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CHAPTER XXII
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 suckless 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 rose-bushes and black-berry 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 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 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 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.