“Is your father attentive to you, Master Heathcliff?” I asked, perceiving Catherine to be checked in her friendly advances.
“Attentive?He makes _them_ a little more attentive at least,” he cried. “The wretches!Do you know, Miss Linton,that brute Hareton laughs at me!I hate him!indeed, I hate them all: they are odious beings.”
Cathy began searching for some water;she lighted on a pitcher in the dresser,filled a tumbler, and brought it.He bid her add a spoonful of wine from a bottle on the table;and having swallowed a small portion,appeared more tranquil, and said she was very kind.
“And are you glad to see me?” asked she, reiterating her former question,and pleased to detect the faint dawn of a smile.
“Yes, I am. It’s something new to hear a voice like yours!” he replied. “But I have been vexed,because you wouldn’t come.And papa swore it was owing to me:he called me a pitiful, shuffling, worthless thing;and said you despised me;and if he had been in my place,he would be more the master of the Grange than your father by this time.But you don’t despise me, do you, Miss—?”
“I wish you would say Catherine, or Cathy,” interrupted my young lady. “Despise you?No!Next to papa and Ellen,I love you better than anybody living. I don’t love Mr.Heathcliff, though;and I dare not come when he returns:will he stay away many days?”
“Not many,” answered Linton;“but he goes on to the moors frequently,since the shooting season commenced;and you might spend an hour or two with me in his absence.Do say you will. I think I should not be peevish with you:you’d not provoke me,and you’d always be ready to help me, wouldn’t you?”
“Yes,” said Catherine, stroking his long soft hair,“if I could only get papa’s consent,I’d spend half my time with you. Pretty Linton!I wish you were my brother.”
“And then you would like me as well as your father?” observed he, more cheerfully.“But papa says you would love me better than him and all the world,if you were my wife; so I’d rather you were that.”
“No, I should never love anybody better than papa,” she returned gravely. “And people hate their wives,sometimes; but not their sisters and brothers:and if you were the latter, you would live with us,and papa would be as fond of you as he is of me.”
Linton denied that people ever hated their wives;but Cathy affirmed they did, and, in her wisdom,instanced his own father’s aversion to her aunt.I endeavoured to stop her thoughtless tongue.I couldn’t succeed till everything she knew was out.Master Heathcliff, much irritated,asserted her relation was false.
“Papa told me; and papa does not tell falsehoods,” she answered pertly.
“_My_ papa scorns yours!” cried Linton. “He calls him a sneaking fool.”
“Yours is a wicked man,” retorted Catherine;“and you are very naughty to dare to repeat what he says.He must be wicked to have made Aunt Isabella leave him as she did. ”
“She didn’t leave him,” said the boy;“you sha’n’t contradict me.”
“She did,” cried my young lady.
“Well, I’ll tell _you_ something!” said Linton. “Your mother hated your father: now then. ”
“Oh!” exclaimed Catherine, too enraged to continue.
“And she loved mine,” added he.
“You little liar!I hate you now!” she panted, and her face grew red with passion.
“She did!she did!” sang Linton, sinking into the recess of his chair,and leaning back his head to enjoy the agitation of the other disputant, who stood behind.
“Hush, Master Heathcliff!” I said; “that’s your father’s tale, too, I suppose.”
“It isn’t: you hold your tongue!” he answered. “She did, she did, Catherine!she did, she did!”
Cathy, beside herself, gave the chair a violent push,and caused him to fall against one arm.He was immediately seized by a suffocating cough that soon ended his triumph.It lasted so long that it frightened even me.As to his cousin, she wept with all her might,aghast at the mischief she had done:though she said nothing.I held him till the fit exhausted itself.Then he thrust me away,and leant his head down silently.Catherine quelled her lamentations also,took a seat opposite,and looked solemnly into the fire.
“How do you feel now, Master Heathcliff?” I inquired, after waiting ten minutes.
“I wish _she_ felt as I do,” he replied: “spiteful, cruel thing!Hareton never touches me:he never struck me in his life.And I was better to-day:and there—” his voice died in a whimper.
“_I_ didn’t strike you!” muttered Cathy, chewing her lip to prevent another burst of emotion.
He sighed and moaned like one under great suffering,and kept it up for a quarter of an hour;on purpose to distress his cousin apparently,for whenever he caught a stifled sob from her he put renewed pain and pathos into the inflexions of his voice.
“I’m sorry I hurt you, Linton,” she said at length,racked beyond endurance.“But _I_ couldn’t have been hurt by that little push,and I had no idea that you could, either:you’re not much, are you, Linton?Don’t let me go home thinking I’ve done you harm. Answer!speak to me.”
“I can’t speak to you,” he murmured;“you’ve hurt me so that I shall lie awake all night choking with this cough.If you had it you’d know what it was;but _you’ll_ be comfortably asleep while I’m in agony,and nobody near me.I wonder how you would like to pass those fearful nights!” And he began to wail aloud, for very pity of himself.
“Since you are in the habit of passing dreadful nights,” I said, “it won’t be Miss who spoils your ease:you’d be the same had she never come. However,she shall not disturb you again;and perhaps you’ll get quieter when we leave you.”
“Must I go?” asked Catherine dolefully, bending over him.“Do you want me to go, Linton?”
“You can’t alter what you’ve done,” he replied pettishly, shrinking from her,“unless you alter it for the worse by teasing me into a fever. ”
“Well, then, I must go?” she repeated.
“Let me alone, at least,” said he;“I can’t bear your talking.”
She lingered, and resisted my persuasions to departure a tiresome while;but as he neither looked up nor spoke,she finally made a movement to the door,and I followed. We were recalled by a scream.Linton had slid from his seat on to the hearthstone,and lay writhing in the mere perverseness of an indulged plague of a child,determined to be as grievous and harassing as it can.I thoroughly gauged his disposition from his behaviour,and saw at once it would be folly to attempt humouring him.Not so my companion: she ran back in terror,knelt down, and cried, and soothed, and entreated,till he grew quiet from lack of breath:by no means from compunction at distressing her.
“I shall lift him on to the settle,” I said,“and he may roll about as he pleases:we can’t stop to watch him. I hope you are satisfied,Miss Cathy, that _you_ are not the person to benefit him;and that his condition of health is not occasioned by attachment to you.Now, then, there he is!Come away: as soon as he knows there is nobody by to care for his nonsense,he’ll be glad to lie still.”
She placed a cushion under his head,and offered him some water; he rejected the latter,and tossed uneasily on the former,as if it were a stone or a block of wood.She tried to put it more comfortably.
“I can’t do with that,” he said; “it’s not high enough.”
Catherine brought another to lay above it.
“That’s _too_ high,” murmured the provoking thing.
“How must I arrange it, then?” she asked despairingly.
He twined himself up to her,as she half knelt by the settle,and converted her shoulder into a support.
“No, that won’t do,” I said.“You’ll be content with the cushion, Master Heathcliff.Miss has wasted too much time on you already:we cannot remain five minutes longer.”