الفصل الفصل 8 · 第8章

On the morning of a fine June day my first bonny little nursling, and

the last of the ancient Earnshaw stock, was born. We were busy with the

hay in a far-away field, when the girl that usually brought our

breakfasts came running an hour too soon across the meadow and up the

lane, calling me as she ran.

“Oh, such a grand bairn!” she panted out. “The finest lad that ever

breathed! But the doctor says missis must go: he says she’s been in a

consumption these many months. I heard him tell Mr. Hindley: and now

she has nothing to keep her, and she’ll be dead before winter. You must

come home directly. You’re to nurse it, Nelly: to feed it with sugar

and milk, and take care of it day and night. I wish I were you, because

it will be all yours when there is no missis!”

“But is she very ill?” I asked, flinging down my rake and tying my

bonnet.

“I guess she is; yet she looks bravely,” replied the girl, “and she

talks as if she thought of living to see it grow a man. She’s out of

her head for joy, it’s such a beauty! If I were her I’m certain I

should not die: I should get better at the bare sight of it, in spite

of Kenneth. I was fairly mad at him. Dame Archer brought the cherub

down to master, in the house, and his face just began to light up, when

the old croaker steps forward, and says he—‘Earnshaw, it’s a blessing

your wife has been spared to leave you this son. When she came, I felt

convinced we shouldn’t keep her long; and now, I must tell you, the

winter will probably finish her. Don’t take on, and fret about it too

much: it can’t be helped. And besides, you should have known better

than to choose such a rush of a lass!’”

“And what did the master answer?” I inquired.

“I think he swore: but I didn’t mind him, I was straining to see the

bairn,” and she began again to describe it rapturously. I, as zealous

as herself, hurried eagerly home to admire, on my part; though I was

very sad for Hindley’s sake. He had room in his heart only for two

idols—his wife and himself: he doted on both, and adored one, and I

couldn’t conceive how he would bear the loss.

When we got to Wuthering Heights, there he stood at the front door;

and, as I passed in, I asked, “how was the baby?”

“Nearly ready to run about, Nell!” he replied, putting on a cheerful

smile.

“And the mistress?” I ventured to inquire; “the doctor says she’s—”

“Damn the doctor!” he interrupted, reddening. “Frances is quite right:

she’ll be perfectly well by this time next week. Are you going

upstairs? will you tell her that I’ll come, if she’ll promise not to

talk. I left her because she would not hold her tongue; and she

must—tell her Mr. Kenneth says she must be quiet.”

I delivered this message to Mrs. Earnshaw; she seemed in flighty

spirits, and replied merrily, “I hardly spoke a word, Ellen, and there

he has gone out twice, crying. Well, say I promise I won’t speak: but

that does not bind me not to laugh at him!”

Poor soul! Till within a week of her death that gay heart never failed

her; and her husband persisted doggedly, nay, furiously, in affirming

her health improved every day. When Kenneth warned him that his

medicines were useless at that stage of the malady, and he needn’t put

him to further expense by attending her, he retorted, “I know you need

not—she’s well—she does not want any more attendance from you! She

never was in a consumption. It was a fever; and it is gone: her pulse

is as slow as mine now, and her cheek as cool.”

He told his wife the same story, and she seemed to believe him; but one

night, while leaning on his shoulder, in the act of saying she thought

she should be able to get up to-morrow, a fit of coughing took her—a

very slight one—he raised her in his arms; she put her two hands about

his neck, her face changed, and she was dead.

As the girl had anticipated, the child Hareton fell wholly into my

hands. Mr. Earnshaw, provided he saw him healthy and never heard him

cry, was contented, as far as regarded him. For himself, he grew

desperate: his sorrow was of that kind that will not lament. He neither

wept nor prayed; he cursed and defied: execrated God and man, and gave

himself up to reckless dissipation. The servants could not bear his

tyrannical and evil conduct long: Joseph and I were the only two that

would stay. I had not the heart to leave my charge; and besides, you

know, I had been his foster-sister, and excused his behaviour more

readily than a stranger would. Joseph remained to hector over tenants

and labourers; and because it was his vocation to be where he had

plenty of wickedness to reprove.

The master’s bad ways and bad companions formed a pretty example for

Catherine and Heathcliff. His treatment of the latter was enough to

make a fiend of a saint. And, truly, it appeared as if the lad _were_

possessed of something diabolical at that period. He delighted to

witness Hindley degrading himself past redemption; and became daily

more notable for savage sullenness and ferocity. I could not half tell

what an infernal house we had. The curate dropped calling, and nobody

decent came near us, at last; unless Edgar Linton’s visits to Miss

Cathy might be an exception. At fifteen she was the queen of the

country-side; she had no peer; and she did turn out a haughty,

headstrong creature! I own I did not like her, after infancy was past;

and I vexed her frequently by trying to bring down her arrogance: she

never took an aversion to me, though. She had a wondrous constancy to

old attachments: even Heathcliff kept his hold on her affections

unalterably; and young Linton, with all his superiority, found it

difficult to make an equally deep impression. He was my late master:

that is his portrait over the fireplace. It used to hang on one side,

and his wife’s on the other; but hers has been removed, or else you

might see something of what she was. Can you make that out?

Mrs. Dean raised the candle, and I discerned a soft-featured face,

exceedingly resembling the young lady at the Heights, but more pensive

and amiable in expression. It formed a sweet picture. The long light

hair curled slightly on the temples; the eyes were large and serious;

the figure almost too graceful. I did not marvel how Catherine Earnshaw

could forget her first friend for such an individual. I marvelled much

how he, with a mind to correspond with his person, could fancy my idea

of Catherine Earnshaw.

“A very agreeable portrait,” I observed to the house-keeper. “Is it

like?”

“Yes,” she answered; “but he looked better when he was animated; that

is his everyday countenance: he wanted spirit in general.”

Catherine had kept up her acquaintance with the Lintons since her

five-weeks’ residence among them; and as she had no temptation to show

her rough side in their company, and had the sense to be ashamed of

being rude where she experienced such invariable courtesy, she imposed

unwittingly on the old lady and gentleman by her ingenious cordiality;

gained the admiration of Isabella, and the heart and soul of her

brother: acquisitions that flattered her from the first—for she was

full of ambition—and led her to adopt a double character without

exactly intending to deceive any one. In the place where she heard

Heathcliff termed a “vulgar young ruffian,” and “worse than a brute,”

she took care not to act like him; but at home she had small

inclination to practise politeness that would only be laughed at, and

restrain an unruly nature when it would bring her neither credit nor

praise.

Mr. Edgar seldom mustered courage to visit Wuthering Heights openly. He

had a terror of Earnshaw’s reputation, and shrunk from encountering

him; and yet he was always received with our best attempts at civility:

the master himself avoided offending him, knowing why he came; and if

he could not be gracious, kept out of the way. I rather think his

appearance there was distasteful to Catherine; she was not artful,

never played the coquette, and had evidently an objection to her two

friends meeting at all; for when Heathcliff expressed contempt of

Linton in his presence, she could not half coincide, as she did in his

absence; and when Linton evinced disgust and antipathy to Heathcliff,

she dared not treat his sentiments with indifference, as if

depreciation of her playmate were of scarcely any consequence to her.

I’ve had many a laugh at her perplexities and untold troubles, which

she vainly strove to hide from my mockery. That sounds ill-natured: but

she was so proud, it became really impossible to pity her distresses,

till she should be chastened into more humility. She did bring herself,

finally, to confess, and to confide in me: there was not a soul else

that she might fashion into an adviser.

Mr. Hindley had gone from home one afternoon, and Heathcliff presumed

to give himself a holiday on the strength of it. He had reached the age

of sixteen then, I think, and without having bad features, or being

deficient in intellect, he contrived to convey an impression of inward

and outward repulsiveness that his present aspect retains no traces of.

In the first place, he had by that time lost the benefit of his early

education: continual hard work, begun soon and concluded late, had

extinguished any curiosity he once possessed in pursuit of knowledge,

and any love for books or learning. His childhood’s sense of

superiority, instilled into him by the favours of old Mr. Earnshaw, was

faded away. He struggled long to keep up an equality with Catherine in

her studies, and yielded with poignant though silent regret: but he

yielded completely; and there was no prevailing on him to take a step

in the way of moving upward, when he found he must, necessarily, sink

beneath his former level. Then personal appearance sympathised with

mental deterioration: he acquired a slouching gait and ignoble look;

his naturally reserved disposition was exaggerated into an almost

idiotic excess of unsociable moroseness; and he took a grim pleasure,

apparently, in exciting the aversion rather than the esteem of his few

acquaintance.

Catherine and he were constant companions still at his seasons of

respite from labour; but he had ceased to express his fondness for her

in words, and recoiled with angry suspicion from her girlish caresses,

as if conscious there could be no gratification in lavishing such marks

of affection on him. On the before-named occasion he came into the

house to announce his intention of doing nothing, while I was assisting

Miss Cathy to arrange her dress: she had not reckoned on his taking it

into his head to be idle; and imagining she would have the whole place

to herself, she managed, by some means, to inform Mr. Edgar of her

brother’s absence, and was then preparing to receive him.

“Cathy, are you busy this afternoon?” asked Heathcliff. “Are you going

anywhere?”

“No, it is raining,” she answered.

“Why have you that silk frock on, then?” he said. “Nobody coming here,

I hope?”

“Not that I know of,” stammered Miss: “but you should be in the field

now, Heathcliff. It is an hour past dinner time; I thought you were

gone.”

“Hindley does not often free us from his accursed presence,” observed

the boy. “I’ll not work any more to-day: I’ll stay with you.”

“Oh, but Joseph will tell,” she suggested; “you’d better go!”

“Joseph is loading lime on the further side of Penistone Crags; it will

take him till dark, and he’ll never know.”

So saying, he lounged to the fire, and sat down. Catherine reflected

an instant, with knitted brows—she found it needful to smooth the way

for an intrusion. “Isabella and Edgar Linton talked of calling this

afternoon,” she said, at the conclusion of a minute’s silence. “As it

rains, I hardly expect them; but they may come, and if they do, you run

the risk of being scolded for no good.”

“Order Ellen to say you are engaged, Cathy,” he persisted; “don’t turn

me out for those pitiful, silly friends of yours! I’m on the point,

sometimes, of complaining that they—but I’ll not—”

“That they what?” cried Catherine, gazing at him with a troubled

countenance. “Oh, Nelly!” she added petulantly, jerking her head away

from my hands, “you’ve combed my hair quite out of curl! That’s enough;

let me alone. What are you on the point of complaining about,

Heathcliff?”

“Nothing—only look at the almanack on that wall;” he pointed to a

framed sheet hanging near the window, and continued, “The crosses are

for the evenings you have spent with the Lintons, the dots for those

spent with me. Do you see? I’ve marked every day.”

“Yes—very foolish: as if I took notice!” replied Catherine, in a

peevish tone. “And where is the sense of that?”

“To show that I _do_ take notice,” said Heathcliff.

“And should I always be sitting with you?” she demanded, growing more

irritated. “What good do I get? What do you talk about? You might be

dumb, or a baby, for anything you say to amuse me, or for anything you

do, either!”

“You never told me before that I talked too little, or that you

disliked my company, Cathy!” exclaimed Heathcliff, in much agitation.

“It’s no company at all, when people know nothing and say nothing,” she

muttered.

Her companion rose up, but he hadn’t time to express his feelings

further, for a horse’s feet were heard on the flags, and having knocked

gently, young Linton entered, his face brilliant with delight at the

unexpected summons he had received. Doubtless Catherine marked the

difference between her friends, as one came in and the other went out.

The contrast resembled what you see in exchanging a bleak, hilly, coal

country for a beautiful fertile valley; and his voice and greeting were

as opposite as his aspect. He had a sweet, low manner of speaking, and

pronounced his words as you do: that’s less gruff than we talk here,

and softer.

“I’m not come too soon, am I?” he said, casting a look at me: I had

begun to wipe the plate, and tidy some drawers at the far end in the

dresser.

“No,” answered Catherine. “What are you doing there, Nelly?”

“My work, Miss,” I replied. (Mr. Hindley had given me directions to

make a third party in any private visits Linton chose to pay.)

She stepped behind me and whispered crossly, “Take yourself and your

dusters off; when company are in the house, servants don’t commence

scouring and cleaning in the room where they are!”

“It’s a good opportunity, now that master is away,” I answered aloud:

“he hates me to be fidgeting over these things in his presence. I’m

sure Mr. Edgar will excuse me.”

“I hate you to be fidgeting in _my_ presence,” exclaimed the young lady

imperiously, not allowing her guest time to speak: she had failed to

recover her equanimity since the little dispute with Heathcliff.

“I’m sorry for it, Miss Catherine,” was my response; and I proceeded

assiduously with my occupation.

She, supposing Edgar could not see her, snatched the cloth from my

hand, and pinched me, with a prolonged wrench, very spitefully on the

arm. I’ve said I did not love her, and rather relished mortifying her

vanity now and then: besides, she hurt me extremely; so I started up

from my knees, and screamed out, “Oh, Miss, that’s a nasty trick! You

have no right to nip me, and I’m not going to bear it.”

“I didn’t touch you, you lying creature!” cried she, her fingers

tingling to repeat the act, and her ears red with rage. She never had

power to conceal her passion, it always set her whole complexion in a

blaze.

“What’s that, then?” I retorted, showing a decided purple witness to

refute her.

She stamped her foot, wavered a moment, and then, irresistibly impelled

by the naughty spirit within her, slapped me on the cheek: a stinging

blow that filled both eyes with water.

“Catherine, love! Catherine!” interposed Linton, greatly shocked at the

double fault of falsehood and violence which his idol had committed.

“Leave the room, Ellen!” she repeated, trembling all over.

Little Hareton, who followed me everywhere, and was sitting near me on

the floor, at seeing my tears commenced crying himself, and sobbed out

complaints against “wicked aunt Cathy,” which drew her fury on to his

unlucky head: she seized his shoulders, and shook him till the poor

child waxed livid, and Edgar thoughtlessly laid hold of her hands to

deliver him. In an instant one was wrung free, and the astonished young

man felt it applied over his own ear in a way that could not be

mistaken for jest. He drew back in consternation. I lifted Hareton in

my arms, and walked off to the kitchen with him, leaving the door of

communication open, for I was curious to watch how they would settle

their disagreement. The insulted visitor moved to the spot where he had

laid his hat, pale and with a quivering lip.

“That’s right!” I said to myself. “Take warning and begone! It’s a

kindness to let you have a glimpse of her genuine disposition.”

“Where are you going?” demanded Catherine, advancing to the door.

He swerved aside, and attempted to pass.

“You must not go!” she exclaimed, energetically.

“I must and shall!” he replied in a subdued voice.

“No,” she persisted, grasping the handle; “not yet, Edgar Linton: sit

down; you shall not leave me in that temper. I should be miserable all

night, and I won’t be miserable for you!”

“Can I stay after you have struck me?” asked Linton.

Catherine was mute.

“You’ve made me afraid and ashamed of you,” he continued; “I’ll not

come here again!”

Her eyes began to glisten and her lids to twinkle.

“And you told a deliberate untruth!” he said.

“I didn’t!” she cried, recovering her speech; “I did nothing

deliberately. Well, go, if you please—get away! And now I’ll cry—I’ll

cry myself sick!”

She dropped down on her knees by a chair, and set to weeping in serious

earnest. Edgar persevered in his resolution as far as the court; there

he lingered. I resolved to encourage him.

“Miss is dreadfully wayward, sir,” I called out. “As bad as any marred

child: you’d better be riding home, or else she will be sick, only to

grieve us.”

The soft thing looked askance through the window: he possessed the

power to depart as much as a cat possesses the power to leave a mouse

half killed, or a bird half eaten. Ah, I thought, there will be no

saving him: he’s doomed, and flies to his fate! And so it was: he

turned abruptly, hastened into the house again, shut the door behind

him; and when I went in a while after to inform them that Earnshaw had

come home rabid drunk, ready to pull the whole place about our ears

(his ordinary frame of mind in that condition), I saw the quarrel had

merely effected a closer intimacy—had broken the outworks of youthful

timidity, and enabled them to forsake the disguise of friendship, and

confess themselves lovers.

Intelligence of Mr. Hindley’s arrival drove Linton speedily to his

horse, and Catherine to her chamber. I went to hide little Hareton, and

to take the shot out of the master’s fowling-piece, which he was fond

of playing with in his insane excitement, to the hazard of the lives of

any who provoked, or even attracted his notice too much; and I had hit

upon the plan of removing it, that he might do less mischief if he did

go the length of firing the gun.