บทที่ บทที่ 18 · 第18章

The twelve years, continued Mrs. Dean, following that dismal period

were the happiest of my life: my greatest troubles in their passage

rose from our little lady’s trifling illnesses, which she had to

experience in common with all children, rich and poor. For the rest,

after the first six months, she grew like a larch, and could walk and

talk too, in her own way, before the heath blossomed a second time over

Mrs. Linton’s dust. She was the most winning thing that ever brought

sunshine into a desolate house: a real beauty in face, with the

Earnshaws’ handsome dark eyes, but the Lintons’ fair skin and small

features, and yellow curling hair. Her spirit was high, though not

rough, and qualified by a heart sensitive and lively to excess in its

affections. That capacity for intense attachments reminded me of her

mother: still she did not resemble her: for she could be soft and mild

as a dove, and she had a gentle voice and pensive expression: her anger

was never furious; her love never fierce: it was deep and tender.

However, it must be acknowledged, she had faults to foil her gifts. A

propensity to be saucy was one; and a perverse will, that indulged

children invariably acquire, whether they be good tempered or cross. If

a servant chanced to vex her, it was always—“I shall tell papa!” And if

he reproved her, even by a look, you would have thought it a

heart-breaking business: I don’t believe he ever did speak a harsh word

to her. He took her education entirely on himself, and made it an

amusement. Fortunately, curiosity and a quick intellect made her an apt

scholar: she learned rapidly and eagerly, and did honour to his

teaching.

Till she reached the age of thirteen she had not once been beyond the

range of the park by herself. Mr. Linton would take her with him a mile

or so outside, on rare occasions; but he trusted her to no one else.

Gimmerton was an unsubstantial name in her ears; the chapel, the only

building she had approached or entered, except her own home. Wuthering

Heights and Mr. Heathcliff did not exist for her: she was a perfect

recluse; and, apparently, perfectly contented. Sometimes, indeed, while

surveying the country from her nursery window, she would observe—

“Ellen, how long will it be before I can walk to the top of those

hills? I wonder what lies on the other side—is it the sea?”

“No, Miss Cathy,” I would answer; “it is hills again, just like these.”

“And what are those golden rocks like when you stand under them?” she

once asked.

The abrupt descent of Penistone Crags particularly attracted her

notice; especially when the setting sun shone on it and the topmost

heights, and the whole extent of landscape besides lay in shadow. I

explained that they were bare masses of stone, with hardly enough earth

in their clefts to nourish a stunted tree.

“And why are they bright so long after it is evening here?” she

pursued.

“Because they are a great deal higher up than we are,” replied I; “you

could not climb them, they are too high and steep. In winter the frost

is always there before it comes to us; and deep into summer I have

found snow under that black hollow on the north-east side!”

“Oh, you have been on them!” she cried gleefully. “Then I can go, too,

when I am a woman. Has papa been, Ellen?”

“Papa would tell you, Miss,” I answered, hastily, “that they are not

worth the trouble of visiting. The moors, where you ramble with him,

are much nicer; and Thrushcross Park is the finest place in the world.”

“But I know the park, and I don’t know those,” she murmured to herself.

“And I should delight to look round me from the brow of that tallest

point: my little pony Minny shall take me some time.”

One of the maids mentioning the Fairy Cave, quite turned her head with

a desire to fulfil this project: she teased Mr. Linton about it; and he

promised she should have the journey when she got older. But Miss

Catherine measured her age by months, and, “Now, am I old enough to go

to Penistone Crags?” was the constant question in her mouth. The road

thither wound close by Wuthering Heights. Edgar had not the heart to

pass it; so she received as constantly the answer, “Not yet, love: not

yet.”

I said Mrs. Heathcliff lived above a dozen years after quitting her

husband. Her family were of a delicate constitution: she and Edgar both

lacked the ruddy health that you will generally meet in these parts.

What her last illness was, I am not certain: I conjecture, they died of

the same thing, a kind of fever, slow at its commencement, but

incurable, and rapidly consuming life towards the close. She wrote to

inform her brother of the probable conclusion of a four-months’

indisposition under which she had suffered, and entreated him to come

to her, if possible; for she had much to settle, and she wished to bid

him adieu, and deliver Linton safely into his hands. Her hope was that

Linton might be left with him, as he had been with her: his father, she

would fain convince herself, had no desire to assume the burden of his

maintenance or education. My master hesitated not a moment in complying

with her request: reluctant as he was to leave home at ordinary calls,

he flew to answer this; commending Catherine to my peculiar vigilance,

in his absence, with reiterated orders that she must not wander out of

the park, even under my escort: he did not calculate on her going

unaccompanied.

He was away three weeks. The first day or two my charge sat in a corner

of the library, too sad for either reading or playing: in that quiet

state she caused me little trouble; but it was succeeded by an interval

of impatient, fretful weariness; and being too busy, and too old then,

to run up and down amusing her, I hit on a method by which she might

entertain herself. I used to send her on her travels round the

grounds—now on foot, and now on a pony; indulging her with a patient

audience of all her real and imaginary adventures when she returned.

The summer shone in full prime; and she took such a taste for this

solitary rambling that she often contrived to remain out from breakfast

till tea; and then the evenings were spent in recounting her fanciful

tales. I did not fear her breaking bounds; because the gates were

generally locked, and I thought she would scarcely venture forth alone,

if they had stood wide open. Unluckily, my confidence proved misplaced.

Catherine came to me, one morning, at eight o’clock, and said she was

that day an Arabian merchant, going to cross the Desert with his

caravan; and I must give her plenty of provision for herself and

beasts: a horse, and three camels, personated by a large hound and a

couple of pointers. I got together good store of dainties, and slung

them in a basket on one side of the saddle; and she sprang up as gay as

a fairy, sheltered by her wide-brimmed hat and gauze veil from the July

sun, and trotted off with a merry laugh, mocking my cautious counsel to

avoid galloping, and come back early. The naughty thing never made her

appearance at tea. One traveller, the hound, being an old dog and fond

of its ease, returned; but neither Cathy, nor the pony, nor the two

pointers were visible in any direction: I despatched emissaries down

this path, and that path, and at last went wandering in search of her

myself. There was a labourer working at a fence round a plantation, on

the borders of the grounds. I inquired of him if he had seen our young

lady.

“I saw her at morn,” he replied: “she would have me to cut her a hazel

switch, and then she leapt her Galloway over the hedge yonder, where it

is lowest, and galloped out of sight.”

You may guess how I felt at hearing this news. It struck me directly

she must have started for Penistone Crags. “What will become of her?” I

ejaculated, pushing through a gap which the man was repairing, and

making straight to the high-road. I walked as if for a wager, mile

after mile, till a turn brought me in view of the Heights; but no

Catherine could I detect, far or near. The Crags lie about a mile and a

half beyond Mr. Heathcliff’s place, and that is four from the Grange,

so I began to fear night would fall ere I could reach them. “And what

if she should have slipped in clambering among them,” I reflected, “and

been killed, or broken some of her bones?” My suspense was truly

painful; and, at first, it gave me delightful relief to observe, in

hurrying by the farmhouse, Charlie, the fiercest of the pointers, lying

under a window, with swelled head and bleeding ear. I opened the wicket

and ran to the door, knocking vehemently for admittance. A woman whom I

knew, and who formerly lived at Gimmerton, answered: she had been

servant there since the death of Mr. Earnshaw.

“Ah,” said she, “you are come a-seeking your little mistress! Don’t be

frightened. She’s here safe: but I’m glad it isn’t the master.”

“He is not at home then, is he?” I panted, quite breathless with quick

walking and alarm.

“No, no,” she replied: “both he and Joseph are off, and I think they

won’t return this hour or more. Step in and rest you a bit.”

I entered, and beheld my stray lamb seated on the hearth, rocking

herself in a little chair that had been her mother’s when a child. Her

hat was hung against the wall, and she seemed perfectly at home,

laughing and chattering, in the best spirits imaginable, to Hareton—now

a great, strong lad of eighteen—who stared at her with considerable

curiosity and astonishment: comprehending precious little of the fluent

succession of remarks and questions which her tongue never ceased

pouring forth.

“Very well, Miss!” I exclaimed, concealing my joy under an angry

countenance. “This is your last ride, till papa comes back. I’ll not

trust you over the threshold again, you naughty, naughty girl!”

“Aha, Ellen!” she cried, gaily, jumping up and running to my side. “I

shall have a pretty story to tell to-night; and so you’ve found me out.

Have you ever been here in your life before?”

“Put that hat on, and home at once,” said I. “I’m dreadfully grieved at

you, Miss Cathy: you’ve done extremely wrong! It’s no use pouting and

crying: that won’t repay the trouble I’ve had, scouring the country

after you. To think how Mr. Linton charged me to keep you in; and you

stealing off so! It shows you are a cunning little fox, and nobody will

put faith in you any more.”

“What have I done?” sobbed she, instantly checked. “Papa charged me

nothing: he’ll not scold me, Ellen—he’s never cross, like you!”

“Come, come!” I repeated. “I’ll tie the riband. Now, let us have no

petulance. Oh, for shame! You thirteen years old, and such a baby!”

This exclamation was caused by her pushing the hat from her head, and

retreating to the chimney out of my reach.

“Nay,” said the servant, “don’t be hard on the bonny lass, Mrs. Dean.

We made her stop: she’d fain have ridden forwards, afeard you should be

uneasy. Hareton offered to go with her, and I thought he should: it’s a

wild road over the hills.”

Hareton, during the discussion, stood with his hands in his pockets,

too awkward to speak; though he looked as if he did not relish my

intrusion.

“How long am I to wait?” I continued, disregarding the woman’s

interference. “It will be dark in ten minutes. Where is the pony, Miss

Cathy? And where is Phoenix? I shall leave you, unless you be quick; so

please yourself.”

“The pony is in the yard,” she replied, “and Phoenix is shut in there.

He’s bitten—and so is Charlie. I was going to tell you all about it;

but you are in a bad temper, and don’t deserve to hear.”

I picked up her hat, and approached to reinstate it; but perceiving

that the people of the house took her part, she commenced capering

round the room; and on my giving chase, ran like a mouse over and under

and behind the furniture, rendering it ridiculous for me to pursue.

Hareton and the woman laughed, and she joined them, and waxed more

impertinent still; till I cried, in great irritation,—“Well, Miss

Cathy, if you were aware whose house this is you’d be glad enough to

get out.”

“It’s _your_ father’s, isn’t it?” said she, turning to Hareton.

“Nay,” he replied, looking down, and blushing bashfully.

He could not stand a steady gaze from her eyes, though they were just

his own.

“Whose then—your master’s?” she asked.

He coloured deeper, with a different feeling, muttered an oath, and

turned away.

“Who is his master?” continued the tiresome girl, appealing to me. “He

talked about ‘our house,’ and ‘our folk.’ I thought he had been the

owner’s son. And he never said Miss: he should have done, shouldn’t he,

if he’s a servant?”

Hareton grew black as a thunder-cloud at this childish speech. I

silently shook my questioner, and at last succeeded in equipping her

for departure.

“Now, get my horse,” she said, addressing her unknown kinsman as she

would one of the stable-boys at the Grange. “And you may come with me.

I want to see where the goblin-hunter rises in the marsh, and to hear

about the _fairishes_, as you call them: but make haste! What’s the

matter? Get my horse, I say.”

“I’ll see thee damned before I be _thy_ servant!” growled the lad.

“You’ll see me _what?_” asked Catherine in surprise.

“Damned—thou saucy witch!” he replied.

“There, Miss Cathy! you see you have got into pretty company,” I

interposed. “Nice words to be used to a young lady! Pray don’t begin to

dispute with him. Come, let us seek for Minny ourselves, and begone.”

“But, Ellen,” cried she, staring fixed in astonishment, “how dare he

speak so to me? Mustn’t he be made to do as I ask him? You wicked

creature, I shall tell papa what you said.—Now, then!”

Hareton did not appear to feel this threat; so the tears sprang into

her eyes with indignation. “You bring the pony,” she exclaimed, turning

to the woman, “and let my dog free this moment!”

“Softly, Miss,” answered the addressed. “You’ll lose nothing by being

civil. Though Mr. Hareton, there, be not the master’s son, he’s your

cousin: and I was never hired to serve you.”

“_He_ my cousin!” cried Cathy, with a scornful laugh.

“Yes, indeed,” responded her reprover.

“Oh, Ellen! don’t let them say such things,” she pursued in great

trouble. “Papa is gone to fetch my cousin from London: my cousin is a

gentleman’s son. That my—” she stopped, and wept outright; upset at the

bare notion of relationship with such a clown.

“Hush, hush!” I whispered; “people can have many cousins and of all

sorts, Miss Cathy, without being any the worse for it; only they

needn’t keep their company, if they be disagreeable and bad.”

“He’s not—he’s not my cousin, Ellen!” she went on, gathering fresh

grief from reflection, and flinging herself into my arms for refuge

from the idea.

I was much vexed at her and the servant for their mutual revelations;

having no doubt of Linton’s approaching arrival, communicated by the

former, being reported to Mr. Heathcliff; and feeling as confident that

Catherine’s first thought on her father’s return would be to seek an

explanation of the latter’s assertion concerning her rude-bred kindred.

Hareton, recovering from his disgust at being taken for a servant,

seemed moved by her distress; and, having fetched the pony round to the

door, he took, to propitiate her, a fine crooked-legged terrier whelp

from the kennel, and putting it into her hand, bid her whist! for he

meant nought. Pausing in her lamentations, she surveyed him with a

glance of awe and horror, then burst forth anew.

I could scarcely refrain from smiling at this antipathy to the poor

fellow; who was a well-made, athletic youth, good-looking in features,

and stout and healthy, but attired in garments befitting his daily

occupations of working on the farm and lounging among the moors after

rabbits and game. Still, I thought I could detect in his physiognomy a

mind owning better qualities than his father ever possessed. Good

things lost amid a wilderness of weeds, to be sure, whose rankness far

over-topped their neglected growth; yet, notwithstanding, evidence of a

wealthy soil, that might yield luxuriant crops under other and

favourable circumstances. Mr. Heathcliff, I believe, had not treated

him physically ill; thanks to his fearless nature, which offered no

temptation to that course of oppression: he had none of the timid

susceptibility that would have given zest to ill-treatment, in

Heathcliff’s judgment. He appeared to have bent his malevolence on

making him a brute: he was never taught to read or write; never rebuked

for any bad habit which did not annoy his keeper; never led a single

step towards virtue, or guarded by a single precept against vice. And

from what I heard, Joseph contributed much to his deterioration, by a

narrow-minded partiality which prompted him to flatter and pet him, as

a boy, because he was the head of the old family. And as he had been in

the habit of accusing Catherine Earnshaw and Heathcliff, when children,

of putting the master past his patience, and compelling him to seek

solace in drink by what he termed their “offald ways,” so at present he

laid the whole burden of Hareton’s faults on the shoulders of the

usurper of his property. If the lad swore, he wouldn’t correct him: nor

however culpably he behaved. It gave Joseph satisfaction, apparently,

to watch him go the worst lengths: he allowed that the lad was ruined:

that his soul was abandoned to perdition; but then he reflected that

Heathcliff must answer for it. Hareton’s blood would be required at his

hands; and there lay immense consolation in that thought. Joseph had

instilled into him a pride of name, and of his lineage; he would, had

he dared, have fostered hate between him and the present owner of the

Heights: but his dread of that owner amounted to superstition; and he

confined his feelings regarding him to muttered innuendoes and private

comminations. I don’t pretend to be intimately acquainted with the mode

of living customary in those days at Wuthering Heights: I only speak

from hearsay; for I saw little. The villagers affirmed Mr. Heathcliff

was _near_, and a cruel hard landlord to his tenants; but the house,

inside, had regained its ancient aspect of comfort under female

management, and the scenes of riot common in Hindley’s time were not

now enacted within its walls. The master was too gloomy to seek

companionship with any people, good or bad; and he is yet.

This, however, is not making progress with my story. Miss Cathy

rejected the peace-offering of the terrier, and demanded her own dogs,

Charlie and Phoenix. They came limping and hanging their heads; and we

set out for home, sadly out of sorts, every one of us. I could not

wring from my little lady how she had spent the day; except that, as I

supposed, the goal of her pilgrimage was Penistone Crags; and she

arrived without adventure to the gate of the farmhouse, when Hareton

happened to issue forth, attended by some canine followers, who

attacked her train. They had a smart battle, before their owners could

separate them: that formed an introduction. Catherine told Hareton who

she was, and where she was going; and asked him to show her the way:

finally, beguiling him to accompany her. He opened the mysteries of the

Fairy Cave, and twenty other queer places. But, being in disgrace, I

was not favoured with a description of the interesting objects she saw.

I could gather, however, that her guide had been a favourite till she

hurt his feelings by addressing him as a servant; and Heathcliff’s

housekeeper hurt hers by calling him her cousin. Then the language he

had held to her rankled in her heart; she who was always “love,” and

“darling,” and “queen,” and “angel,” with everybody at the Grange, to

be insulted so shockingly by a stranger! She did not comprehend it; and

hard work I had to obtain a promise that she would not lay the

grievance before her father. I explained how he objected to the whole

household at the Heights, and how sorry he would be to find she had

been there; but I insisted most on the fact, that if she revealed my

negligence of his orders, he would perhaps be so angry that I should

have to leave; and Cathy couldn’t bear that prospect: she pledged her

word, and kept it for my sake. After all, she was a sweet little girl.