第 二十二 章 · 第22章

Summer drew to an end, and early autumn: it was past Michaelmas, but

the harvest was late that year, and a few of our fields were still

uncleared. Mr. Linton and his daughter would frequently walk out among

the reapers; at the carrying of the last sheaves they stayed till dusk,

and the evening happening to be chill and damp, my master caught a bad

cold, that settled obstinately on his lungs, and confined him indoors

throughout the whole of the winter, nearly without intermission.

Poor Cathy, frightened from her little romance, had been considerably

sadder and duller since its abandonment; and her father insisted on her

reading less, and taking more exercise. She had his companionship no

longer; I esteemed it a duty to supply its lack, as much as possible,

with mine: an inefficient substitute; for I could only spare two or

three hours, from my numerous diurnal occupations, to follow her

footsteps, and then my society was obviously less desirable than his.

On an afternoon in October, or the beginning of November—a fresh watery

afternoon, when the turf and paths were rustling with moist, withered

leaves, and the cold blue sky was half hidden by clouds—dark grey

streamers, rapidly mounting from the west, and boding abundant rain—I

requested my young lady to forego her ramble, because I was certain of

showers. She refused; and I unwillingly donned a cloak, and took my

umbrella to accompany her on a stroll to the bottom of the park: a

formal walk which she generally affected if low-spirited—and that she

invariably was when Mr. Edgar had been worse than ordinary, a thing

never known from his confession, but guessed both by her and me from

his increased silence and the melancholy of his countenance. She went

sadly on: there was no running or bounding now, though the chill wind

might well have tempted her to race. And often, from the side of my

eye, I could detect her raising a hand, and brushing something off her

cheek. I gazed round for a means of diverting her thoughts. On one side

of the road rose a high, rough bank, where hazels and stunted oaks,

with their roots half exposed, held uncertain tenure: the soil was too

loose for the latter; and strong winds had blown some nearly

horizontal. In summer Miss Catherine delighted to climb along these

trunks, and sit in the branches, swinging twenty feet above the ground;

and I, pleased with her agility and her light, childish heart, still

considered it proper to scold every time I caught her at such an

elevation, but so that she knew there was no necessity for descending.

From dinner to tea she would lie in her breeze-rocked cradle, doing

nothing except singing old songs—my nursery lore—to herself, or

watching the birds, joint tenants, feed and entice their young ones to

fly: or nestling with closed lids, half thinking, half dreaming,

happier than words can express.

“Look, Miss!” I exclaimed, pointing to a nook under the roots of one

twisted tree. “Winter is not here yet. There’s a little flower up

yonder, the last bud from the multitude of bluebells that clouded those

turf steps in July with a lilac mist. Will you clamber up, and pluck it

to show to papa?”

Cathy stared a long time at the lonely blossom trembling in its earthy

shelter, and replied, at length—“No, I’ll not touch it: but it looks

melancholy, does it not, Ellen?”

“Yes,” I observed, “about as starved and sackless as you: your cheeks

are bloodless; let us take hold of hands and run. You’re so low, I

daresay I shall keep up with you.”

“No,” she repeated, and continued sauntering on, pausing at intervals

to muse over a bit of moss, or a tuft of blanched grass, or a fungus

spreading its bright orange among the heaps of brown foliage; and, ever

and anon, her hand was lifted to her averted face.

“Catherine, why are you crying, love?” I asked, approaching and putting

my arm over her shoulder. “You mustn’t cry because papa has a cold; be

thankful it is nothing worse.”

She now put no further restraint on her tears; her breath was stifled

by sobs.

“Oh, it _will_ be something worse,” she said. “And what shall I do when

papa and you leave me, and I am by myself? I can’t forget your words,

Ellen; they are always in my ear. How life will be changed, how dreary

the world will be, when papa and you are dead.”

“None can tell whether you won’t die before us,” I replied. “It’s wrong

to anticipate evil. We’ll hope there are years and years to come before

any of us go: master is young, and I am strong, and hardly forty-five.

My mother lived till eighty, a canty dame to the last. And suppose Mr.

Linton were spared till he saw sixty, that would be more years than you

have counted, Miss. And would it not be foolish to mourn a calamity

above twenty years beforehand?”

“But Aunt Isabella was younger than papa,” she remarked, gazing up with

timid hope to seek further consolation.

“Aunt Isabella had not you and me to nurse her,” I replied. “She wasn’t

as happy as Master: she hadn’t as much to live for. All you need do, is

to wait well on your father, and cheer him by letting him see you

cheerful; and avoid giving him anxiety on any subject: mind that,

Cathy! I’ll not disguise but you might kill him if you were wild and

reckless, and cherished a foolish, fanciful affection for the son of a

person who would be glad to have him in his grave; and allowed him to

discover that you fretted over the separation he has judged it

expedient to make.”

“I fret about nothing on earth except papa’s illness,” answered my

companion. “I care for nothing in comparison with papa. And I’ll

never—never—oh, never, while I have my senses, do an act or say a word

to vex him. I love him better than myself, Ellen; and I know it by

this: I pray every night that I may live after him; because I would

rather be miserable than that he should be: that proves I love him

better than myself.”

“Good words,” I replied. “But deeds must prove it also; and after he is

well, remember you don’t forget resolutions formed in the hour of

fear.”

As we talked, we neared a door that opened on the road; and my young

lady, lightening into sunshine again, climbed up and seated herself on

the top of the wall, reaching over to gather some hips that bloomed

scarlet on the summit branches of the wild-rose trees shadowing the

highway side: the lower fruit had disappeared, but only birds could

touch the upper, except from Cathy’s present station. In stretching to

pull them, her hat fell off; and as the door was locked, she proposed

scrambling down to recover it. I bid her be cautious lest she got a

fall, and she nimbly disappeared. But the return was no such easy

matter: the stones were smooth and neatly cemented, and the rosebushes

and blackberry stragglers could yield no assistance in re-ascending.

I, like a fool, didn’t recollect that, till I heard her laughing and

exclaiming—“Ellen! you’ll have to fetch the key, or else I must run

round to the porter’s lodge. I can’t scale the ramparts on this side!”

“Stay where you are,” I answered; “I have my bundle of keys in my

pocket: perhaps I may manage to open it; if not, I’ll go.”

Catherine amused herself with dancing to and fro before the door, while

I tried all the large keys in succession. I had applied the last, and

found that none would do; so, repeating my desire that she would remain

there, I was about to hurry home as fast as I could, when an

approaching sound arrested me. It was the trot of a horse; Cathy’s

dance stopped also.

“Who is that?” I whispered.

“Ellen, I wish you could open the door,” whispered back my companion,

anxiously.

“Ho, Miss Linton!” cried a deep voice (the rider’s), “I’m glad to meet

you. Don’t be in haste to enter, for I have an explanation to ask and

obtain.”

“I sha’n’t speak to you, Mr. Heathcliff,” answered Catherine. “Papa

says you are a wicked man, and you hate both him and me; and Ellen says

the same.”

“That is nothing to the purpose,” said Heathcliff. (He it was.) “I

don’t hate my son, I suppose; and it is concerning him that I demand

your attention. Yes; you have cause to blush. Two or three months

since, were you not in the habit of writing to Linton? making love in

play, eh? You deserved, both of you, flogging for that! You especially,

the elder; and less sensitive, as it turns out. I’ve got your letters,

and if you give me any pertness I’ll send them to your father. I

presume you grew weary of the amusement and dropped it, didn’t you?

Well, you dropped Linton with it into a Slough of Despond. He was in

earnest: in love, really. As true as I live, he’s dying for you;

breaking his heart at your fickleness: not figuratively, but actually.

Though Hareton has made him a standing jest for six weeks, and I have

used more serious measures, and attempted to frighten him out of his

idiocy, he gets worse daily; and he’ll be under the sod before summer,

unless you restore him!”

“How can you lie so glaringly to the poor child?” I called from the

inside. “Pray ride on! How can you deliberately get up such paltry

falsehoods? Miss Cathy, I’ll knock the lock off with a stone: you won’t

believe that vile nonsense. You can feel in yourself it is impossible

that a person should die for love of a stranger.”

“I was not aware there were eavesdroppers,” muttered the detected

villain. “Worthy Mrs. Dean, I like you, but I don’t like your

double-dealing,” he added aloud. “How could _you_ lie so glaringly as

to affirm I hated the ‘poor child’? and invent bugbear stories to

terrify her from my door-stones? Catherine Linton (the very name warms

me), my bonny lass, I shall be from home all this week; go and see if I

have not spoken truth: do, there’s a darling! Just imagine your father

in my place, and Linton in yours; then think how you would value your

careless lover if he refused to stir a step to comfort you, when your

father himself entreated him; and don’t, from pure stupidity, fall into

the same error. I swear, on my salvation, he’s going to his grave, and

none but you can save him!”

The lock gave way and I issued out.

“I swear Linton is dying,” repeated Heathcliff, looking hard at me.

“And grief and disappointment are hastening his death. Nelly, if you

won’t let her go, you can walk over yourself. But I shall not return

till this time next week; and I think your master himself would

scarcely object to her visiting her cousin.”

“Come in,” said I, taking Cathy by the arm and half forcing her to

re-enter; for she lingered, viewing with troubled eyes the features of

the speaker, too stern to express his inward deceit.

He pushed his horse close, and, bending down, observed—

“Miss Catherine, I’ll own to you that I have little patience with

Linton; and Hareton and Joseph have less. I’ll own that he’s with a

harsh set. He pines for kindness, as well as love; and a kind word from

you would be his best medicine. Don’t mind Mrs. Dean’s cruel cautions;

but be generous, and contrive to see him. He dreams of you day and

night, and cannot be persuaded that you don’t hate him, since you

neither write nor call.”

I closed the door, and rolled a stone to assist the loosened lock in

holding it; and spreading my umbrella, I drew my charge underneath: for

the rain began to drive through the moaning branches of the trees, and

warned us to avoid delay. Our hurry prevented any comment on the

encounter with Heathcliff, as we stretched towards home; but I divined

instinctively that Catherine’s heart was clouded now in double

darkness. Her features were so sad, they did not seem hers: she

evidently regarded what she had heard as every syllable true.

The master had retired to rest before we came in. Cathy stole to his

room to inquire how he was; he had fallen asleep. She returned, and

asked me to sit with her in the library. We took our tea together; and

afterwards she lay down on the rug, and told me not to talk, for she

was weary. I got a book, and pretended to read. As soon as she supposed

me absorbed in my occupation, she recommenced her silent weeping: it

appeared, at present, her favourite diversion. I suffered her to enjoy

it a while; then I expostulated: deriding and ridiculing all Mr.

Heathcliff’s assertions about his son, as if I were certain she would

coincide. Alas! I hadn’t skill to counteract the effect his account had

produced: it was just what he intended.

“You may be right, Ellen,” she answered; “but I shall never feel at

ease till I know. And I must tell Linton it is not my fault that I

don’t write, and convince him that I shall not change.”

What use were anger and protestations against her silly credulity? We

parted that night—hostile; but next day beheld me on the road to

Wuthering Heights, by the side of my wilful young mistress’s pony. I

couldn’t bear to witness her sorrow: to see her pale, dejected

countenance, and heavy eyes: and I yielded, in the faint hope that

Linton himself might prove, by his reception of us, how little of the

tale was founded on fact.