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 reapers¹; 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 obstinately² 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 considerably³ 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 esteemed⁴ it a duty to supply its lack, as much as possible, with mine: an inefficient⁵ substitute; for I could only spare two or three hours, from my numerous diurnal⁶ 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 watery⁷ afternoon, when the turf and paths were rustling⁸ with moist, withered⁹ leaves, and the cold blue sky was half hidden by clouds—dark grey streamers, rapidly mounting from the west, and boding¹⁰ abundant rain—I requested my young lady to forego her ramble¹¹, because I was certain of showers. She refused; and I unwillingly¹² 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 affected¹³ if low-spirited—and that she invariably was when Mr. Edgar had been worse than ordinary, a thing never known from his confession¹⁴, but guessed both by her and me from his increased silence and the melancholy¹⁵ of his countenance¹⁶. She went sadly on: there was no running or bounding now, though the chill wind might well have tempted¹⁷ 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 stunted¹⁸ oaks, with their roots half exposed, held uncertain tenure¹⁹: 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 agility²⁰ and her light, childish heart, still considered it proper to scold every time I caught her at such an elevation²¹, but so that she knew there was no necessity for descending²². 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 tenants²³, feed and entice²⁴ 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 bluebells²⁵ 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 intervals²⁶ to muse²⁷ over a bit of moss²⁸, or a tuft of blanched²⁹ grass, or a fungus³⁰ spreading its bright orange among the heaps of brown foliage³¹; and, ever and anon, her hand was lifted to her averted³² 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 stifled³³ by sobs³⁴.

“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 dreary³⁵ 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 dame³⁶ 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 calamity³⁷ above twenty years beforehand?”

“But Aunt Isabella was younger than papa,” she remarked, gazing up with timid hope to seek further consolation³⁸.

“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 fretted⁴⁰ over the separation he has judged it expedient⁴¹ to make.”

“I fret³⁹ 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 vex⁴² 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 miserable⁴³ 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 hips⁴⁴ that bloomed scarlet⁴⁵ 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 scrambling⁴⁶ 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 neatly⁴⁷ cemented, and the rosebushes and blackberry stragglers could yield no assistance in re-ascending. I, like a fool, didn’t recollect⁴⁸ 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 lodge⁴⁹. 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 applied⁵⁰ 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 trot⁵¹ 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 Slough⁵² of Despond. He was in earnest: in love, really. As true as I live, he’s dying for you; breaking his heart at your fickleness⁵³: not figuratively, but actually. Though Hareton has made him a standing⁵⁴ jest for six weeks, and I have used more serious measures, and attempted to frighten him out of his idiocy⁵⁵, 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 deliberately⁵⁶ get up such paltry⁵⁷ falsehoods? Miss Cathy, I’ll knock the lock off with a stone: you won’t believe that vile⁵⁸ 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 villain⁵⁹. “Worthy⁶⁰ 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 entreated⁶¹ him; and don’t, from pure stupidity, fall into the same error. I swear, on my salvation⁶², 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 contrive⁶³ 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 underneath⁶⁴: 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 instinctively⁶⁵ 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 syllable⁶⁶ true.

The master had retired⁶⁷ 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: deriding⁶⁸ and ridiculing⁶⁹ all Mr. Heathcliff’s assertions about his son, as if I were certain she would coincide. Alas! I hadn’t skill to counteract⁷⁰ 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 beheld⁷¹ me on the road to Wuthering Heights, by the side of my wilful⁷² young mistress’s pony⁷³. 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.