CHAPTER 21
We had sad work with little Cathy that day: she rose in high glee, eager to join her cousin, and such passionate tears followed the news of his departure that Edgar had to promise he would come back soon.
However, time dimmed her memory of him. Though at intervals she asked when Linton would return, when she did see him again she did not recognise him.
Whenever I met the housekeeper of Wuthering Heights, I used to ask her how the young master got on; for he was never to be seen. She said he was in weak health, and was tiresome; and that Mr. Heathcliff disliked him, though he tried to conceal it: he could not sit in the same room with him for long. Linton learnt his lessons and spent his evenings in a small parlour: or else lay in bed all day: for he was constantly getting coughs, and colds, and aches, and pains.
‘And I never knew such a fainthearted, fussy creature,’ added the woman. ‘He will go on, if I leave the window open in the evening. Oh! it’s killing, a breath of night air! And he must have a fire in the middle of summer; and he must always have sweets, and milk, milk for ever, and never mind the rest of us. There he’ll sit, wrapped in his fur cloak in his chair by the fire, with some toast and water; and if Hareton comes to amuse him – Hareton is not bad-natured, though he’s rough – they’re sure to part with one swearing and the other crying. Heathcliff stays away from him.’
I gathered that Linton was selfish and disagreeable, and my interest in him decayed: though I still wished he had been left with us. Mr. Edgar thought a great deal about him, I fancy, and told me to ask the housekeeper whether he ever came into the village. She said he had only been twice, on horseback, with his father; and both times he pretended to be exhausted for three or four days afterwards. That housekeeper left two years later; but her successor lives there still.
Time wore on at the Grange in its pleasant way till Miss Cathy reached sixteen. We did not rejoice on her birthday, because it was also the anniversary of my late mistress’s death. Her father always spent that day alone in the library; and walked, at dusk, to Gimmerton churchyard; so Catherine had to amuse herself.
It was a beautiful spring day, and when her father had retired, my young lady came down dressed for going out, and asked to have a ramble on the edge of the moor with me: Mr. Linton had given her leave, if we were back within the hour.
‘So hurry, Ellen!’ she cried. ‘I wish to go where a colony of grouse are settled: I want to see whether they have made their nests yet.’
I put on my bonnet and walked out. She bounded before me like a young greyhound; and, at first, I found plenty of entertainment in listening to the larks singing, and enjoying the sweet, warm sunshine; and watching her, my pet and my delight, with her golden ringlets flying behind, and her eyes radiant with cloudless pleasure. She was a happy creature, and an angel, in those days. It’s a pity she could not be content.
‘Well,’ said I, ‘where are your birds, Miss Cathy?’
‘Only a little further, Ellen,’ she answered.
But I was weary, and told her we must halt, and go back. I shouted to her, as she was far ahead; she either did not hear or did not care, for she sprang on, and I had to follow, until we were near Wuthering Heights. Finally, she dived into a hollow, and when I caught sight of her again, I saw a couple of people stop her, one of whom I felt convinced was Mr. Heathcliff himself.
Cathy had been caught hunting out the nests of the grouse, which were on Heathcliff’s land; and he was reproving the poacher.
‘I’ve not taken any,’ she said, as I reached them. ‘Papa told me there were nests here, and I wished to see the eggs.’
Heathcliff glanced at me with an ill-meaning smile, and demanded who ‘papa’ was?
‘Mr. Linton of Thrushcross Grange,’ she replied. ‘Who are you? That man I’ve seen before. Is he your son?’
She pointed to Hareton, who was bigger and stronger than two years previously, but seemed as awkward and rough as ever.
‘Miss Cathy,’ I interrupted, ‘we really must go back.’
‘No, that man is not my son,’ answered Heathcliff, pushing me aside. ‘But I have one, and you have seen him before too; and, though your nurse is in a hurry, I think you would both be the better for a little rest. Will you walk into my house? You’ll receive a kind welcome.’
I whispered to Catherine that she mustn’t agree.
‘Why?’ she asked, aloud. ‘I’m tired. Let us go, Ellen. Besides, he says I have seen his son. He’s mistaken, I think; but I guess he lives at the farmhouse I visited in coming from Penistone Crags.’
‘You shall walk with me, Nelly,’ said Heathcliff, seizing my arm.
‘No, she’s not going,’ I cried, but she was already scampering ahead. ‘Mr. Heathcliff, it’s very wrong,’ I continued: ‘you know you mean no good. She’ll see Linton, and I shall have the blame.’
‘I want her to see Linton,’ he answered; ‘he’s looking better just now; it’s not often he’s fit to be seen. We’ll persuade her to keep the visit secret: where is the harm of it?’
‘The harm of it is, that her father would hate me if he found I let her enter your house; and I am convinced you have a bad design in encouraging her.’
‘My design is honest. I’ll inform you of it,’ he said. ‘That the two cousins may fall in love, and get married. I’m acting generously to your master: his young chit has no expectations, and should she follow my wishes she’ll be provided for. I am resolved to bring their union about.’
‘And I’m resolved she shall never approach your house with me again,’ I returned, as we reached the gate, where Miss Cathy waited.
As Heathcliff opened the door, she gave him several looks, as if she could not make up her mind what to think of him; but he smiled at her, and softened his voice; and I was foolish enough to imagine the memory of her mother might disarm him.
Linton stood on the hearth. He had been out walking in the fields, and was calling to Joseph to bring him dry shoes. He had grown tall for his age, still wanting some months of sixteen. His features were pretty, and his eye and complexion brighter than I remembered, though their brightness was borrowed from the sun.
‘Now, who is that?’ asked Mr. Heathcliff, turning to Cathy. ‘Can you tell?’
‘Your son?’ she said doubtfully.
‘Yes, yes,’ answered he: ‘but is this the only time you have seen him? Ah! you have a short memory. Linton, don’t you recall your cousin, that you used to wish to see?’
‘What, Linton!’ cried Cathy in joyful surprise. ‘Is that little Linton? He’s taller than I am!’
The youth stepped forward; she kissed him fervently, and they gazed with wonder at each other. Catherine’s figure was as elastic as steel, and she was sparkling with health and spirits. Linton was very slight and languid, but had a graceful manner.
After their greeting, Cathy went to Mr. Heathcliff, who lingered by the door, pretending not to watch them.
‘So you are my uncle!’ she cried, reaching up to kiss him. ‘I thought I liked you, though you were cross at first. Why don’t you visit us with Linton?’
‘I visited once or twice too often before you were born,’ he answered. ‘There – damn it! If you have any kisses to spare, give them to Linton: they are thrown away on me.’
‘Naughty Ellen!’ exclaimed Catherine, flying to me next with her lavish caresses. ‘Wicked Ellen! to try to stop me entering. But I’ll take this walk every morning: may I, uncle? and sometimes bring papa. Won’t you be glad to see us?’
‘Of course,’ replied the uncle, suppressing a grimace. ‘But wait,’ he continued, ‘now I think of it, Mr. Linton has a prejudice against me: we quarrelled at one time, and, if you mention coming here to him, he’ll forbid your visits. Therefore, you must not mention it.’
‘Why did you quarrel?’ asked Catherine, crestfallen.
‘He thought me too poor to wed his sister,’ answered Heathcliff, ‘and was grieved that I got her: his pride was hurt, and he’ll never forgive it.’
‘That’s wrong!’ said the young lady: ‘some time I’ll tell him so. But Linton and I have no share in your quarrel. He shall come to the Grange.’
‘It will be too far for me,’ murmured her cousin: ‘to walk four miles would kill me. No, come here, Miss Catherine, now and then: not every morning, but once or twice a week.’
The father gave his son a glance of bitter contempt.
‘I am afraid, Nelly, I shall lose my labour,’ he muttered to me. ‘Miss Catherine will discover his value, and send him to the devil. Now, if it had been Hareton! – Do you know that, twenty times a day, I covet Hareton, with all his degradation? I’d have loved the lad if he had been someone else. I think he’s safe from her love, but I’ll pit him against that paltry creature, if it doesn’t bestir itself. We calculate it will scarcely last till it’s eighteen. Oh, confound the vapid thing! He’s drying his feet, and never looks at her. Linton!’
‘Yes, father,’ answered the boy.
‘Have you nothing to show your cousin anywhere, not even a rabbit? Take her into the garden, before you change your shoes; and into the stable to see your horse.’
‘Wouldn’t you rather sit here?’ asked Linton, addressing Cathy.
‘I don’t know,’ she replied, casting a longing look towards the door, and eager to be active.
He shrank closer to the fire. Heathcliff rose, and went into the yard, calling out for Hareton. Presently the two re-entered. Hareton had been washing himself, as was visible by the glow on his cheeks and his wetted hair.
‘Oh, uncle,’ cried Miss Cathy. ‘That is not my cousin, is he?’
‘Yes,’ Heathcliff replied, ‘your mother’s nephew. Don’t you like him? Is he not a handsome lad?’
The uncivil little thing stood on tiptoe, and whispered in Heathcliff’s ear. He laughed; Hareton darkened: I saw that he was very sensitive to slights, and had a dim notion of his inferiority. But his master exclaimed:
‘You’ll be the favourite, Hareton! She says you are a – something very flattering. Go with her round the farm. And behave like a gentleman, mind! Don’t use any bad words; and don’t stare, speak slowly, and keep your hands out of your pockets. Be off, and entertain her as nicely as you can.’
He watched the couple walking past the window. Earnshaw had his face averted from his companion. Catherine took a sly glance at him, and then looked around her, singing to supply the lack of conversation.
‘I’ve tied his tongue,’ observed Heathcliff. ‘He’ll not say a single word now! Nelly, when I was his age, did I ever look so stupid and “gaumless?”’
‘Worse,’ I replied, ‘because more sullen.’
‘I’ve a pleasure in him,’ he continued. ‘He has satisfied my expectations. If he were a born fool I should not enjoy it half so much. But he’s no fool; and I can sympathise with all his feelings, having felt them myself. I know what he suffers now; it is merely a beginning of what he shall suffer, though. He’ll never be able to emerge from his coarseness and ignorance. He even takes a pride in his brutishness. Don’t you think Hindley would be proud of his son, if he could see him? almost as proud as I am of mine. But one is gold put to the use of paving-stones, and the other is tin polished to ape silver. Mine has nothing valuable about it; yet I shall make it go as far as such poor stuff can. His had first-rate qualities, and they are lost.
‘And the best of it is, Hareton is damnably fond of me! I’ve outmatched Hindley there. If the villain could rise from his grave to abuse me, I should have the fun of seeing his son fight him back again, indignant that he should dare to rail at the one friend he has in the world!’
Heathcliff chuckled a fiendish laugh. I made no reply. Meantime, young Linton, who sat too far from us to hear what was said, began to show uneasiness, and glanced restlessly towards the window.
‘Get up, you idle boy!’ Heathcliff exclaimed, with assumed heartiness. ‘Away after them!’
Linton gathered his energies, and left the hearth. The window was open, and, as he stepped out, I heard Cathy inquiring what was that inscription over the door? Hareton stared up, and scratched his head like a true clown.
‘It’s some damnable writing,’ he answered. ‘I cannot read it.’
‘Can’t read it?’ cried Catherine.
Linton giggled. ‘He does not know his letters,’ he said to her. ‘Could you believe in the existence of such a colossal dunce?’
‘Is he all as he should be?’ asked Miss Cathy, seriously; ‘or is he simple? I’ve questioned him twice now, and he looked so stupid I think he does not understand me.’
Linton laughed again, and glanced tauntingly at Hareton; who certainly did not seem to understand him just then.
‘There’s nothing the matter but laziness; is there, Earnshaw?’ he said. ‘My cousin fancies you are an idiot. That is the consequence of scorning “book-larning,” as you would say. Have you noticed, Catherine, his frightful Yorkshire pronunciation?’
‘Why, where the devil is the use on’t?’ growled Hareton. The two youngsters broke into a noisy fit of merriment.
‘Where is the use of the devil in that sentence?’ tittered Linton. ‘Papa told you not to say any bad words, and you can’t open your mouth without one. Do try to behave like a gentleman, now do!’
‘If thou weren’t more a lass than a lad, I’d fell thee this minute, I would!’ retorted the angry youth, retreating in rage and mortification.
Mr. Heathcliff, having overheard, smiled when he saw him go; but cast a look of aversion on the flippant pair, who remained chattering in the doorway. Linton was lively enough in discussing Hareton’s faults, while Cathy relished his spiteful sayings, without considering their ill-nature. I began to dislike Linton, and to excuse his father for holding him cheap.
We stayed till afternoon: I could not tear Miss Cathy away sooner. As we walked home, I tried to enlighten her about the characters of the people we had left: but she decided that I was prejudiced against them.
‘Aha!’ she cried, ‘you take papa’s side, Ellen: or else you wouldn’t have told me that Linton lived far away. I’m extremely angry; only I’m so pleased I can’t show it! I’ll scold papa for quarrelling with my uncle.’
And so she chattered on, till I gave up. She did not mention the visit to her father that night, because she did not see him. Next day it all came out, and I was not sorry: I thought he could warn her better than me. But he was too timid in saying why she should shun Wuthering Heights.
‘Papa!’ exclaimed Cathy, ‘guess whom I saw yesterday, on the moors? Ah, papa, you’ve not done right, have you? But I have found you out; and Ellen, who is in league with you!’
She gave a faithful account of her excursion; and my master, though he looked at me reproachfully, said nothing till she finished. Then he asked if she knew why he had concealed Linton’s nearness from her?
‘Because you disliked Mr. Heathcliff,’ she answered.
‘No, it was not because I disliked Mr. Heathcliff,’ he said, ‘but because Mr. Heathcliff dislikes me. He is a diabolical man, delighting to wrong and ruin those he hates, if they give him the slightest opportunity. I knew that you could not meet your cousin without being brought into contact with him; and I knew he would detest you on my account; so for your own good, I took care that you should not see Linton again. I meant to explain this as you grew older.’
‘But Mr. Heathcliff was quite cordial, papa,’ observed Catherine, not at all convinced; ‘and he didn’t object to our seeing each other. He said I might come to his house when I pleased; only I must not tell you, because you would not forgive him for marrying aunt Isabella. You are the one to be blamed: he is willing to let us be friends.’
My master, seeing that she would not take his word for it, gave a hasty sketch of Heathcliff’s conduct to Isabella, and the manner in which Wuthering Heights became his property. He felt that, but for Heathcliff, his wife might yet have been alive; in his eyes, Heathcliff seemed a murderer.
Miss Cathy – knowing of no bad deeds excep
t her own small acts of disobedience – was amazed at the blackness of spirit that could brood on revenge for years. She appeared so deeply impressed and shocked at this new view of human nature that Mr. Edgar did not pursue the subject. He merely added: ‘This is why I wish you to avoid his house and family; now think no more about them.’
Catherine kissed her father, and sat down quietly to her lessons, and the day passed as usual: but in the evening, when I went to help her undress, I found her crying.
‘Oh, fie, silly child!’ I exclaimed. ‘This is not a cause for grief.’
‘I’m not crying for myself, Ellen,’ she answered, ‘it’s for Linton. He expected to see me again tomorrow, and he’ll be so disappointed!’
‘Nonsense!’ said I, ‘do you imagine he has thought of you? Nobody would weep at losing a relation they had just seen twice. Linton will trouble himself no further about you.’
‘But may I not write a note to tell him why I cannot come?’ she asked. ‘And send those books I promised to lend him? May I not, Ellen?’
‘No, indeed!’ replied I with decision. ‘Then he would write to you, and there’d never be an end of it. No, Miss Catherine, the acquaintance must be dropped entirely: so papa expects. Get into bed.’
She threw me a very naughty look, so naughty that I would not kiss her good-night at first: I shut her door, in great displeasure; but, repenting half-way, I returned softly, and lo! there was Miss standing at the table with a bit of paper and a pencil in her hand, which she guiltily slipped out of sight.
‘You’ll get nobody to take that, Catherine,’ I said, ‘if you write it; and now I shall put out your candle.’
I extinguished the flame, receiving a slap on my hand and a petulant ‘cross thing!’ The letter was finished and taken to its destination by a milk-fetcher from the village; but that I didn’t learn till some time afterwards.
Weeks passed, and Cathy recovered her temper; though she grew wondrous fond of stealing off to corners by herself. If I came near her while she was reading, she would bend over the book to hide it; and I detected edges of loose paper sticking out beyond the leaves.
She also started coming down early in the morning and lingering about the kitchen, as if she were expecting the arrival of something; and she had a small drawer in a cabinet in the library, whose key she took special care to remove when she left it.
One day, as she inspected this drawer, I observed that it contained bits of folded paper. My suspicions were roused; I determined to take a peep at them. Among my house keys, I found one that would fit the lock. Having opened it at night, I emptied the contents into my apron, and took them with me to examine at leisure.
They were letters from Linton; answers to letters sent by her. The earlier replies were embarrassed and short; gradually, however, they expanded into love-letters, foolish, naturally, yet with touches here and there which I thought were borrowed from a more experienced source. Some of them struck me as odd compounds of ardour and flatness; beginning in strong feeling, and ending in the affected, wordy style that a schoolboy might use to an imaginary sweetheart.
Whether they satisfied Cathy I don’t know; but they appeared very worthless trash to me. I tied them in a handkerchief and set them aside, relocking the empty drawer.
My young lady descended early, and visited the kitchen: I watched her go to the door, on the arrival of the milk-boy; and, while the dairymaid filled his milk-can, she tucked something into his jacket pocket, and plucked something out.
I went round by the garden, and laid wait for the milk-boy. Taking the letter from him, and telling him to go home sharp, I read Miss Cathy’s affectionate composition.
It was very pretty and very silly. I shook my head, and went into the house. After her morning studies, Cathy went to the drawer. Her father sat reading; and I was mending a curtain, but with my eye fixed on her. Never did any bird flying back to a plundered nest express more complete despair than she by her single ‘Oh!’ and her changed expression. Mr. Linton looked up.
‘What is the matter, love? Have you hurt yourself?’ he said.
His tone and look told her that he had not discovered the hoard.
‘No, papa!’ she gasped. ‘Ellen! come upstairs – I’m sick!’
I accompanied her out.
‘Oh, Ellen! you have got them,’ she began immediately when we were alone. ‘Oh, give them to me, and I’ll never, never do it again! Don’t tell papa. I’ve been exceedingly naughty, but I won’t do it any more!’
‘So,’ I exclaimed gravely, ‘Miss Catherine, you may well be ashamed! Fine trash you study in your leisure hours, to be sure! And what do you suppose the master will think? I haven’t shown it to him yet, but I will. For shame! You must have started it: Linton would not have thought of it, I’m certain.’
‘I didn’t!’ sobbed Cathy. ‘I didn’t once think of loving him till—’
‘Loving!’ cried I scornfully. ‘Loving! Did anybody ever hear the like! I might as well talk of loving the miller who comes once a year to buy our corn. You have seen Linton hardly four hours in your life! I’m taking this to your father.’
She sprang at her precious letters, but I held them above my head. She entreated me to burn them – anything rather than show them. At length I relented a little.
‘If I burn them,’ I said, ‘will you promise faithfully neither to send nor receive a letter again, nor a book, nor locks of hair, nor playthings?’
‘We don’t send playthings,’ cried Catherine, her pride overcoming her shame.
‘Nor anything at all, then, my lady?’ I said. ‘Unless you promise, here I go.’
‘I promise, Ellen!’ she cried, catching my dress. ‘Oh, put them in the fire, do, do!’
But when I went to the fire the sacrifice was too painful to be borne. She begged that I would spare her one or two to keep.
I unknotted the handkerchief, and dropped some in. The flame curled up the chimney.
‘I will have one, you cruel wretch!’ she screamed, darting her hand into the fire, and drawing forth some half-burnt fragments, at the expense of her fingers.
‘Very well – and I will have some to exhibit to papa!’ I answered, turning to the door.
She emptied her blackened pieces into the flames, and motioned me to finish the task. It was done; I stirred the ashes, and she mutely retired to her room. I went to tell my master that the young lady’s sickness was almost gone, but that I judged it best for her to lie down a while. She reappeared at tea, pale, and red about the eyes, and marvellously subdued.
Next morning I answered the letter by a slip of paper, inscribed, ‘Master Heathcliff is requested to send no more notes to Miss Linton, as she will not receive them.’ And, henceforth, the little boy came with vacant pockets.
Emily Bronte's Wuthering Heights: Abridged Page 22