CHAPTER 22
Summer drew to an end, and autumn came. Harvest was late that year. Mr. Linton and his daughter would frequently walk out among the reapers; once they stayed till dusk, and the evening being chill and damp, my master caught a bad cold that kept him indoors all winter.
Poor Cathy had been considerably sadder and duller since abandoning her little romance; and her father insisted on her reading less, and taking more exercise. I kept her company as much as possible, although I could only spare two or three hours a day, and my society was less desirable to her than her father’s.
On a fresh afternoon in October, when paths were rustling with withered leaves, and the cold blue sky was half hidden by rain-clouds, my young lady still insisted on her ramble; so I unwillingly donned a cloak, and took my umbrella to accompany her on a stroll to the bottom of the park. It was a walk which she took if low-spirited – as she always was when Mr. Edgar was ill; she guessed his state from his silence and melancholy.
She went sadly on: there was no running or bounding now. And often I detected 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 bank, where hazels and stunted oaks clung uncertainly; strong winds had blown some nearly horizontal. In summer Miss Catherine delighted to climb these and sit in the branches, swinging twenty feet above the ground. I, pleased with her agility, still scolded every time I caught her there, but so mildly that she knew there was no need to descend. From dinner to tea she would lie in her breeze-rocked cradle, singing old songs, or watching the birds: or half thinking, half dreaming, happier than words can express.
‘Look, Miss!’ I exclaimed, pointing to the roots of one twisted tree. ‘Winter is not here yet. There’s a little flower there, the last bluebell of the year. Will you pluck it, to show to papa?’
Cathy stared at the lonely blossom, and replied, ‘No, I’ll not touch it: but it looks sad, does it not, Ellen?’
‘Yes,’ I observed, ‘like you: your cheeks are bloodless; let us hold hands and run. I daresay I shall keep up with you.’
‘No,’ she repeated, and continued walking on, pausing at intervals. Frequently her hand was lifted to her averted face.
‘Catherine, why are you crying, love?’ I asked, putting my arm round her. ‘You mustn’t cry because papa has a cold; be thankful it is nothing worse.’
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? How dreary the world will be, when papa and you are dead.’
‘Why,’ said I, ‘we’ll hope there are years to come before that: master is young, and I am strong, and hardly forty-five. My mother lived till eighty. And suppose Mr. Linton were spared till he saw sixty! Would it not be foolish to mourn him twenty years beforehand?’
‘But Aunt Isabella was younger than papa,’ she remarked, with timid hope.
‘Aunt Isabella had not you and me to nurse her,’ I replied. ‘She hadn’t as much to live for as your father. You can cheer him by being cheerful; and avoid giving him anxiety: mind that, Cathy! You might kill him if you were wild and reckless, and cherished a fanciful affection for the son of a person who would be glad to have him in his grave; and if you let him discover that you fretted over the separation he thought it best to make.’
‘I fret about nothing except papa’s illness,’ she answered. ‘I care for nothing in comparison with papa. And I’ll never, never, do an act or say a word to vex him. I love him better than myself, Ellen.’
‘Good words,’ I replied. ‘But deeds must prove it also; and after he is well, don’t forget it.’
As we talked, we neared a door that opened on the road. Cathy climbed up and sat on top of the wall, reaching over to gather some rose-hips that bloomed scarlet on the wild-rose trees shadowing the highway. In stretching to pick them, her hat fell off; and as the door was locked, she proposed scrambling down to recover it. I bid her be careful, and she nimbly disappeared.
But the return was no such easy matter: the stones were smooth. I heard her laughing and exclaiming, ‘Ellen! you’ll have to fetch the key. I can’t scale the ramparts on this side!’
‘I have my bundle of keys in my pocket,’ I answered: ‘perhaps I may manage to open it; if not, I’ll go.’
Catherine danced to and fro before the door, while I tried all the large keys in turn. I found that none would do; so, telling her to stay 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,’ she whispered back anxiously.
‘Ho, Miss Linton!’ cried a deep voice. ‘I’m glad to meet you. Don’t hurry in, for I have something to ask.’
‘I shan’t speak to you, Mr. Heathcliff,’ answered Catherine. ‘Papa says you are a wicked man, and you hate both him and me.’
‘That is nothing to the purpose,’ said Heathcliff. ‘I don’t hate my son, I suppose; and it is about him that I want to speak. Yes; you have cause to blush. Two or three months ago, were you not in the habit of writing to Linton? making love in play, eh? You both deserved 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? Well, you dropped Linton with it into a Slough of Despond. He was really in love. As true as I live, he’s dying for you; actually breaking his heart at your fickleness. He gets worse daily; and he’ll be dead before summer, unless you restore him!’
‘How can you lie so to the poor child?’ I called from the inside. ‘Pray ride on! Cathy, don’t you believe that vile nonsense.’
‘I was not aware there were eavesdroppers,’ muttered the villain. ‘Worthy Mrs. Dean, I like you, but I don’t like your double-dealing,’ he added aloud. ‘Catherine Linton (the very name warms me), my bonny lass, I shall be away from home all this week; go and see if have not spoken truth: do, there’s a darling! I swear, Linton’s going to his grave, and none but you can save him!’
The lock gave way and I rushed 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. I shall not return till this time next week; and I think your master would scarcely object to her visiting her cousin.’
‘Come in,’ said I, taking Cathy by the arm. She lingered, viewing Heathcliff with troubled eyes.
He pushed his horse close, and, bending down, said, ‘Miss Catherine, I’ll admit that I have little patience with Linton; and Hareton and Joseph have less. 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. Be generous, and go to see him. He dreams of you day and night, and thinks you hate him, since you neither write nor call.’
I closed the door and rolled a stone against it. Then I drew Cathy underneath my umbrella: for the rain began to drive through the moaning branches. As we hurried home, we did not talk about the encounter with Heathcliff; but I guessed that Catherine’s heart was clouded now in double darkness. Her features were sad: she evidently regarded his words as true.
The master was asleep in bed when we came in. Cathy and I took our tea together; and afterwards she lay on the rug, and told me not to talk, for she was weary. I got a book, and pretended to read. After a while I saw she was again weeping silently: so I began ridiculing Mr. Heathcliff’s assertions about his son.
‘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.’
What use were my protests against her silly credulity? Next day I went to Wuthering Heights beside my wilful young mistress’s pony. I couldn’t bear to see her sorr
ow: and I yielded, in the faint hope that Linton himself might prove how little of the tale was true.