Chapter Chapter 24 · 第24章

At the close of three weeks I was able to quit my chamber and move

about the house. And on the first occasion of my sitting up in the

evening I asked Catherine to read to me, because my eyes were weak. We

were in the library, the master having gone to bed: she consented,

rather unwillingly, I fancied; and imagining my sort of books did not

suit her, I bid her please herself in the choice of what she perused.

She selected one of her own favourites, and got forward steadily about

an hour; then came frequent questions.

“Ellen, are not you tired? Hadn’t you better lie down now? You’ll be

sick, keeping up so long, Ellen.”

“No, no, dear, I’m not tired,” I returned, continually.

Perceiving me immovable, she essayed another method of showing her

disrelish for her occupation. It changed to yawning, and stretching,

and—

“Ellen, I’m tired.”

“Give over then and talk,” I answered.

That was worse: she fretted and sighed, and looked at her watch till

eight, and finally went to her room, completely overdone with sleep;

judging by her peevish, heavy look, and the constant rubbing she

inflicted on her eyes. The following night she seemed more impatient

still; and on the third from recovering my company she complained of a

headache, and left me. I thought her conduct odd; and having remained

alone a long while, I resolved on going and inquiring whether she were

better, and asking her to come and lie on the sofa, instead of upstairs

in the dark. No Catherine could I discover upstairs, and none below.

The servants affirmed they had not seen her. I listened at Mr. Edgar’s

door; all was silence. I returned to her apartment, extinguished my

candle, and seated myself in the window.

The moon shone bright; a sprinkling of snow covered the ground, and I

reflected that she might, possibly, have taken it into her head to walk

about the garden, for refreshment. I did detect a figure creeping along

the inner fence of the park; but it was not my young mistress: on its

emerging into the light, I recognised one of the grooms. He stood a

considerable period, viewing the carriage-road through the grounds;

then started off at a brisk pace, as if he had detected something, and

reappeared presently, leading Miss’s pony; and there she was, just

dismounted, and walking by its side. The man took his charge stealthily

across the grass towards the stable. Cathy entered by the

casement-window of the drawing-room, and glided noiselessly up to where

I awaited her. She put the door gently to, slipped off her snowy

shoes, untied her hat, and was proceeding, unconscious of my espionage,

to lay aside her mantle, when I suddenly rose and revealed myself. The

surprise petrified her an instant: she uttered an inarticulate

exclamation, and stood fixed.

“My dear Miss Catherine,” I began, too vividly impressed by her recent

kindness to break into a scold, “where have you been riding out at this

hour? And why should you try to deceive me by telling a tale? Where

have you been? Speak!”

“To the bottom of the park,” she stammered. “I didn’t tell a tale.”

“And nowhere else?” I demanded.

“No,” was the muttered reply.

“Oh, Catherine!” I cried, sorrowfully. “You know you have been doing

wrong, or you wouldn’t be driven to uttering an untruth to me. That

does grieve me. I’d rather be three months ill, than hear you frame a

deliberate lie.”

She sprang forward, and bursting into tears, threw her arms round my

neck.

“Well, Ellen, I’m so afraid of you being angry,” she said. “Promise not

to be angry, and you shall know the very truth: I hate to hide it.”

We sat down in the window-seat; I assured her I would not scold,

whatever her secret might be, and I guessed it, of course; so she

commenced—

“I’ve been to Wuthering Heights, Ellen, and I’ve never missed going a

day since you fell ill; except thrice before, and twice after you left

your room. I gave Michael books and pictures to prepare Minny every

evening, and to put her back in the stable: you mustn’t scold _him_

either, mind. I was at the Heights by half-past six, and generally

stayed till half-past eight, and then galloped home. It was not to

amuse myself that I went: I was often wretched all the time. Now and

then I was happy: once in a week perhaps. At first, I expected there

would be sad work persuading you to let me keep my word to Linton: for

I had engaged to call again next day, when we quitted him; but, as you

stayed upstairs on the morrow, I escaped that trouble. While Michael

was refastening the lock of the park door in the afternoon, I got

possession of the key, and told him how my cousin wished me to visit

him, because he was sick, and couldn’t come to the Grange; and how papa

would object to my going: and then I negotiated with him about the

pony. He is fond of reading, and he thinks of leaving soon to get

married; so he offered, if I would lend him books out of the library,

to do what I wished: but I preferred giving him my own, and that

satisfied him better.

“On my second visit Linton seemed in lively spirits; and Zillah (that

is their housekeeper) made us a clean room and a good fire, and told us

that, as Joseph was out at a prayer-meeting and Hareton Earnshaw was

off with his dogs—robbing our woods of pheasants, as I heard

afterwards—we might do what we liked. She brought me some warm wine and

gingerbread, and appeared exceedingly good-natured; and Linton sat in

the arm-chair, and I in the little rocking chair on the hearth-stone,

and we laughed and talked so merrily, and found so much to say: we

planned where we would go, and what we would do in summer. I needn’t

repeat that, because you would call it silly.

“One time, however, we were near quarrelling. He said the pleasantest

manner of spending a hot July day was lying from morning till evening

on a bank of heath in the middle of the moors, with the bees humming

dreamily about among the bloom, and the larks singing high up overhead,

and the blue sky and bright sun shining steadily and cloudlessly. That

was his most perfect idea of heaven’s happiness: mine was rocking in a

rustling green tree, with a west wind blowing, and bright white clouds

flitting rapidly above; and not only larks, but throstles, and

blackbirds, and linnets, and cuckoos pouring out music on every side,

and the moors seen at a distance, broken into cool dusky dells; but

close by great swells of long grass undulating in waves to the breeze;

and woods and sounding water, and the whole world awake and wild with

joy. He wanted all to lie in an ecstasy of peace; I wanted all to

sparkle and dance in a glorious jubilee. I said his heaven would be

only half alive; and he said mine would be drunk: I said I should fall

asleep in his; and he said he could not breathe in mine, and began to

grow very snappish. At last, we agreed to try both, as soon as the

right weather came; and then we kissed each other and were friends.

“After sitting still an hour, I looked at the great room with its

smooth uncarpeted floor, and thought how nice it would be to play in,

if we removed the table; and I asked Linton to call Zillah in to help

us, and we’d have a game at blindman’s-buff; she should try to catch

us: you used to, you know, Ellen. He wouldn’t: there was no pleasure in

it, he said; but he consented to play at ball with me. We found two in

a cupboard, among a heap of old toys, tops, and hoops, and battledores

and shuttlecocks. One was marked C., and the other H.; I wished to have

the C., because that stood for Catherine, and the H. might be for

Heathcliff, his name; but the bran came out of H., and Linton didn’t

like it. I beat him constantly; and he got cross again, and coughed,

and returned to his chair. That night, though, he easily recovered his

good humour: he was charmed with two or three pretty songs—_your_

songs, Ellen; and when I was obliged to go, he begged and entreated me

to come the following evening; and I promised. Minny and I went flying

home as light as air; and I dreamt of Wuthering Heights and my sweet,

darling cousin, till morning.

“On the morrow I was sad; partly because you were poorly, and partly

that I wished my father knew, and approved of my excursions: but it was

beautiful moonlight after tea; and, as I rode on, the gloom cleared. I

shall have another happy evening, I thought to myself; and what

delights me more, my pretty Linton will. I trotted up their garden, and

was turning round to the back, when that fellow Earnshaw met me, took

my bridle, and bid me go in by the front entrance. He patted Minny’s

neck, and said she was a bonny beast, and appeared as if he wanted me

to speak to him. I only told him to leave my horse alone, or else it

would kick him. He answered in his vulgar accent, ‘It wouldn’t do mitch

hurt if it did;’ and surveyed its legs with a smile. I was half

inclined to make it try; however, he moved off to open the door, and,

as he raised the latch, he looked up to the inscription above, and

said, with a stupid mixture of awkwardness and elation: ‘Miss

Catherine! I can read yon, now.’

“‘Wonderful,’ I exclaimed. ‘Pray let us hear you—you _are_ grown

clever!’

“He spelt, and drawled over by syllables, the name—‘Hareton Earnshaw.’

“‘And the figures?’ I cried, encouragingly, perceiving that he came to

a dead halt.

“‘I cannot tell them yet,’ he answered.

“‘Oh, you dunce!’ I said, laughing heartily at his failure.

“The fool stared, with a grin hovering about his lips, and a scowl

gathering over his eyes, as if uncertain whether he might not join in

my mirth: whether it were not pleasant familiarity, or what it really

was, contempt. I settled his doubts, by suddenly retrieving my gravity

and desiring him to walk away, for I came to see Linton, not him. He

reddened—I saw that by the moonlight—dropped his hand from the latch,

and skulked off, a picture of mortified vanity. He imagined himself to

be as accomplished as Linton, I suppose, because he could spell his own

name; and was marvellously discomfited that I didn’t think the same.”

“Stop, Miss Catherine, dear!” I interrupted. “I shall not scold, but I

don’t like your conduct there. If you had remembered that Hareton was

your cousin as much as Master Heathcliff, you would have felt how

improper it was to behave in that way. At least, it was praiseworthy

ambition for him to desire to be as accomplished as Linton; and

probably he did not learn merely to show off: you had made him ashamed

of his ignorance before, I have no doubt; and he wished to remedy it

and please you. To sneer at his imperfect attempt was very bad

breeding. Had _you_ been brought up in his circumstances, would you be

less rude? He was as quick and as intelligent a child as ever you were;

and I’m hurt that he should be despised now, because that base

Heathcliff has treated him so unjustly.”

“Well, Ellen, you won’t cry about it, will you?” she exclaimed,

surprised at my earnestness. “But wait, and you shall hear if he conned

his A B C to please me; and if it were worth while being civil to the

brute. I entered; Linton was lying on the settle, and half got up to

welcome me.

“‘I’m ill to-night, Catherine, love,’ he said; ‘and you must have all

the talk, and let me listen. Come, and sit by me. I was sure you

wouldn’t break your word, and I’ll make you promise again, before you

go.’

“I knew now that I mustn’t tease him, as he was ill; and I spoke softly

and put no questions, and avoided irritating him in any way. I had

brought some of my nicest books for him: he asked me to read a little

of one, and I was about to comply, when Earnshaw burst the door open:

having gathered venom with reflection. He advanced direct to us, seized

Linton by the arm, and swung him off the seat.

“‘Get to thy own room!’ he said, in a voice almost inarticulate with

passion; and his face looked swelled and furious. ‘Take her there if

she comes to see thee: thou shalln’t keep me out of this. Begone wi’ ye

both!’

“He swore at us, and left Linton no time to answer, nearly throwing him

into the kitchen; and he clenched his fist as I followed, seemingly

longing to knock me down. I was afraid for a moment, and I let one

volume fall; he kicked it after me, and shut us out. I heard a

malignant, crackly laugh by the fire, and turning, beheld that odious

Joseph standing rubbing his bony hands, and quivering.

“‘I wer sure he’d sarve ye out! He’s a grand lad! He’s getten t’ raight

sperrit in him! _He_ knaws—ay, he knaws, as weel as I do, who sud be t’

maister yonder—Ech, ech, ech! He made ye skift properly! Ech, ech,

ech!’

“‘Where must we go?’ I asked of my cousin, disregarding the old

wretch’s mockery.

“Linton was white and trembling. He was not pretty then, Ellen: oh, no!

he looked frightful; for his thin face and large eyes were wrought into

an expression of frantic, powerless fury. He grasped the handle of the

door, and shook it: it was fastened inside.

“‘If you don’t let me in, I’ll kill you!—If you don’t let me in, I’ll

kill you!’ he rather shrieked than said. ‘Devil! devil!—I’ll kill

you—I’ll kill you!’

“Joseph uttered his croaking laugh again.

“‘Thear, that’s t’ father!’ he cried. ‘That’s father! We’ve allas

summut o’ either side in us. Niver heed, Hareton, lad—dunnut be

’feard—he cannot get at thee!’

“I took hold of Linton’s hands, and tried to pull him away; but he

shrieked so shockingly that I dared not proceed. At last his cries were

choked by a dreadful fit of coughing; blood gushed from his mouth, and

he fell on the ground. I ran into the yard, sick with terror; and

called for Zillah, as loud as I could. She soon heard me: she was

milking the cows in a shed behind the barn, and hurrying from her work,

she inquired what there was to do? I hadn’t breath to explain; dragging

her in, I looked about for Linton. Earnshaw had come out to examine the

mischief he had caused, and he was then conveying the poor thing

upstairs. Zillah and I ascended after him; but he stopped me at the top

of the steps, and said I shouldn’t go in: I must go home. I exclaimed

that he had killed Linton, and I _would_ enter. Joseph locked the door,

and declared I should do ‘no sich stuff,’ and asked me whether I were

‘bahn to be as mad as him.’ I stood crying till the housekeeper

reappeared. She affirmed he would be better in a bit, but he couldn’t

do with that shrieking and din; and she took me, and nearly carried me

into the house.

“Ellen, I was ready to tear my hair off my head! I sobbed and wept so

that my eyes were almost blind; and the ruffian you have such sympathy

with stood opposite: presuming every now and then to bid me ‘wisht,’

and denying that it was his fault; and, finally, frightened by my

assertions that I would tell papa, and that he should be put in prison

and hanged, he commenced blubbering himself, and hurried out to hide

his cowardly agitation. Still, I was not rid of him: when at length

they compelled me to depart, and I had got some hundred yards off the

premises, he suddenly issued from the shadow of the road-side, and

checked Minny and took hold of me.

“‘Miss Catherine, I’m ill grieved,’ he began, ‘but it’s rayther too

bad—’

“I gave him a cut with my whip, thinking perhaps he would murder me. He

let go, thundering one of his horrid curses, and I galloped home more

than half out of my senses.

“I didn’t bid you good-night that evening, and I didn’t go to Wuthering

Heights the next: I wished to go exceedingly; but I was strangely

excited, and dreaded to hear that Linton was dead, sometimes; and

sometimes shuddered at the thought of encountering Hareton. On the

third day I took courage: at least, I couldn’t bear longer suspense,

and stole off once more. I went at five o’clock, and walked; fancying I

might manage to creep into the house, and up to Linton’s room,

unobserved. However, the dogs gave notice of my approach. Zillah

received me, and saying ‘the lad was mending nicely,’ showed me into a

small, tidy, carpeted apartment, where, to my inexpressible joy, I

beheld Linton laid on a little sofa, reading one of my books. But he

would neither speak to me nor look at me, through a whole hour, Ellen:

he has such an unhappy temper. And what quite confounded me, when he

did open his mouth, it was to utter the falsehood that I had occasioned

the uproar, and Hareton was not to blame! Unable to reply, except

passionately, I got up and walked from the room. He sent after me a

faint ‘Catherine!’ He did not reckon on being answered so: but I

wouldn’t turn back; and the morrow was the second day on which I stayed

at home, nearly determined to visit him no more. But it was so

miserable going to bed and getting up, and never hearing anything about

him, that my resolution melted into air before it was properly formed.

It _had_ appeared wrong to take the journey once; now it seemed wrong

to refrain. Michael came to ask if he must saddle Minny; I said ‘Yes,’

and considered myself doing a duty as she bore me over the hills. I was

forced to pass the front windows to get to the court: it was no use

trying to conceal my presence.

“‘Young master is in the house,’ said Zillah, as she saw me making for

the parlour. I went in; Earnshaw was there also, but he quitted the

room directly. Linton sat in the great arm-chair half asleep; walking

up to the fire, I began in a serious tone, partly meaning it to be

true—

“‘As you don’t like me, Linton, and as you think I come on purpose to

hurt you, and pretend that I do so every time, this is our last

meeting: let us say good-bye; and tell Mr. Heathcliff that you have no

wish to see me, and that he mustn’t invent any more falsehoods on the

subject.’

“‘Sit down and take your hat off, Catherine,’ he answered. ‘You are so

much happier than I am, you ought to be better. Papa talks enough of my

defects, and shows enough scorn of me, to make it natural I should

doubt myself. I doubt whether I am not altogether as worthless as he

calls me, frequently; and then I feel so cross and bitter, I hate

everybody! I _am_ worthless, and bad in temper, and bad in spirit,

almost always; and, if you choose, you _may_ say good-bye: you’ll get

rid of an annoyance. Only, Catherine, do me this justice: believe that

if I might be as sweet, and as kind, and as good as you are, I would

be; as willingly, and more so, than as happy and as healthy. And

believe that your kindness has made me love you deeper than if I

deserved your love: and though I couldn’t, and cannot help showing my

nature to you, I regret it and repent it; and shall regret and repent

it till I die!’

“I felt he spoke the truth; and I felt I must forgive him: and, though

we should quarrel the next moment, I must forgive him again. We were

reconciled; but we cried, both of us, the whole time I stayed: not

entirely for sorrow; yet I _was_ sorry Linton had that distorted

nature. He’ll never let his friends be at ease, and he’ll never be at

ease himself! I have always gone to his little parlour, since that

night; because his father returned the day after.

“About three times, I think, we have been merry and hopeful, as we were

the first evening; the rest of my visits were dreary and troubled: now

with his selfishness and spite, and now with his sufferings: but I’ve

learned to endure the former with nearly as little resentment as the

latter. Mr. Heathcliff purposely avoids me: I have hardly seen him at

all. Last Sunday, indeed, coming earlier than usual, I heard him

abusing poor Linton cruelly for his conduct of the night before. I

can’t tell how he knew of it, unless he listened. Linton had certainly

behaved provokingly: however, it was the business of nobody but me, and

I interrupted Mr. Heathcliff’s lecture by entering and telling him so.

He burst into a laugh, and went away, saying he was glad I took that

view of the matter. Since then, I’ve told Linton he must whisper his

bitter things. Now, Ellen, you have heard all. I can’t be prevented

from going to Wuthering Heights, except by inflicting misery on two

people; whereas, if you’ll only not tell papa, my going need disturb

the tranquillity of none. You’ll not tell, will you? It will be very

heartless, if you do.”

“I’ll make up my mind on that point by to-morrow, Miss Catherine,” I

replied. “It requires some study; and so I’ll leave you to your rest,

and go think it over.”

I thought it over aloud, in my master’s presence; walking straight from

her room to his, and relating the whole story: with the exception of

her conversations with her cousin, and any mention of Hareton. Mr.

Linton was alarmed and distressed, more than he would acknowledge to

me. In the morning, Catherine learnt my betrayal of her confidence, and

she learnt also that her secret visits were to end. In vain she wept

and writhed against the interdict, and implored her father to have pity

on Linton: all she got to comfort her was a promise that he would write

and give him leave to come to the Grange when he pleased; but

explaining that he must no longer expect to see Catherine at Wuthering

Heights. Perhaps, had he been aware of his nephew’s disposition and

state of health, he would have seen fit to withhold even that slight

consolation.