“On the morrow I was sad; partly because you were poorly, and partly that I wished my father knew,and approved of my excursions: but it was beautiful moonlight after tea; and, as I rode on,the gloom cleared. I shall have another happy evening, I thought to myself;and what delights me more, my pretty Linton will. I trotted up their garden,and was turning round to the back, when that fellow Earnshaw met me, took my bridle,and bid me go in by the front entrance. He patted Minny’s neck, and said she was a bonny beast,and appeared as if he wanted me to speak to him. I only told him to leave my horse alone,or else it would kick him. He answered in his vulgar accent, ‘It wouldn’t do mitch hurt if it did;’ and surveyed its legs with a smile. I was half inclined to make it try; however,he moved off to open the door, and, as he raised the latch, he looked up to the inscription above,and said, with a stupid mixture of awkwardness and elation: ‘Miss Catherine!I can read yon, now.’
“‘Wonderful,’ I exclaimed. ‘Pray let us hear you—you _are_ grown clever!’
“He spelt, and drawled over by syllables, the name—‘Hareton Earnshaw.’
“‘And the figures?’ I cried, encouragingly, perceiving that he came to a dead halt.
“‘I cannot tell them yet,’ he answered.
“‘Oh, you dunce!’ I said, laughing heartily at his failure.
“The fool stared, with a grin hovering about his lips, and a scowl gathering over his eyes,as if uncertain whether he might not join in my mirth: whether it were not pleasant familiarity,or what it really was, contempt. I settled his doubts,by suddenly retrieving my gravity and desiring him to walk away, for I came to see Linton, not him.He reddened—I saw that by the moonlight—dropped his hand from the latch, and skulked off,a picture of mortified vanity. He imagined himself to be as accomplished as Linton, I suppose,because he could spell his own name; and was marvellously discomfited that I didn’t think the same. ”
“Stop, Miss Catherine, dear!” I interrupted. “I shall not scold, but I don’t like your conduct there.If you had remembered that Hareton was your cousin as much as Master Heathcliff,you would have felt how improper it was to behave in that way. At least,it was praiseworthy ambition for him to desire to be as accomplished as Linton;and probably he did not learn merely to show off: you had made him ashamed of his ignorance before,I have no doubt; and he wished to remedy it and please you.To sneer at his imperfect attempt was very bad breeding.Had _you_ been brought up in his circumstances, would you be less rude?He was as quick and as intelligent a child as ever you were;and I’m hurt that he should be despised now,because that base Heathcliff has treated him so unjustly.”
“Well, Ellen, you won’t cry about it, will you?” she exclaimed, surprised at my earnestness. “But wait,and you shall hear if he conned his A B C to please me;and if it were worth while being civil to the brute. I entered; Linton was lying on the settle, and half got up to welcome me.
“‘I’m ill to-night, Catherine, love,’ he said; ‘and you must have all the talk, and let me listen.Come, and sit by me. I was sure you wouldn’t break your word, and I’ll make you promise again, before you go.’
“I knew now that I mustn’t tease him, as he was ill; and I spoke softly and put no questions,and avoided irritating him in any way. I had brought some of my nicest books for him:he asked me to read a little of one, and I was about to comply, when Earnshaw burst the door open:having gathered venom with reflection. He advanced direct to us, seized Linton by the arm, and swung him off the seat.
“‘Get to thy own room!’ he said, in a voice almost inarticulate with passion; and his face looked swelled and furious.‘Take her there if she comes to see thee: thou shalln’t keep me out of this. Begone wi’ ye both!’
“He swore at us, and left Linton no time to answer, nearly throwing him into the kitchen;and he clenched his fist as I followed, seemingly longing to knock me down.I was afraid for a moment, and I let one volume fall; he kicked it after me, and shut us out.I heard a malignant, crackly laugh by the fire, and turning,beheld that odious Joseph standing rubbing his bony hands, and quivering.
“‘I wer sure he’d sarve ye out!He’s a grand lad!He’s getten t’ raight sperrit in him!_He_ knaws—ay, he knaws, as weel as I do, who sud be t’ maister yonder—Ech, ech, ech!He made ye skift properly!Ech, ech, ech!’
“‘Where must we go?’ I asked of my cousin, disregarding the old wretch’s mockery.
“Linton was white and trembling. He was not pretty then, Ellen: oh, no!he looked frightful; for his thin face and large eyes were wrought into an expression of frantic,powerless fury. He grasped the handle of the door, and shook it: it was fastened inside.
“‘If you don’t let me in, I’ll kill you!—If you don’t let me in, I’ll kill you!’ he rather shrieked than said. ‘Devil!devil!—I’ll kill you—I’ll kill you!’
“Joseph uttered his croaking laugh again.
“‘Thear, that’s t’ father!’ he cried. ‘That’s father!We’ve allas summut o’ either side in us. Niver heed, Hareton,lad—dunnut be’feard—he cannot get at thee!’
“I took hold of Linton’s hands, and tried to pull him away;but he shrieked so shockingly that I dared not proceed.At last his cries were choked by a dreadful fit of coughing; blood gushed from his mouth,and he fell on the ground. I ran into the yard, sick with terror; and called for Zillah,as loud as I could. She soon heard me: she was milking the cows in a shed behind the barn,and hurrying from her work, she inquired what there was to do?I hadn’t breath to explain; dragging her in, I looked about for Linton.Earnshaw had come out to examine the mischief he had caused,and he was then conveying the poor thing upstairs. Zillah and I ascended after him;but he stopped me at the top of the steps, and said I shouldn’t go in: I must go home.I exclaimed that he had killed Linton, and I _would_ enter. Joseph locked the door,and declared I should do ‘no sich stuff,’ and asked me whether I were ‘bahn to be as mad as him.’ I stood crying till the housekeeper reappeared. She affirmed he would be better in a bit,but he couldn’t do with that shrieking and din; and she took me, and nearly carried me into the house.
“Ellen, I was ready to tear my hair off my head!I sobbed and wept so that my eyes were almost blind;and the ruffian you have such sympathy with stood opposite:presuming every now and then to bid me ‘wisht,’ and denying that it was his fault; and, finally,frightened by my assertions that I would tell papa, and that he should be put in prison and hanged,he commenced blubbering himself, and hurried out to hide his cowardly agitation. Still,I was not rid of him: when at length they compelled me to depart,and I had got some hundred yards off the premises,he suddenly issued from the shadow of the road-side, and checked Minny and took hold of me.
“‘Miss Catherine, I’m ill grieved,’ he began, ‘but it’s rayther too bad—’
“I gave him a cut with my whip, thinking perhaps he would murder me. He let go,thundering one of his horrid curses, and I galloped home more than half out of my senses.
“I didn’t bid you good-night that evening, and I didn’t go to Wuthering Heights the next:I wished to go exceedingly; but I was strangely excited, and dreaded to hear that Linton was dead,sometimes; and sometimes shuddered at the thought of encountering Hareton.On the third day I took courage: at least, I couldn’t bear longer suspense,and stole off once more. I went at five o’clock, and walked;fancying I might manage to creep into the house, and up to Linton’s room, unobserved. However,the dogs gave notice of my approach. Zillah received me, and saying ‘the lad was mending nicely,’ showed me into a small, tidy, carpeted apartment, where, to my inexpressible joy,I beheld Linton laid on a little sofa, reading one of my books.But he would neither speak to me nor look at me, through a whole hour, Ellen:he has such an unhappy temper. And what quite confounded me, when he did open his mouth,it was to utter the falsehood that I had occasioned the uproar, and Hareton was not to blame!Unable to reply, except passionately, I got up and walked from the room. He sent after me a faint ‘Catherine!’ He did not reckon on being answered so: but I wouldn’t turn back;and the morrow was the second day on which I stayed at home,nearly determined to visit him no more. But it was so miserable going to bed and getting up,and never hearing anything about him, that my resolution melted into air before it was properly formed.It _had_ appeared wrong to take the journey once; now it seemed wrong to refrain.Michael came to ask if he must saddle Minny; I said ‘Yes,’ and considered myself doing a duty as she bore me over the hills.I was forced to pass the front windows to get to the court:it was no use trying to conceal my presence.
“‘Young master is in the house,’ said Zillah, as she saw me making for the parlour. I went in;Earnshaw was there also, but he quitted the room directly.Linton sat in the great arm-chair half asleep; walking up to the fire, I began in a serious tone, partly meaning it to be true—
“‘As you don’t like me, Linton, and as you think I come on purpose to hurt you,and pretend that I do so every time, this is our last meeting: let us say good-bye; and tell Mr.Heathcliff that you have no wish to see me,and that he mustn’t invent any more falsehoods on the subject.’
“‘Sit down and take your hat off, Catherine,’ he answered. ‘You are so much happier than I am,you ought to be better. Papa talks enough of my defects, and shows enough scorn of me,to make it natural I should doubt myself.I doubt whether I am not altogether as worthless as he calls me, frequently;and then I feel so cross and bitter, I hate everybody!I _am_ worthless, and bad in temper, and bad in spirit, almost always; and, if you choose,you _may_ say good-bye: you’ll get rid of an annoyance. Only, Catherine, do me this justice:believe that if I might be as sweet, and as kind, and as good as you are, I would be; as willingly,and more so, than as happy and as healthy.And believe that your kindness has made me love you deeper than if I deserved your love:and though I couldn’t, and cannot help showing my nature to you, I regret it and repent it;and shall regret and repent it till I die!’
“I felt he spoke the truth; and I felt I must forgive him: and,though we should quarrel the next moment, I must forgive him again. We were reconciled;but we cried, both of us, the whole time I stayed: not entirely for sorrow;yet I _was_ sorry Linton had that distorted nature. He’ll never let his friends be at ease, and he’ll never be at ease himself!I have always gone to his little parlour, since that night;because his father returned the day after.
“About three times, I think, we have been merry and hopeful, as we were the first evening;the rest of my visits were dreary and troubled: now with his selfishness and spite,and now with his sufferings: but I’ve learned to endure the former with nearly as little resentment as the latter.Mr. Heathcliff purposely avoids me: I have hardly seen him at all. Last Sunday, indeed,coming earlier than usual, I heard him abusing poor Linton cruelly for his conduct of the night before.I can’t tell how he knew of it, unless he listened. Linton had certainly behaved provokingly:however, it was the business of nobody but me, and I interrupted Mr.Heathcliff’s lecture by entering and telling him so. He burst into a laugh, and went away,saying he was glad I took that view of the matter. Since then,I’ve told Linton he must whisper his bitter things. Now, Ellen, you have heard all.I can’t be prevented from going to Wuthering Heights, except by inflicting misery on two people;whereas, if you’ll only not tell papa, my going need disturb the tranquillity of none. You’ll not tell, will you?It will be very heartless, if you do.”
“I’ll make up my mind on that point by to-morrow, Miss Catherine,” I replied.“It requires some study; and so I’ll leave you to your rest, and go think it over.”
I thought it over aloud, in my master’s presence; walking straight from her room to his,and relating the whole story: with the exception of her conversations with her cousin,and any mention of Hareton. Mr. Linton was alarmed and distressed,more than he would acknowledge to me. In the morning,Catherine learnt my betrayal of her confidence,and she learnt also that her secret visits were to end.In vain she wept and writhed against the interdict, and implored her father to have pity on Linton:all she got to comfort her was a promise that he would write and give him leave to come to the Grange when he pleased;but explaining that he must no longer expect to see Catherine at Wuthering Heights. Perhaps,had he been aware of his nephew’s disposition and state of health,he would have seen fit to withhold even that slight consolation.
CHAPTER XXV
“These things happened last winter, sir,” said Mrs. Dean; “hardly more than a year ago. Last winter,I did not think, at another twelve months’ end,I should be amusing a stranger to the family with relating them!Yet, who knows how long you’ll be a stranger?You’re too young to rest always contented, living by yourself;and I some way fancy no one could see Catherine Linton and not love her. You smile;but why do you look so lively and interested when I talk about her?and why have you asked me to hang her picture over your fireplace?and why—?”
“Stop, my good friend!” I cried. “It may be very possible that _I_ should love her; but would she love me?I doubt it too much to venture my tranquillity by running into temptation:and then my home is not here. I’m of the busy world, and to its arms I must return. Go on.Was Catherine obedient to her father’s commands?”
“She was,” continued the housekeeper. “Her affection for him was still the chief sentiment in her heart;and he spoke without anger: he spoke in the deep tenderness of one about to leave his treasure amid perils and foes,where his remembered words would be the only aid that he could bequeath to guide her.He said to me, a few days afterwards, ‘I wish my nephew would write, Ellen, or call. Tell me,sincerely, what you think of him: is he changed for the better,or is there a prospect of improvement, as he grows a man?’
“‘He’s very delicate, sir,’ I replied; ‘and scarcely likely to reach manhood: but this I can say,he does not resemble his father; and if Miss Catherine had the misfortune to marry him,he would not be beyond her control: unless she were extremely and foolishly indulgent. However,master, you’ll have plenty of time to get acquainted with him and see whether he would suit her:it wants four years and more to his being of age.’”
Edgar sighed; and, walking to the window, looked out towards Gimmerton Kirk.It was a misty afternoon, but the February sun shone dimly,and we could just distinguish the two fir-trees in the yard, and the sparely-scattered gravestones.
“I’ve prayed often,” he half soliloquised, “for the approach of what is coming;and now I begin to shrink, and fear it.I thought the memory of the hour I came down that glen a bridegroom would be less sweet than the anticipation that I was soon,in a few months, or, possibly, weeks, to be carried up, and laid in its lonely hollow!Ellen, I’ve been very happy with my little Cathy:through winter nights and summer days she was a living hope at my side.But I’ve been as happy musing by myself among those stones, under that old church: lying,through the long June evenings, on the green mound of her mother’s grave,and wishing—yearning for the time when I might lie beneath it. What can I do for Cathy?How must I quit her?I’d not care one moment for Linton being Heathcliff’s son; nor for his taking her from me,if he could console her for my loss. I’d not care that Heathcliff gained his ends,and triumphed in robbing me of my last blessing!But should Linton be unworthy—only a feeble tool to his father—I cannot abandon her to him!And, hard though it be to crush her buoyant spirit, I must persevere in making her sad while I live,and leaving her solitary when I die. Darling!I’d rather resign her to God, and lay her in the earth before me.”
“Resign her to God as it is, sir,” I answered,“and if we should lose you—which may He forbid—under His providence,I’ll stand her friend and counsellor to the last. Miss Catherine is a good girl:I don’t fear that she will go wilfully wrong;and people who do their duty are always finally rewarded.”
Spring advanced; yet my master gathered no real strength,though he resumed his walks in the grounds with his daughter. To her inexperienced notions,this itself was a sign of convalescence; and then his cheek was often flushed,and his eyes were bright; she felt sure of his recovering. On her seventeenth birthday,he did not visit the churchyard: it was raining, and I observed—
“You’ll surely not go out to-night, sir?”
He answered,—“No, I’ll defer it this year a little longer.”
He wrote again to Linton, expressing his great desire to see him; and,had the invalid been presentable, I’ve no doubt his father would have permitted him to come.As it was, being instructed, he returned an answer, intimating that Mr.Heathcliff objected to his calling at the Grange; but his uncle’s kind remembrance delighted him,and he hoped to meet him sometimes in his rambles,and personally to petition that his cousin and he might not remain long so utterly divided.
That part of his letter was simple, and probably his own.Heathcliff knew he could plead eloquently for Catherine’s company, then.
“I do not ask,” he said, “that she may visit here; but am I never to see her,because my father forbids me to go to her home, and you forbid her to come to mine?Do, now and then, ride with her towards the Heights; and let us exchange a few words, in your presence!We have done nothing to deserve this separation; and you are not angry with me:you have no reason to dislike me, you allow, yourself. Dear uncle!send me a kind note to-morrow, and leave to join you anywhere you please,except at Thrushcross Grange. I believe an interview would convince you that my father’s character is not mine:he affirms I am more your nephew than his son;and though I have faults which render me unworthy of Catherine, she has excused them,and for her sake, you should also. You inquire after my health—it is better;but while I remain cut off from all hope, and doomed to solitude,or the society of those who never did and never will like me, how can I be cheerful and well?”
Edgar, though he felt for the boy, could not consent to grant his request;because he could not accompany Catherine. He said, in summer, perhaps, they might meet: meantime,he wished him to continue writing at intervals,and engaged to give him what advice and comfort he was able by letter;being well aware of his hard position in his family. Linton complied; and had he been unrestrained,would probably have spoiled all by filling his epistles with complaints and lamentations:but his father kept a sharp watch over him; and, of course,insisted on every line that my master sent being shown; so,instead of penning his peculiar personal sufferings and distresses,the themes constantly uppermost in his thoughts,he harped on the cruel obligation of being held asunder from his friend and love;and gently intimated that Mr. Linton must allow an interview soon,or he should fear he was purposely deceiving him with empty promises.
Cathy was a powerful ally at home; and between them they at length persuaded my master to acquiesce in their having a ride or a walk together about once a week,under my guardianship, and on the moors nearest the Grange: for June found him still declining.Though he had set aside yearly a portion of his income for my young lady’s fortune,he had a natural desire that she might retain—or at least return in a short time to—the house of her ancestors;and he considered her only prospect of doing that was by a union with his heir;he had no idea that the latter was failing almost as fast as himself; nor had any one, I believe:no doctor visited the Heights, and no one saw Master Heathcliff to make report of his condition among us.I, for my part, began to fancy my forebodings were false, and that he must be actually rallying,when he mentioned riding and walking on the moors, and seemed so earnest in pursuing his object.I could not picture a father treating a dying child as tyrannically and wickedly as I afterwards learned Heathcliff had treated him,to compel this apparent eagerness: his efforts redoubling the more imminently his avaricious and unfeeling plans were threatened with defeat by death.
CHAPTER XXVI
Summer was already past its prime, when Edgar reluctantly yielded his assent to their entreaties,and Catherine and I set out on our first ride to join her cousin. It was a close, sultry day:devoid of sunshine, but with a sky too dappled and hazy to threaten rain:and our place of meeting had been fixed at the guide-stone, by the cross-roads. On arriving there,however, a little herd-boy, despatched as a messenger, told us that,—“Maister Linton wer just o’ this side th’ Heights:and he’d be mitch obleeged to us to gang on a bit further.”
“Then Master Linton has forgot the first injunction of his uncle,” I observed:“he bid us keep on the Grange land, and here we are off at once.”
“Well, we’ll turn our horses’ heads round when we reach him,” answered my companion; “our excursion shall lie towards home.”
But when we reached him, and that was scarcely a quarter of a mile from his own door,we found he had no horse; and we were forced to dismount, and leave ours to graze.He lay on the heath, awaiting our approach, and did not rise till we came within a few yards.Then he walked so feebly, and looked so pale, that I immediately exclaimed,—“Why,Master Heathcliff, you are not fit for enjoying a ramble this morning. How ill you do look!”
Catherine surveyed him with grief and astonishment:she changed the ejaculation of joy on her lips to one of alarm;and the congratulation on their long-postponed meeting to an anxious inquiry, whether he were worse than usual?
“No—better—better!” he panted, trembling, and retaining her hand as if he needed its support,while his large blue eyes wandered timidly over her;the hollowness round them transforming to haggard wildness the languid expression they once possessed.
“But you have been worse,” persisted his cousin; “worse than when I saw you last; you are thinner, and—”
“I’m tired,” he interrupted, hurriedly. “It is too hot for walking, let us rest here. And,in the morning, I often feel sick—papa says I grow so fast.”
Badly satisfied, Cathy sat down, and he reclined beside her.
“This is something like your paradise,” said she, making an effort at cheerfulness.“You recollect the two days we agreed to spend in the place and way each thought pleasantest?This is nearly yours, only there are clouds; but then they are so soft and mellow:it is nicer than sunshine. Next week, if you can, we’ll ride down to the Grange Park, and try mine. ”
Linton did not appear to remember what she talked of;and he had evidently great difficulty in sustaining any kind of conversation.His lack of interest in the subjects she started,and his equal incapacity to contribute to her entertainment,were so obvious that she could not conceal her disappointment.An indefinite alteration had come over his whole person and manner.The pettishness that might be caressed into fondness, had yielded to a listless apathy;there was less of the peevish temper of a child which frets and teases on purpose to be soothed,and more of the self-absorbed moroseness of a confirmed invalid, repelling consolation,and ready to regard the good-humoured mirth of others as an insult. Catherine perceived,as well as I did, that he held it rather a punishment, than a gratification, to endure our company;and she made no scruple of proposing, presently, to depart. That proposal, unexpectedly,roused Linton from his lethargy, and threw him into a strange state of agitation.He glanced fearfully towards the Heights, begging she would remain another half-hour, at least.
“But I think,” said Cathy, “you’d be more comfortable at home than sitting here;and I cannot amuse you to-day, I see, by my tales, and songs, and chatter:you have grown wiser than I, in these six months; you have little taste for my diversions now:or else, if I could amuse you, I’d willingly stay.”
“Stay to rest yourself,” he replied. “And, Catherine, don’t think or say that I’m _very_ unwell:it is the heavy weather and heat that make me dull; and I walked about, before you came,a great deal for me. Tell uncle I’m in tolerable health, will you?”
“I’ll tell him that _you_ say so, Linton. I couldn’t affirm that you are,” observed my young lady,wondering at his pertinacious assertion of what was evidently an untruth.
“And be here again next Thursday,” continued he, shunning her puzzled gaze.“And give him my thanks for permitting you to come—my best thanks, Catherine. And—and,if you _did_ meet my father, and he asked you about me,don’t lead him to suppose that I’ve been extremely silent and stupid: don’t look sad and downcast, as you _are_ doing—he’ll be angry.”
“I care nothing for his anger,” exclaimed Cathy, imagining she would be its object.
“But I do,” said her cousin, shuddering. “_Don’t_ provoke him against me, Catherine, for he is very hard.”
“Is he severe to you, Master Heathcliff?” I inquired. “Has he grown weary of indulgence, and passed from passive to active hatred?”
Linton looked at me, but did not answer; and,after keeping her seat by his side another ten minutes,during which his head fell drowsily on his breast,and he uttered nothing except suppressed moans of exhaustion or pain,Cathy began to seek solace in looking for bilberries,and sharing the produce of her researches with me: she did not offer them to him,for she saw further notice would only weary and annoy.
“Is it half-an-hour now, Ellen?” she whispered in my ear, at last. “I can’t tell why we should stay. He’s asleep, and papa will be wanting us back.”
“Well, we must not leave him asleep,” I answered; “wait till he wakes, and be patient.You were mighty eager to set off, but your longing to see poor Linton has soon evaporated!”
“Why did _he_ wish to see me?” returned Catherine. “In his crossest humours, formerly,I liked him better than I do in his present curious mood.It’s just as if it were a task he was compelled to perform—this interview—for fear his father should scold him.But I’m hardly going to come to give Mr. Heathcliff pleasure;whatever reason he may have for ordering Linton to undergo this penance. And,though I’m glad he’s better in health, I’m sorry he’s so much less pleasant, and so much less affectionate to me.”
“You think _he is_ better in health, then?” I said.
“Yes,” she answered; “because he always made such a great deal of his sufferings, you know.He is not tolerably well, as he told me to tell papa; but he’s better, very likely.”
“There you differ with me, Miss Cathy,” I remarked; “I should conjecture him to be far worse.”
Linton here started from his slumber in bewildered terror, and asked if any one had called his name.
“No,” said Catherine; “unless in dreams. I cannot conceive how you manage to doze out of doors, in the morning.”
“I thought I heard my father,” he gasped, glancing up to the frowning nab above us. “You are sure nobody spoke?”
“Quite sure,” replied his cousin. “Only Ellen and I were disputing concerning your health.Are you truly stronger, Linton, than when we separated in winter?If you be, I’m certain one thing is not stronger—your regard for me: speak,—are you?”
The tears gushed from Linton’s eyes as he answered, “Yes, yes, I am!” And, still under the spell of the imaginary voice,his gaze wandered up and down to detect its owner.
Cathy rose. “For to-day we must part,” she said.“And I won’t conceal that I have been sadly disappointed with our meeting;though I’ll mention it to nobody but you: not that I stand in awe of Mr. Heathcliff.”
“Hush,” murmured Linton; “for God’s sake, hush!He’s coming.” And he clung to Catherine’s arm, striving to detain her;but at that announcement she hastily disengaged herself, and whistled to Minny, who obeyed her like a dog.
“I’ll be here next Thursday,” she cried, springing to the saddle. “Good-bye. Quick, Ellen!”
And so we left him, scarcely conscious of our departure,so absorbed was he in anticipating his father’s approach.
Before we reached home, Catherine’s displeasure softened into a perplexed sensation of pity and regret,largely blended with vague, uneasy doubts about Linton’s actual circumstances, physical and social:in which I partook, though I counselled her not to say much;for a second journey would make us better judges. My master requested an account of our ongoings.His nephew’s offering of thanks was duly delivered, Miss Cathy gently touching on the rest:I also threw little light on his inquiries, for I hardly knew what to hide and what to reveal.
CHAPTER XXVII