The father launched towards his son a glance of bitter contempt.
“I am afraid, Nelly, I shall lose my labour,” he muttered to me. “Miss Catherine,as the ninny calls her, 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 had he been some one else. But I think he’s safe from _her_ love.I’ll pit him against that paltry creature, unless it bestir itself briskly.We calculate it will scarcely last till it is eighteen. Oh, confound the vapid thing!He’s absorbed in drying his feet, and never looks at her.—Linton!”
“Yes, father,” answered the boy.
“Have you nothing to show your cousin anywhere about, not even a rabbit or a weasel’s nest?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 in a tone which expressed reluctance to move again.
“I don’t know,” she replied, casting a longing look to the door, and evidently eager to be active.
He kept his seat, and shrank closer to the fire. Heathcliff rose, and went into the kitchen,and from thence to the yard, calling out for Hareton. Hareton responded,and presently the two re-entered. The young man had been washing himself,as was visible by the glow on his cheeks and his wetted hair.
“Oh, I’ll ask _you_, uncle,” cried Miss Cathy, recollecting the housekeeper’s assertion. “That is not my cousin, is he?”
“Yes,” he replied, “your mother’s nephew. Don’t you like him?”
Catherine looked queer.
“Is he not a handsome lad?” he continued.
The uncivil little thing stood on tiptoe, and whispered a sentence in Heathcliff’s ear. He laughed;Hareton darkened: I perceived he was very sensitive to suspected slights,and had obviously a dim notion of his inferiority.But his master or guardian chased the frown by exclaiming—
“You’ll be the favourite among us, Hareton!She says you are a—What was it?Well, something very flattering. Here!you go with her round the farm. And behave like a gentleman, mind!Don’t use any bad words; and don’t stare when the young lady is not looking at you,and be ready to hide your face when she is; and, when you speak, say your words 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 countenance completely averted from his companion.He seemed studying the familiar landscape with a stranger’s and an artist’s interest.Catherine took a sly look at him, expressing small admiration.She then turned her attention to seeking out objects of amusement for herself,and tripped merrily on, lilting a tune to supply the lack of conversation.
“I’ve tied his tongue,” observed Heathcliff. “He’ll not venture a single syllable all the time!Nelly, you recollect me at his age—nay, some years younger. Did I ever look so stupid: so ‘gaumless, ’ as Joseph calls it?”
“Worse,” I replied, “because more sullen with it.”
“I’ve a pleasure in him,” he continued, reflecting aloud. “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,for instance, exactly: it is merely a beginning of what he shall suffer, though.And he’ll never be able to emerge from his bathos of coarseness and ignorance.I’ve got him faster than his scoundrel of a father secured me, and lower;for he takes a pride in his brutishness.I’ve taught him to scorn everything extra-animal as silly and weak.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 there’s this difference;one is gold put to the use of paving-stones,and the other is tin polished to ape a service of silver. _Mine_ has nothing valuable about it;yet I shall have the merit of making it go as far as such poor stuff can go._His_ had first-rate qualities, and they are lost: rendered worse than unavailing._I_ have nothing to regret; _he_ would have more than any, but I, are aware of.And the best of it is, Hareton is damnably fond of me!You’ll own that I’ve outmatched Hindley there.If the dead villain could rise from his grave to abuse me for his offspring’s wrongs,I should have the fun of seeing the said offspring 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 at the idea. I made no reply,because I saw that he expected none. Meantime, our young companion,who sat too removed from us to hear what was said, began to evince symptoms of uneasiness,probably repenting that he had denied himself the treat of Catherine’s society for fear of a little fatigue.His father remarked the restless glances wandering to the window,and the hand irresolutely extended towards his cap.
“Get up, you idle boy!” he exclaimed, with assumed heartiness. “Away after them!they are just at the corner, by the stand of hives.”
Linton gathered his energies, and left the hearth. The lattice was open, and, as he stepped out,I heard Cathy inquiring of her unsociable attendant 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; “I can read it: it’s English. But I want to know why it is there.”
Linton giggled: the first appearance of mirth he had exhibited.
“He does not know his letters,” he said to his cousin.“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: not right?I’ve questioned him twice now, and each time he looked so stupid I think he does not understand me.I can hardly understand _him_, I’m sure!”
Linton repeated his laugh, and glanced at Hareton tauntingly;who certainly did not seem quite clear of comprehension at that moment.
“There’s nothing the matter but laziness; is there, Earnshaw?” he said. “My cousin fancies you are an idiot.There you experience 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, more ready in answering his daily companion. He was about to enlarge further,but the two youngsters broke into a noisy fit of merriment:my giddy miss being delighted to discover that she might turn his strange talk to matter of amusement.
“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; pitiful lath of a crater!” retorted the angry boor, retreating, while his face burnt with mingled rage and mortification;for he was conscious of being insulted, and embarrassed how to resent it.
Mr. Heathcliff having overheard the conversation, as well as I, smiled when he saw him go;but immediately afterwards cast a look of singular aversion on the flippant pair,who remained chattering in the doorway:the boy finding animation enough while discussing Hareton’s faults and deficiencies,and relating anecdotes of his goings on; and the girl relishing his pert and spiteful sayings,without considering the ill-nature they evinced. I began to dislike,more than to compassionate Linton, and to excuse his father in some measure for holding him cheap.
We stayed till afternoon: I could not tear Miss Cathy away sooner;but happily my master had not quitted his apartment,and remained ignorant of our prolonged absence. As we walked home,I would fain have enlightened my charge on the characters of the people we had quitted:but she got it into her head that I was prejudiced against them.
“Aha!” she cried, “you take papa’s side, Ellen: you are partial I know;or else you wouldn’t have cheated me so many years into the notion that Linton lived a long way from here.I’m really extremely angry; only I’m so pleased I can’t show it!But you must hold your tongue about my uncle; he’s _my_ uncle, remember;and I’ll scold papa for quarrelling with him.”
And so she ran on, till I relinquished the endeavour to convince her of her mistake.She did not mention the visit that night, because she did not see Mr. Linton.Next day it all came out, sadly to my chagrin; and still I was not altogether sorry:I thought the burden of directing and warning would be more efficiently borne by him than me.But he was too timid in giving satisfactory reasons for his wish that she should shun connection with the household of the Heights,and Catherine liked good reasons for every restraint that harassed her petted will.
“Papa!” she exclaimed, after the morning’s salutations, “guess whom I saw yesterday,in my walk on the moors. Ah, papa, you started!you’ve not done right, have you, now?I saw—but listen, and you shall hear how I found you out; and Ellen, who is in league with you,and yet pretended to pity me so, when I kept hoping,and was always disappointed about Linton’s coming back!”
She gave a faithful account of her excursion and its consequences; and my master,though he cast more than one reproachful look at me, said nothing till she had concluded.Then he drew her to him, and asked if she knew why he had concealed Linton’s near neighbourhood from her?Could she think it was to deny her a pleasure that she might harmlessly enjoy?
“It was because you disliked Mr. Heathcliff,” she answered.
“Then you believe I care more for my own feelings than yours, Cathy?” he said. “No, it was not because I disliked Mr. Heathcliff, but because Mr.Heathcliff dislikes me; and is a most diabolical man, delighting to wrong and ruin those he hates,if they give him the slightest opportunity.I knew that you could not keep up an acquaintance with your cousin without being brought into contact with him;and I knew he would detest you on my account; so for your own good, and nothing else,I took precautions that you should not see Linton again.I meant to explain this some time as you grew older, and I’m sorry I delayed it.”
“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 had quarrelled with him,and would not forgive him for marrying aunt Isabella. And you won’t._You_ are the one to be blamed: he is willing to let _us_ be friends, at least; Linton and I; and you are not.”
My master, perceiving that she would not take his word for her uncle-in-law’s evil disposition,gave a hasty sketch of his conduct to Isabella,and the manner in which Wuthering Heights became his property.He could not bear to discourse long upon the topic; for though he spoke little of it,he still felt the same horror and detestation of his ancient enemy that had occupied his heart ever since Mrs.Linton’s death. “She might have been living yet, if it had not been for him!” was his constant bitter reflection; and, in his eyes, Heathcliff seemed a murderer.Miss Cathy—conversant with no bad deeds except her own slight acts of disobedience, injustice,and passion, arising from hot temper and thoughtlessness,and repented of on the day they were committed—was amazed at the blackness of spirit that could brood on and cover revenge for years,and deliberately prosecute its plans without a visitation of remorse.She appeared so deeply impressed and shocked at this new view of human nature—excluded from all her studies and all her ideas till now—that Mr.Edgar deemed it unnecessary to pursue the subject. He merely added: “You will know hereafter,darling, why I wish you to avoid his house and family;now return to your old employments and amusements, and think no more about them.”
Catherine kissed her father, and sat down quietly to her lessons for a couple of hours,according to custom; then she accompanied him into the grounds, and the whole day passed as usual:but in the evening, when she had retired to her room, and I went to help her to undress,I found her crying, on her knees by the bedside.
“Oh, fie, silly child!” I exclaimed. “If you had any real griefs you’d be ashamed to waste a tear on this little contrariety.You never had one shadow of substantial sorrow, Miss Catherine. Suppose, for a minute,that master and I were dead, and you were by yourself in the world: how would you feel, then?Compare the present occasion with such an affliction as that,and be thankful for the friends you have, instead of coveting more.”
“I’m not crying for myself, Ellen,” she answered, “it’s for him.He expected to see me again to-morrow, and there he’ll be so disappointed: and he’ll wait for me, and I sha’n’t come!”
“Nonsense!” said I, “do you imagine he has thought as much of you as you have of him?Hasn’t he Hareton for a companion?Not one in a hundred would weep at losing a relation they had just seen twice, for two afternoons.Linton will conjecture how it is, and trouble himself no further about you.”
“But may I not write a note to tell him why I cannot come?” she asked, rising to her feet. “And just send those books I promised to lend him?His books are not as nice as mine, and he wanted to have them extremely,when I told him how interesting they were. May I not, Ellen?”
“No, indeed!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, and I shall see that it is done.”
“But how can one little note—?” she recommenced, putting on an imploring countenance.
“Silence!” I interrupted. “We’ll not begin with your little notes. Get into bed.”
She threw at me a very naughty look, so naughty that I would not kiss her good-night at first:I covered her up, and 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 blank paper before her and a pencil in her hand,which she guiltily slipped out of sight on my entrance.
“You’ll get nobody to take that, Catherine,” I said, “if you write it;and at present I shall put out your candle.”
I set the extinguisher on the flame, receiving as I did so a slap on my hand and a petulant “cross thing!” I then quitted her again, and she drew the bolt in one of her worst, most peevish humours.The letter was finished and forwarded to its destination by a milk-fetcher who came from the village;but that I didn’t learn till some time afterwards. Weeks passed on, and Cathy recovered her temper;though she grew wondrous fond of stealing off to corners by herself; and often,if I came near her suddenly while reading, she would start and bend over the book,evidently desirous to hide it; and I detected edges of loose paper sticking out beyond the leaves.She also got a trick of 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, which she would trifle over for hours,and whose key she took special care to remove when she left it.
One day, as she inspected this drawer, I observed that the playthings and trinkets which recently formed its contents were transmuted into bits of folded paper.My curiosity and suspicions were roused; I determined to take a peep at her mysterious treasures;so, at night, as soon as she and my master were safe upstairs, I searched,and readily found among my house keys one that would fit the lock. Having opened,I emptied the whole contents into my apron,and took them with me to examine at leisure in my own chamber. Though I could not but suspect,I was still surprised to discover that they were a mass of correspondence—daily almost,it must have been—from Linton Heathcliff: answers to documents forwarded by her.The earlier dated were embarrassed and short; gradually, however,they expanded into copious love-letters, foolish, as the age of the writer rendered natural,yet with touches here and there which I thought were borrowed from a more experienced source.Some of them struck me as singularly odd compounds of ardour and flatness;commencing in strong feeling, and concluding in the affected,wordy style that a schoolboy might use to a fancied, incorporeal sweetheart.Whether they satisfied Cathy I don’t know; but they appeared very worthless trash to me.After turning over as many as I thought proper, I tied them in a handkerchief and set them aside, relocking the vacant drawer.
Following her habit, my young lady descended early, and visited the kitchen:I watched her go to the door, on the arrival of a certain little boy; and,while the dairymaid filled his can, she tucked something into his jacket pocket,and plucked something out. I went round by the garden, and laid wait for the messenger;who fought valorously to defend his trust, and we spilt the milk between us;but I succeeded in abstracting the epistle; and,threatening serious consequences if he did not look sharp home,I remained under the wall and perused Miss Cathy’s affectionate composition.It was more simple and more eloquent than her cousin’s: very pretty and very silly.I shook my head, and went meditating into the house. The day being wet,she could not divert herself with rambling about the park; so,at the conclusion of her morning studies, she resorted to the solace of the drawer.Her father sat reading at the table; and I, on purpose,had sought a bit of work in some unripped fringes of the window-curtain,keeping my eye steadily fixed on her proceedings.Never did any bird flying back to a plundered nest,which it had left brimful of chirping young ones, express more complete despair,in its anguished cries and flutterings, than she by her single “Oh!” and the change that transfigured her late happy countenance. Mr. Linton looked up.
“What is the matter, love?Have you hurt yourself?” he said.
His tone and look assured her _he_ had not been the discoverer of the hoard.
“No, papa!” she gasped. “Ellen!Ellen!come upstairs—I’m sick!”
I obeyed her summons, and accompanied her out.
“Oh, Ellen!you have got them,” she commenced immediately, dropping on her knees, when we were enclosed alone.“Oh, give them to me, and I’ll never, never do so again!Don’t tell papa. You have not told papa, Ellen?say you have not?I’ve been exceedingly naughty, but I won’t do it any more!”
With a grave severity in my manner I bade her stand up.
“So,” I exclaimed, “Miss Catherine, you are tolerably far on, it seems: you may well be ashamed of them!A fine bundle of trash you study in your leisure hours, to be sure: why, it’s good enough to be printed!And what do you suppose the master will think when I display it before him?I hav’n’t shown it yet, but you needn’t imagine I shall keep your ridiculous secrets. For shame!and you must have led the way in writing such absurdities: he would not have thought of beginning, I’m certain.”
“I didn’t!I didn’t!” sobbed Cathy, fit to break her heart. “I didn’t once think of loving him till—”
“_Loving_!” cried I, as scornfully as I could utter the word. “_Loving_!Did anybody ever hear the like!I might just as well talk of loving the miller who comes once a year to buy our corn. Pretty loving, indeed!and both times together you have seen Linton hardly four hours in your life!Now here is the babyish trash. I’m going with it to the library;and we’ll see what your father says to such _loving_.”
She sprang at her precious epistles, but I held them above my head;and then she poured out further frantic entreaties that I would burn them—do anything rather than show them.And being really fully as much inclined to laugh as scold—for I esteemed it all girlish vanity—I at length relented in a measure,and asked,—“If I consent to burn them, will you promise faithfully neither to send nor receive a letter again,nor a book (for I perceive you have sent him books), nor locks of hair, nor rings, 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 will, here I go.”
“I promise, Ellen!” she cried, catching my dress. “Oh, put them in the fire, do, do!”
But when I proceeded to open a place with the poker the sacrifice was too painful to be borne.She earnestly supplicated that I would spare her one or two.
“One or two, Ellen, to keep for Linton’s sake!”
I unknotted the handkerchief, and commenced dropping them in from an angle, and 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-consumed fragments, at the expense of her fingers.
“Very well—and I will have some to exhibit to papa!” I answered, shaking back the rest into the bundle, and turning anew to the door.
She emptied her blackened pieces into the flames, and motioned me to finish the immolation.It was done; I stirred up the ashes, and interred them under a shovelful of coals; and she mutely,and with a sense of intense injury, retired to her private apartment.I descended to tell my master that the young lady’s qualm of sickness was almost gone,but I judged it best for her to lie down a while. She wouldn’t dine; but she reappeared at tea,pale, and red about the eyes, and marvellously subdued in outward aspect.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, thenceforth, the little boy came with vacant pockets.
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 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 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 rosebushes and blackberry 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.”