Chapter Chapter 23 · 第23章

The rainy night had ushered in a misty morning—half frost, half

drizzle—and temporary brooks crossed our path—gurgling from the

uplands. My feet were thoroughly wetted; I was cross and low; exactly

the humour suited for making the most of these disagreeable things. We

entered the farm-house by the kitchen way, to ascertain whether Mr.

Heathcliff were really absent: because I put slight faith in his own

affirmation.

Joseph seemed sitting in a sort of elysium alone, beside a roaring

fire; a quart of ale on the table near him, bristling with large pieces

of toasted oat-cake; and his black, short pipe in his mouth. Catherine

ran to the hearth to warm herself. I asked if the master was in? My

question remained so long unanswered, that I thought the old man had

grown deaf, and repeated it louder.

“Na—ay!” he snarled, or rather screamed through his nose. “Na—ay! yah

muh goa back whear yah coom frough.”

“Joseph!” cried a peevish voice, simultaneously with me, from the inner

room. “How often am I to call you? There are only a few red ashes now.

Joseph! come this moment.”

Vigorous puffs, and a resolute stare into the grate, declared he had no

ear for this appeal. The housekeeper and Hareton were invisible; one

gone on an errand, and the other at his work, probably. We knew

Linton’s tones, and entered.

“Oh, I hope you’ll die in a garret, starved to death!” said the boy,

mistaking our approach for that of his negligent attendant.

He stopped on observing his error: his cousin flew to him.

“Is that you, Miss Linton?” he said, raising his head from the arm of

the great chair, in which he reclined. “No—don’t kiss me: it takes my

breath. Dear me! Papa said you would call,” continued he, after

recovering a little from Catherine’s embrace; while she stood by

looking very contrite. “Will you shut the door, if you please? you left

it open; and those—those _detestable_ creatures won’t bring coals to

the fire. It’s so cold!”

I stirred up the cinders, and fetched a scuttleful myself. The invalid

complained of being covered with ashes; but he had a tiresome cough,

and looked feverish and ill, so I did not rebuke his temper.

“Well, Linton,” murmured Catherine, when his corrugated brow relaxed,

“are you glad to see me? Can I do you any good?”

“Why didn’t you come before?” he asked. “You should have come, instead

of writing. It tired me dreadfully writing those long letters. I’d far

rather have talked to you. Now, I can neither bear to talk, nor

anything else. I wonder where Zillah is! Will you” (looking at me)

“step into the kitchen and see?”

I had received no thanks for my other service; and being unwilling to

run to and fro at his behest, I replied—

“Nobody is out there but Joseph.”

“I want to drink,” he exclaimed fretfully, turning away. “Zillah is

constantly gadding off to Gimmerton since papa went: it’s miserable!

And I’m obliged to come down here—they resolved never to hear me

upstairs.”

“Is your father attentive to you, Master Heathcliff?” I asked,

perceiving Catherine to be checked in her friendly advances.

“Attentive? He makes _them_ a little more attentive at least,” he

cried. “The wretches! Do you know, Miss Linton, that brute Hareton

laughs at me! I hate him! indeed, I hate them all: they are odious

beings.”

Cathy began searching for some water; she lighted on a pitcher in the

dresser, filled a tumbler, and brought it. He bid her add a spoonful of

wine from a bottle on the table; and having swallowed a small portion,

appeared more tranquil, and said she was very kind.

“And are you glad to see me?” asked she, reiterating her former

question, and pleased to detect the faint dawn of a smile.

“Yes, I am. It’s something new to hear a voice like yours!” he replied.

“But I have been vexed, because you wouldn’t come. And papa swore it

was owing to me: he called me a pitiful, shuffling, worthless thing;

and said you despised me; and if he had been in my place, he would be

more the master of the Grange than your father by this time. But you

don’t despise me, do you, Miss—?”

“I wish you would say Catherine, or Cathy,” interrupted my young lady.

“Despise you? No! Next to papa and Ellen, I love you better than

anybody living. I don’t love Mr. Heathcliff, though; and I dare not

come when he returns: will he stay away many days?”

“Not many,” answered Linton; “but he goes on to the moors frequently,

since the shooting season commenced; and you might spend an hour or two

with me in his absence. Do say you will. I think I should not be

peevish with you: you’d not provoke me, and you’d always be ready to

help me, wouldn’t you?”

“Yes,” said Catherine, stroking his long soft hair, “if I could only

get papa’s consent, I’d spend half my time with you. Pretty Linton! I

wish you were my brother.”

“And then you would like me as well as your father?” observed he, more

cheerfully. “But papa says you would love me better than him and all

the world, if you were my wife; so I’d rather you were that.”

“No, I should never love anybody better than papa,” she returned

gravely. “And people hate their wives, sometimes; but not their sisters

and brothers: and if you were the latter, you would live with us, and

papa would be as fond of you as he is of me.”

Linton denied that people ever hated their wives; but Cathy affirmed

they did, and, in her wisdom, instanced his own father’s aversion to

her aunt. I endeavoured to stop her thoughtless tongue. I couldn’t

succeed till everything she knew was out. Master Heathcliff, much

irritated, asserted her relation was false.

“Papa told me; and papa does not tell falsehoods,” she answered pertly.

“_My_ papa scorns yours!” cried Linton. “He calls him a sneaking fool.”

“Yours is a wicked man,” retorted Catherine; “and you are very naughty

to dare to repeat what he says. He must be wicked to have made Aunt

Isabella leave him as she did.”

“She didn’t leave him,” said the boy; “you sha’n’t contradict me.”

“She did,” cried my young lady.

“Well, I’ll tell _you_ something!” said Linton. “Your mother hated your

father: now then.”

“Oh!” exclaimed Catherine, too enraged to continue.

“And she loved mine,” added he.

“You little liar! I hate you now!” she panted, and her face grew red

with passion.

“She did! she did!” sang Linton, sinking into the recess of his chair,

and leaning back his head to enjoy the agitation of the other

disputant, who stood behind.

“Hush, Master Heathcliff!” I said; “that’s your father’s tale, too, I

suppose.”

“It isn’t: you hold your tongue!” he answered. “She did, she did,

Catherine! she did, she did!”

Cathy, beside herself, gave the chair a violent push, and caused him to

fall against one arm. He was immediately seized by a suffocating cough

that soon ended his triumph. It lasted so long that it frightened even

me. As to his cousin, she wept with all her might, aghast at the

mischief she had done: though she said nothing. I held him till the fit

exhausted itself. Then he thrust me away, and leant his head down

silently. Catherine quelled her lamentations also, took a seat

opposite, and looked solemnly into the fire.

“How do you feel now, Master Heathcliff?” I inquired, after waiting ten

minutes.

“I wish _she_ felt as I do,” he replied: “spiteful, cruel thing!

Hareton never touches me: he never struck me in his life. And I was

better to-day: and there—” his voice died in a whimper.

“_I_ didn’t strike you!” muttered Cathy, chewing her lip to prevent

another burst of emotion.

He sighed and moaned like one under great suffering, and kept it up for

a quarter of an hour; on purpose to distress his cousin apparently, for

whenever he caught a stifled sob from her he put renewed pain and

pathos into the inflexions of his voice.

“I’m sorry I hurt you, Linton,” she said at length, racked beyond

endurance. “But _I_ couldn’t have been hurt by that little push, and I

had no idea that you could, either: you’re not much, are you, Linton?

Don’t let me go home thinking I’ve done you harm. Answer! speak to me.”

“I can’t speak to you,” he murmured; “you’ve hurt me so that I shall

lie awake all night choking with this cough. If you had it you’d know

what it was; but _you’ll_ be comfortably asleep while I’m in agony, and

nobody near me. I wonder how you would like to pass those fearful

nights!” And he began to wail aloud, for very pity of himself.

“Since you are in the habit of passing dreadful nights,” I said, “it

won’t be Miss who spoils your ease: you’d be the same had she never

come. However, she shall not disturb you again; and perhaps you’ll get

quieter when we leave you.”

“Must I go?” asked Catherine dolefully, bending over him. “Do you want

me to go, Linton?”

“You can’t alter what you’ve done,” he replied pettishly, shrinking

from her, “unless you alter it for the worse by teasing me into a

fever.”

“Well, then, I must go?” she repeated.

“Let me alone, at least,” said he; “I can’t bear your talking.”

She lingered, and resisted my persuasions to departure a tiresome

while; but as he neither looked up nor spoke, she finally made a

movement to the door, and I followed. We were recalled by a scream.

Linton had slid from his seat on to the hearthstone, and lay writhing

in the mere perverseness of an indulged plague of a child, determined

to be as grievous and harassing as it can. I thoroughly gauged his

disposition from his behaviour, and saw at once it would be folly to

attempt humouring him. Not so my companion: she ran back in terror,

knelt down, and cried, and soothed, and entreated, till he grew quiet

from lack of breath: by no means from compunction at distressing her.

“I shall lift him on to the settle,” I said, “and he may roll about as

he pleases: we can’t stop to watch him. I hope you are satisfied, Miss

Cathy, that _you_ are not the person to benefit him; and that his

condition of health is not occasioned by attachment to you. Now, then,

there he is! Come away: as soon as he knows there is nobody by to care

for his nonsense, he’ll be glad to lie still.”

She placed a cushion under his head, and offered him some water; he

rejected the latter, and tossed uneasily on the former, as if it were a

stone or a block of wood. She tried to put it more comfortably.

“I can’t do with that,” he said; “it’s not high enough.”

Catherine brought another to lay above it.

“That’s _too_ high,” murmured the provoking thing.

“How must I arrange it, then?” she asked despairingly.

He twined himself up to her, as she half knelt by the settle, and

converted her shoulder into a support.

“No, that won’t do,” I said. “You’ll be content with the cushion,

Master Heathcliff. Miss has wasted too much time on you already: we

cannot remain five minutes longer.”

“Yes, yes, we can!” replied Cathy. “He’s good and patient now. He’s

beginning to think I shall have far greater misery than he will

to-night, if I believe he is the worse for my visit: and then I dare

not come again. Tell the truth about it, Linton; for I mustn’t come, if

I have hurt you.”

“You must come, to cure me,” he answered. “You ought to come, because

you have hurt me: you know you have extremely! I was not as ill when

you entered as I am at present—was I?”

“But you’ve made yourself ill by crying and being in a passion.—I

didn’t do it all,” said his cousin. “However, we’ll be friends now. And

you want me: you would wish to see me sometimes, really?”

“I told you I did,” he replied impatiently. “Sit on the settle and let

me lean on your knee. That’s as mamma used to do, whole afternoons

together. Sit quite still and don’t talk: but you may sing a song, if

you can sing; or you may say a nice long interesting ballad—one of

those you promised to teach me; or a story. I’d rather have a ballad,

though: begin.”

Catherine repeated the longest she could remember. The employment

pleased both mightily. Linton would have another, and after that

another, notwithstanding my strenuous objections; and so they went on

until the clock struck twelve, and we heard Hareton in the court,

returning for his dinner.

“And to-morrow, Catherine, will you be here to-morrow?” asked young

Heathcliff, holding her frock as she rose reluctantly.

“No,” I answered, “nor next day neither.” She, however, gave a

different response evidently, for his forehead cleared as she stooped

and whispered in his ear.

“You won’t go to-morrow, recollect, Miss!” I commenced, when we were

out of the house. “You are not dreaming of it, are you?”

She smiled.

“Oh, I’ll take good care,” I continued: “I’ll have that lock mended,

and you can escape by no way else.”

“I can get over the wall,” she said laughing. “The Grange is not a

prison, Ellen, and you are not my gaoler. And besides, I’m almost

seventeen: I’m a woman. And I’m certain Linton would recover quickly if

he had me to look after him. I’m older than he is, you know, and wiser:

less childish, am I not? And he’ll soon do as I direct him, with some

slight coaxing. He’s a pretty little darling when he’s good. I’d make

such a pet of him, if he were mine. We should never quarrel, should we,

after we were used to each other? Don’t you like him, Ellen?”

“Like him!” I exclaimed. “The worst-tempered bit of a sickly slip that

ever struggled into its teens. Happily, as Mr. Heathcliff conjectured,

he’ll not win twenty. I doubt whether he’ll see spring, indeed. And

small loss to his family whenever he drops off. And lucky it is for us

that his father took him: the kinder he was treated, the more tedious

and selfish he’d be. I’m glad you have no chance of having him for a

husband, Miss Catherine.”

My companion waxed serious at hearing this speech. To speak of his

death so regardlessly wounded her feelings.

“He’s younger than I,” she answered, after a protracted pause of

meditation, “and he ought to live the longest: he will—he must live as

long as I do. He’s as strong now as when he first came into the north;

I’m positive of that. It’s only a cold that ails him, the same as papa

has. You say papa will get better, and why shouldn’t he?”

“Well, well,” I cried, “after all, we needn’t trouble ourselves; for

listen, Miss,—and mind, I’ll keep my word,—if you attempt going to

Wuthering Heights again, with or without me, I shall inform Mr. Linton,

and, unless he allow it, the intimacy with your cousin must not be

revived.”

“It has been revived,” muttered Cathy, sulkily.

“Must not be continued, then,” I said.

“We’ll see,” was her reply, and she set off at a gallop, leaving me to

toil in the rear.

We both reached home before our dinner-time; my master supposed we had

been wandering through the park, and therefore he demanded no

explanation of our absence. As soon as I entered I hastened to change

my soaked shoes and stockings; but sitting such a while at the Heights

had done the mischief. On the succeeding morning I was laid up, and

during three weeks I remained incapacitated for attending to my duties:

a calamity never experienced prior to that period, and never, I am

thankful to say, since.

My little mistress behaved like an angel in coming to wait on me, and

cheer my solitude; the confinement brought me exceedingly low. It is

wearisome, to a stirring active body: but few have slighter reasons for

complaint than I had. The moment Catherine left Mr. Linton’s room she

appeared at my bedside. Her day was divided between us; no amusement

usurped a minute: she neglected her meals, her studies, and her play;

and she was the fondest nurse that ever watched. She must have had a

warm heart, when she loved her father so, to give so much to me. I said

her days were divided between us; but the master retired early, and I

generally needed nothing after six o’clock, thus the evening was her

own. Poor thing! I never considered what she did with herself after

tea. And though frequently, when she looked in to bid me good-night, I

remarked a fresh colour in her cheeks and a pinkness over her slender

fingers, instead of fancying the hue borrowed from a cold ride across

the moors, I laid it to the charge of a hot fire in the library.