' whispered back my
companion, anxiously.
'Ho, Miss Linton!' cried a
deep voice (the rider's), 'I'm
glad to meet you. Don't be in
haste to enter, for I have an
explanation to ask and obtain.'
'I sha'n't speak to you, Mr.
Heathcliff,' answered Catherine.
'Papa says you are a wicked man,
and you hate both him and me;
and Ellen says the same.'
'That is nothing to the purpose,'
said Heathcliff. (He it was.)
'I don't hate my son, I suppose;
and it is concerning him that
I demand your attention. Yes;
you have cause to blush. Two
or three months since, were you
not in the habit of writing to
Linton? making love in play,
eh? You deserved, both of you,
flogging for that! You especially,
the elder; and less sensitive,
as it turns out. I've got your
letters, and if you give me any
pertness I'll send them to your
father. I presume you grew weary
of the amusement and dropped
it, didn't you? Well, you dropped
Linton with it into a Slough
of Despond. He was in earnest:
in love, really. As true as I
live, he's dying for you; breaking
his heart at your fickleness:
not figuratively, but actually.
Though Hareton has made him a
standing jest for six weeks,
and I have used more serious
measures, and attempted to frighten
him out of his idiotcy, he gets
worse daily; and he'll be under
the sod before summer, unless
you restore him!'
'How can you lie so glaringly
to the poor child?' I called
from the inside. 'Pray ride on!
How can you deliberately get
up such paltry falsehoods? Miss
Cathy, I'll knock the lock off
with a stone: you won't believe
that vile nonsense. You can feel
in yourself it is impossible
that a person should die for
love of a stranger.'
'I was not
aware there were eavesdroppers,'
muttered the
detected villain. 'Worthy Mrs.
Dean, I like you, but I don't
like your double-dealing,' he
added aloud. 'How could YOU lie
so glaringly as to affirm I hated
the "poor child"? and invent
bugbear stories to terrify her
from my door-stones? Catherine
Linton (the very name warms me),
my bonny lass, I shall be from
home all this week; go and see
if have not spoken truth: do,
there's a darling! Just imagine
your father in my place, and
Linton in yours; then think how
you would value your careless
lover if he refused to stir a
step to comfort you, when your
father himself entreated him;
and don't, from pure stupidity,
fall into the same error. I swear,
on my salvation, he's going to
his grave, and none but you can
save him!'
The lock gave way and I issued
out.
'I swear Linton is dying,'
repeated Heathcliff, looking
hard at me. 'And grief and disappointment
are hastening his death. Nelly,
if you won't let her go, you
can walk over yourself. But I
shall not return till this time
next week; and I think your master
himself would scarcely object
to her visiting her cousin.'
'Come in,' said I, taking Cathy
by the arm and half forcing her
to re-enter; for she lingered,
viewing with troubled eyes the
features of the speaker, too
stern to express his inward deceit.
He pushed his horse close,
and, bending down, observed -
'Miss Catherine, I'll own to
you that I have little patience
with Linton; and Hareton and
Joseph have less. I'll own that
he's with a harsh set. He pines
for kindness, as well as love;
and a kind word from you would
be his best medicine. Don't mind
Mrs. Dean's cruel cautions; but
be generous, and contrive to
see him. He dreams of you day
and night, and cannot be persuaded
that you don't hate him, since
you neither write nor call.'
I closed the door, and rolled
a stone to assist the loosened
lock in holding it; and spreading
my umbrella, I drew my charge
underneath: for the rain began
to drive through the moaning
branches of the trees, and warned
us to avoid delay. Our hurry
prevented any comment on the
encounter with Heathcliff, as
we stretched towards home; but
I divined instinctively that
Catherine's heart was clouded
now in double darkness. Her features
were so sad, they did not seem
hers: she evidently regarded
what she had heard as every syllable
true.
The master had retired to rest
before we came in. Cathy stole
to his room to inquire how he
was; he had fallen asleep. She
returned, and asked me to sit
with her in the library. We took
our tea together; and afterwards
she lay down on the rug, and
told me not to talk, for she
was weary. I got a book, and
pretended to read. As soon as
she supposed me absorbed in my
occupation, she recommenced her
silent weeping: it appeared,
at present, her favourite diversion.
I suffered her to enjoy it a
while; then I expostulated: deriding
and ridiculing all Mr. Heathcliff's
assertions about his son, as
if I were certain she would coincide.
Alas! I hadn't skill to counteract
the effect his account had produced:
it was just what he intended.
'You may be right, Ellen,'
she answered; 'but I shall never
feel at ease till I know. And
I must tell Linton it is not
my fault that I don't write,
and convince him that I shall
not change.'
What use were anger and protestations
against her silly credulity?
We parted that night - hostile;
but next day beheld me on the
road to Wuthering Heights, by
the side of my wilful young mistress's
pony. I couldn't bear to witness
her sorrow: to see her pale,
dejected countenance, and heavy
eyes: and I yielded, in the faint
hope that Linton himself might
prove, by his reception of us,
how little of the tale was founded
on fact.
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