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_ 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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