Bab Bab 19 · 第19章

A letter, edged with black, announced the day of my master’s return.

Isabella was dead; and he wrote to bid me get mourning for his

daughter, and arrange a room, and other accommodations, for his

youthful nephew. Catherine ran wild with joy at the idea of welcoming

her father back; and indulged most sanguine anticipations of the

innumerable excellencies of her “real” cousin. The evening of their

expected arrival came. Since early morning she had been busy ordering

her own small affairs; and now attired in her new black frock—poor

thing! her aunt’s death impressed her with no definite sorrow—she

obliged me, by constant worrying, to walk with her down through the

grounds to meet them.

“Linton is just six months younger than I am,” she chattered, as we

strolled leisurely over the swells and hollows of mossy turf, under

shadow of the trees. “How delightful it will be to have him for a

playfellow! Aunt Isabella sent papa a beautiful lock of his hair; it

was lighter than mine—more flaxen, and quite as fine. I have it

carefully preserved in a little glass box; and I’ve often thought what

a pleasure it would be to see its owner. Oh! I am happy—and papa, dear,

dear papa! Come, Ellen, let us run! come, run.”

She ran, and returned and ran again, many times before my sober

footsteps reached the gate, and then she seated herself on the grassy

bank beside the path, and tried to wait patiently; but that was

impossible: she couldn’t be still a minute.

“How long they are!” she exclaimed. “Ah, I see some dust on the

road—they are coming! No! When will they be here? May we not go a

little way—half a mile, Ellen, only just half a mile? Do say yes, to

that clump of birches at the turn!”

I refused staunchly. At length her suspense was ended: the travelling

carriage rolled in sight. Miss Cathy shrieked and stretched out her

arms as soon as she caught her father’s face looking from the window.

He descended, nearly as eager as herself; and a considerable interval

elapsed ere they had a thought to spare for any but themselves. While

they exchanged caresses I took a peep in to see after Linton. He was

asleep in a corner, wrapped in a warm, fur-lined cloak, as if it had

been winter. A pale, delicate, effeminate boy, who might have been

taken for my master’s younger brother, so strong was the resemblance:

but there was a sickly peevishness in his aspect that Edgar Linton

never had. The latter saw me looking; and having shaken hands, advised

me to close the door, and leave him undisturbed; for the journey had

fatigued him. Cathy would fain have taken one glance, but her father

told her to come, and they walked together up the park, while I

hastened before to prepare the servants.

“Now, darling,” said Mr. Linton, addressing his daughter, as they

halted at the bottom of the front steps: “your cousin is not so strong

or so merry as you are, and he has lost his mother, remember, a very

short time since; therefore, don’t expect him to play and run about

with you directly. And don’t harass him much by talking: let him be

quiet this evening, at least, will you?”

“Yes, yes, papa,” answered Catherine: “but I do want to see him; and he

hasn’t once looked out.”

The carriage stopped; and the sleeper being roused, was lifted to the

ground by his uncle.

“This is your cousin Cathy, Linton,” he said, putting their little

hands together. “She’s fond of you already; and mind you don’t grieve

her by crying to-night. Try to be cheerful now; the travelling is at an

end, and you have nothing to do but rest and amuse yourself as you

please.”

“Let me go to bed, then,” answered the boy, shrinking from Catherine’s

salute; and he put his fingers to his eyes to remove incipient tears.

“Come, come, there’s a good child,” I whispered, leading him in.

“You’ll make her weep too—see how sorry she is for you!”

I do not know whether it was sorrow for him, but his cousin put on as

sad a countenance as himself, and returned to her father. All three

entered, and mounted to the library, where tea was laid ready. I

proceeded to remove Linton’s cap and mantle, and placed him on a chair

by the table; but he was no sooner seated than he began to cry afresh.

My master inquired what was the matter.

“I can’t sit on a chair,” sobbed the boy.

“Go to the sofa, then, and Ellen shall bring you some tea,” answered

his uncle patiently.

He had been greatly tried, during the journey, I felt convinced, by his

fretful ailing charge. Linton slowly trailed himself off, and lay down.

Cathy carried a footstool and her cup to his side. At first she sat

silent; but that could not last: she had resolved to make a pet of her

little cousin, as she would have him to be; and she commenced stroking

his curls, and kissing his cheek, and offering him tea in her saucer,

like a baby. This pleased him, for he was not much better: he dried his

eyes, and lightened into a faint smile.

“Oh, he’ll do very well,” said the master to me, after watching them a

minute. “Very well, if we can keep him, Ellen. The company of a child

of his own age will instil new spirit into him soon, and by wishing for

strength he’ll gain it.”

“Ay, if we can keep him!” I mused to myself; and sore misgivings came

over me that there was slight hope of that. And then, I thought, how

ever will that weakling live at Wuthering Heights? Between his father

and Hareton, what playmates and instructors they’ll be. Our doubts were

presently decided—even earlier than I expected. I had just taken the

children upstairs, after tea was finished, and seen Linton asleep—he

would not suffer me to leave him till that was the case—I had come

down, and was standing by the table in the hall, lighting a bedroom

candle for Mr. Edgar, when a maid stepped out of the kitchen and

informed me that Mr. Heathcliff’s servant Joseph was at the door, and

wished to speak with the master.

“I shall ask him what he wants first,” I said, in considerable

trepidation. “A very unlikely hour to be troubling people, and the

instant they have returned from a long journey. I don’t think the

master can see him.”

Joseph had advanced through the kitchen as I uttered these words, and

now presented himself in the hall. He was donned in his Sunday

garments, with his most sanctimonious and sourest face, and, holding

his hat in one hand, and his stick in the other, he proceeded to clean

his shoes on the mat.

“Good-evening, Joseph,” I said, coldly. “What business brings you here

to-night?”

“It’s Maister Linton I mun spake to,” he answered, waving me

disdainfully aside.

“Mr. Linton is going to bed; unless you have something particular to

say, I’m sure he won’t hear it now,” I continued. “You had better sit

down in there, and entrust your message to me.”

“Which is his rahm?” pursued the fellow, surveying the range of closed

doors.

I perceived he was bent on refusing my mediation, so very reluctantly I

went up to the library, and announced the unseasonable visitor,

advising that he should be dismissed till next day. Mr. Linton had no

time to empower me to do so, for Joseph mounted close at my heels, and,

pushing into the apartment, planted himself at the far side of the

table, with his two fists clapped on the head of his stick, and began

in an elevated tone, as if anticipating opposition—

“Hathecliff has sent me for his lad, and I munn’t goa back ’bout him.”

Edgar Linton was silent a minute; an expression of exceeding sorrow

overcast his features: he would have pitied the child on his own

account; but, recalling Isabella’s hopes and fears, and anxious wishes

for her son, and her commendations of him to his care, he grieved

bitterly at the prospect of yielding him up, and searched in his heart

how it might be avoided. No plan offered itself: the very exhibition of

any desire to keep him would have rendered the claimant more

peremptory: there was nothing left but to resign him. However, he was

not going to rouse him from his sleep.

“Tell Mr. Heathcliff,” he answered calmly, “that his son shall come to

Wuthering Heights to-morrow. He is in bed, and too tired to go the

distance now. You may also tell him that the mother of Linton desired

him to remain under my guardianship; and, at present, his health is

very precarious.”

“Noa!” said Joseph, giving a thud with his prop on the floor, and

assuming an authoritative air. “Noa! that means naught. Hathecliff maks

noa ’count o’ t’ mother, nor ye norther; but he’ll hev his lad; und I

mun tak’ him—soa now ye knaw!”

“You shall not to-night!” answered Linton decisively. “Walk down stairs

at once, and repeat to your master what I have said. Ellen, show him

down. Go—”

And, aiding the indignant elder with a lift by the arm, he rid the room

of him and closed the door.

“Varrah weell!” shouted Joseph, as he slowly drew off. “To-morn, he’s

come hisseln, and thrust _him_ out, if ye darr!”