Wuthering Heights, Page 22

  CHAPTER XXII

  Summer drew to an end, and early autumn: it was past Michaelmas, but theharvest 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 theevening happening to be chill and damp, my master caught a bad cold, thatsettled obstinately on his lungs, and confined him indoors throughout thewhole of the winter, nearly without intermission.

  Poor Cathy, frightened from her little romance, had been considerablysadder and duller since its abandonment; and her father insisted on herreading less, and taking more exercise. She had his companionship nolonger; 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 threehours, from my numerous diurnal occupations, to follow her footsteps, andthen my society was obviously less desirable than his.

  On an afternoon in October, or the beginning of November--a fresh wateryafternoon, when the turf and paths were rustling with moist, witheredleaves, and the cold blue sky was half hidden by clouds--dark greystreamers, rapidly mounting from the west, and boding abundant rain--Irequested my young lady to forego her ramble, because I was certain ofshowers. She refused; and I unwillingly donned a cloak, and took myumbrella to accompany her on a stroll to the bottom of the park: a formalwalk which she generally affected if low-spirited--and that sheinvariably was when Mr. Edgar had been worse than ordinary, a thing neverknown from his confession, but guessed both by her and me from hisincreased silence and the melancholy of his countenance. She went sadlyon: there was no running or bounding now, though the chill wind mightwell have tempted her to race. And often, from the side of my eye, Icould detect her raising a hand, and brushing something off her cheek. Igazed round for a means of diverting her thoughts. On one side of theroad rose a high, rough bank, where hazels and stunted oaks, with theirroots half exposed, held uncertain tenure: the soil was too loose for thelatter; and strong winds had blown some nearly horizontal. In summerMiss Catherine delighted to climb along these trunks, and sit in thebranches, swinging twenty feet above the ground; and I, pleased with heragility and her light, childish heart, still considered it proper toscold every time I caught her at such an elevation, but so that she knewthere was no necessity for descending. From dinner to tea she would liein her breeze-rocked cradle, doing nothing except singing old songs--mynursery lore--to herself, or watching the birds, joint tenants, feed andentice their young ones to fly: or nestling with closed lids, halfthinking, half dreaming, happier than words can express.

  'Look, Miss!' I exclaimed, pointing to a nook under the roots of onetwisted tree. 'Winter is not here yet. There's a little flower upyonder, the last bud from the multitude of bluebells that clouded thoseturf steps in July with a lilac mist. Will you clamber up, and pluck itto show to papa?' Cathy stared a long time at the lonely blossomtrembling in its earthy shelter, and replied, at length--'No, I'll nottouch it: but it looks melancholy, does it not, Ellen?'

  'Yes,' I observed, 'about as starved and suckless as you: your cheeks arebloodless; let us take hold of hands and run. You're so low, I daresay Ishall keep up with you.'

  'No,' she repeated, and continued sauntering on, pausing at intervals tomuse over a bit of moss, or a tuft of blanched grass, or a fungusspreading its bright orange among the heaps of brown foliage; and, everand anon, her hand was lifted to her averted face.

  'Catherine, why are you crying, love?' I asked, approaching and puttingmy arm over her shoulder. 'You mustn't cry because papa has a cold; bethankful it is nothing worse.'

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

  'Oh, it will be something worse,' she said. 'And what shall I do whenpapa 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 drearythe world will be, when papa and you are dead.'

  'None can tell whether you won't die before us,' I replied. 'It's wrongto anticipate evil. We'll hope there are years and years to come beforeany of us go: master is young, and I am strong, and hardly forty-five. Mymother 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 youhave counted, Miss. And would it not be foolish to mourn a calamityabove twenty years beforehand?'

  'But Aunt Isabella was younger than papa,' she remarked, gazing up withtimid hope to seek further consolation.

  'Aunt Isabella had not you and me to nurse her,' I replied. 'She wasn'tas happy as Master: she hadn't as much to live for. All you need do, isto wait well on your father, and cheer him by letting him see youcheerful; 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 whowould be glad to have him in his grave; and allowed him to discover thatyou fretted over the separation he has judged it expedient to make.'

  'I fret about nothing on earth except papa's illness,' answered mycompanion. 'I care for nothing in comparison with papa. And I'llnever--never--oh, never, while I have my senses, do an act or say a wordto 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 bemiserable than that he should be: that proves I love him better thanmyself.'

  'Good words,' I replied. 'But deeds must prove it also; and after he iswell, 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 younglady, lightening into sunshine again, climbed up and seated herself onthe top of the wall, reaching over to gather some hips that bloomedscarlet on the summit branches of the wild-rose trees shadowing thehighway side: the lower fruit had disappeared, but only birds could touchthe upper, except from Cathy's present station. In stretching to pullthem, her hat fell off; and as the door was locked, she proposedscrambling down to recover it. I bid her be cautious lest she got afall, and she nimbly disappeared. But the return was no such easymatter: the stones were smooth and neatly cemented, and the rose-bushesand black-berry stragglers could yield no assistance in re-ascending. I,like a fool, didn't recollect that, till I heard her laughing andexclaiming--'Ellen! you'll have to fetch the key, or else I must runround 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 Itried all the large keys in succession. I had applied the last, andfound that none would do; so, repeating my desire that she would remainthere, I was about to hurry home as fast as I could, when an approachingsound arrested me. It was the trot of a horse; Cathy's dance stoppedalso.

  '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 meetyou. Don't be in haste to enter, for I have an explanation to ask andobtain.'

  'I sha'n't speak to you, Mr. Heathcliff,' answered Catherine. 'Papa saysyou are a wicked man, and you hate both him and me; and Ellen says thesame.'

  'That is nothing to the purpose,' said Heathcliff. (He it was.) 'Idon't hate my son, I suppose; and it is concerning him that I demand yourattention. 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 yougive me any pertness I'll send them to your father. I presume you grewweary of the amusement and dropped it, didn't you? Well, you droppedLinton 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 atyour fickleness: not figuratively, but actually.
Though Hareton has madehim a standing jest for six weeks, and I have used more serious measures,and attempted to frighten him out of his idiotcy, 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 theinside. 'Pray ride on! How can you deliberately get up such paltryfalsehoods? Miss Cathy, I'll knock the lock off with a stone: you won'tbelieve that vile nonsense. You can feel in yourself it is impossiblethat a person should die for love of a stranger.'

  'I was not aware there were eavesdroppers,' muttered the detectedvillain. 'Worthy Mrs. Dean, I like you, but I don't like yourdouble-dealing,' he added aloud. 'How could _you_ lie so glaringly as toaffirm I hated the "poor child"? and invent bugbear stories to terrifyher from my door-stones? Catherine Linton (the very name warms me), mybonny lass, I shall be from home all this week; go and see if have notspoken truth: do, there's a darling! Just imagine your father in myplace, and Linton in yours; then think how you would value your carelesslover if he refused to stir a step to comfort you, when your fatherhimself entreated him; and don't, from pure stupidity, fall into thesame error. I swear, on my salvation, he's going to his grave, and nonebut you can save him!'

  The lock gave way and I issued out.

  'I swear Linton is dying,' repeated Heathcliff, looking hard at me. 'Andgrief and disappointment are hastening his death. Nelly, if you won'tlet her go, you can walk over yourself. But I shall not return till thistime next week; and I think your master himself would scarcely object toher visiting her cousin.'

  'Come in,' said I, taking Cathy by the arm and half forcing her tore-enter; for she lingered, viewing with troubled eyes the features ofthe 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 andJoseph have less. I'll own that he's with a harsh set. He pines forkindness, as well as love; and a kind word from you would be his bestmedicine. Don't mind Mrs. Dean's cruel cautions; but be generous, andcontrive to see him. He dreams of you day and night, and cannot bepersuaded 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 inholding it; and spreading my umbrella, I drew my charge underneath: forthe rain began to drive through the moaning branches of the trees, andwarned us to avoid delay. Our hurry prevented any comment on theencounter with Heathcliff, as we stretched towards home; but I divinedinstinctively that Catherine's heart was clouded now in double darkness.Her features were so sad, they did not seem hers: she evidently regardedwhat she had heard as every syllable true.

  The master had retired to rest before we came in. Cathy stole to hisroom to inquire how he was; he had fallen asleep. She returned, andasked me to sit with her in the library. We took our tea together; andafterwards she lay down on the rug, and told me not to talk, for she wasweary. I got a book, and pretended to read. As soon as she supposed meabsorbed in my occupation, she recommenced her silent weeping: itappeared, at present, her favourite diversion. I suffered her to enjoyit a while; then I expostulated: deriding and ridiculing all Mr.Heathcliff's assertions about his son, as if I were certain she wouldcoincide. Alas! I hadn't skill to counteract the effect his account hadproduced: it was just what he intended.

  'You may be right, Ellen,' she answered; 'but I shall never feel at easetill I know. And I must tell Linton it is not my fault that I don'twrite, and convince him that I shall not change.'

  What use were anger and protestations against her silly credulity? Weparted that night--hostile; but next day beheld me on the road toWuthering Heights, by the side of my wilful young mistress's pony. Icouldn't bear to witness her sorrow: to see her pale, dejectedcountenance, and heavy eyes: and I yielded, in the faint hope that Lintonhimself might prove, by his reception of us, how little of the tale wasfounded on fact.