Wuthering Heights
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.
CHAPTER XXV
“These things happened last winter, sir,” said Mrs. Dean; “hardly more
than a year ago. Last winter, I did not think, at another twelve
months’ end, I should be amusing a stranger to the family with relating
them! Yet, who knows how long you’ll be a stranger? You’re too young to
rest always contented, living by yourself; and I some way fancy no one
could see Catherine Linton and not love her. You smile; but why do you
look so lively and interested when I talk about her? and why have you
asked me to hang her picture over your fireplace? and why—?”
“Stop, my good friend!” I cried. “It may be very possible that _I_
should love her; but would she love me? I doubt it too much to venture
my tranquillity by running into temptation: and then my home is not
here. I’m of the busy world, and to its arms I must return. Go on. Was
Catherine obedient to her father’s commands?”
“She was,” continued the housekeeper. “Her affection for him was still
the chief sentiment in her heart; and he spoke without anger: he spoke
in the deep tenderness of one about to leave his treasure amid perils
and foes, where his remembered words would be the only aid that he
could bequeath to guide her. He said to me, a few days afterwards, ‘I
wish my nephew would write, Ellen, or call. Tell me, sincerely, what
you think of him: is he changed for the better, or is there a prospect
of improvement, as he grows a man?’
“‘He’s very delicate, sir,’ I replied; ‘and scarcely likely to reach
manhood: but this I can say, he does not resemble his father; and if
Miss Catherine had the misfortune to marry him, he would not be beyond
her control: unless she were extremely and foolishly indulgent.
However, master, you’ll have plenty of time to get acquainted with him
and see whether he would suit her: it wants four years and more to his
being of age.’”
Edgar sighed; and, walking to the window, looked out towards Gimmerton
Kirk. It was a misty afternoon, but the February sun shone dimly, and
we could just distinguish the two fir-trees in the yard, and the
sparely-scattered gravestones.
“I’ve prayed often,” he half soliloquised, “for the approach of what is
coming; and now I begin to shrink, and fear it. I thought the memory of
the hour I came down that glen a bridegroom would be less sweet than
the anticipation that I was soon, in a few months, or, possibly, weeks,
to be carried up, and laid in its lonely hollow! Ellen, I’ve been very
happy with my little Cathy: through winter nights and summer days she
was a living hope at my side. But I’ve been as happy musing by myself
among those stones, under that old church: lying, through the long June
evenings, on the green mound of her mother’s grave, and
wishing—yearning for the time when I might lie beneath it. What can I
do for Cathy? How must I quit her? I’d not care one moment for Linton
being Heathcliff’s son; nor for his taking her from me, if he could
console her for my loss. I’d not care that Heathcliff gained his ends,
and triumphed in robbing me of my last blessing! But should Linton be
unworthy—only a feeble tool to his father—I cannot abandon her to him!
And, hard though it be to crush her buoyant spirit, I must persevere in
making her sad while I live, and leaving her solitary when I die.
Darling! I’d rather resign her to God, and lay her in the earth before
me.”
“Resign her to God as it is, sir,” I answered, “and if we should lose
you—which may He forbid—under His providence, I’ll stand her friend and
counsellor to the last. Miss Catherine is a good girl: I don’t fear
that she will go wilfully wrong; and people who do their duty are
always finally rewarded.”
Spring advanced; yet my master gathered no real strength, though he
resumed his walks in the grounds with his daughter. To her
inexperienced notions, this itself was a sign of convalescence; and
then his cheek was often flushed, and his eyes were bright; she felt
sure of his recovering. On her seventeenth birthday, he did not visit
the churchyard: it was raining, and I observed—
“You’ll surely not go out to-night, sir?”
He answered,—“No, I’ll defer it this year a little longer.”
He wrote again to Linton, expressing his great desire to see him; and,
had the invalid been presentable, I’ve no doubt his father would have
permitted him to come. As it was, being instructed, he returned an
answer, intimating that Mr. Heathcliff objected to his calling at the
Grange; but his uncle’s kind remembrance delighted him, and he hoped to
meet him sometimes in his rambles, and personally to petition that his
cousin and he might not remain long so utterly divided.
That part of his letter was simple, and probably his own. Heathcliff
knew he could plead eloquently for Catherine’s company, then.