Another week over—and I am so many days nearer health, and spring!I have now heard all my neighbour’s history,at different sittings,as the housekeeper could spare time from more important occupations.I’ll continue it in her own words,only a little condensed. She is, on the whole,a very fair narrator,and I don’t think I could improve her style.
* * * * *
In the evening, she said,the evening of my visit to the Heights, I knew,as well as if I saw him, that Mr.Heathcliff was about the place;and I shunned going out,because I still carried his letter in my pocket,and didn’t want to be threatened or teased any more.I had made up my mind not to give it till my master went somewhere,as I could not guess how its receipt would affect Catherine.The consequence was,that it did not reach her before the lapse of three days.The fourth was Sunday,and I brought it into her room after the family were gone to church.There was a man servant left to keep the house with me,and we generally made a practice of locking the doors during the hours of service; but on that occasion the weather was so warm and pleasant that I set them wide open, and, to fulfil my engagement, as I knew who would be coming, I told my companion that the mistress wished very much for some oranges, and he must run over to the village and get a few, to be paid for on the morrow. He departed, and I went upstairs.
Mrs. Linton sat in a loose white dress,with a light shawl over her shoulders,in the recess of the open window, as usual. Her thick,long hair had been partly removed at the beginning of her illness,and now she wore it simply combed in its natural tresses over her temples and neck. Her appearance was altered, as I had told Heathcliff; but when she was calm, there seemed unearthly beauty in the change. The flash of her eyes had been succeeded by a dreamy and melancholy softness; they no longer gave the impression of looking at the objects around her: they appeared always to gaze beyond, and far beyond—you would have said out of this world. Then, the paleness of her face—its haggard aspect having vanished as she recovered flesh—and the peculiar expression arising from her mental state, though painfully suggestive of their causes, added to the touching interest which she awakened; and—invariably to me, I know, and to any person who saw her, I should think—refuted more tangible proofs of convalescence, and stamped her as one doomed to decay.
A book lay spread on the sill before her,and the scarcely perceptible wind fluttered its leaves at intervals.I believe Linton had laid it there:for she never endeavoured to divert herself with reading,or occupation of any kind,and he would spend many an hour in trying to entice her attention to some subject which had formerly been her amusement. She was conscious of his aim, and in her better moods endured his efforts placidly, only showing their uselessness by now and then suppressing a wearied sigh, and checking him at last with the saddest of smiles and kisses. At other times, she would turn petulantly away, and hide her face in her hands, or even push him off angrily; and then he took care to let her alone, for he was certain of doing no good.
Gimmerton chapel bells were still ringing; and the full,mellow flow of the beck in the valley came soothingly on the ear.It was a sweet substitute for the yet absent murmur of the summer foliage,which drowned that music about the Grange when the trees were in leaf.At Wuthering Heights it always sounded on quiet days following a great thaw or a season of steady rain. And of Wuthering Heights Catherine was thinking as she listened: that is, if she thought or listened at all; but she had the vague, distant look I mentioned before, which expressed no recognition of material things either by ear or eye.
“There’s a letter for you, Mrs. Linton,” I said,gently inserting it in one hand that rested on her knee.“You must read it immediately,because it wants an answer. Shall I break the seal?” “Yes,” she answered,without altering the direction of her eyes.I opened it—it was very short. “Now,” I continued,“read it.” She drew away her hand, and let it fall.I replaced it in her lap,and stood waiting till it should please her to glance down;but that movement was so long delayed that at last I resumed—“Must I read it, ma’am?It is from Mr. Heathcliff.”
There was a start and a troubled gleam of recollection,and a struggle to arrange her ideas.She lifted the letter, and seemed to peruse it;and when she came to the signature she sighed:yet still I found she had not gathered its import, for,upon my desiring to hear her reply,she merely pointed to the name,and gazed at me with mournful and questioning eagerness.
“Well, he wishes to see you,” said I,guessing her need of an interpreter.“He’s in the garden by this time,and impatient to know what answer I shall bring.”
As I spoke, I observed a large dog lying on the sunny grass beneath raise its ears as if about to bark, and then smoothing them back, announce, by a wag of the tail, that some one approached whom it did not consider a stranger. Mrs. Linton bent forward, and listened breathlessly. The minute after a step traversed the hall; the open house was too tempting for Heathcliff to resist walking in: most likely he supposed that I was inclined to shirk my promise, and so resolved to trust to his own audacity. With straining eagerness Catherine gazed towards the entrance of her chamber. He did not hit the right room directly: she motioned me to admit him, but he found it out ere I could reach the door, and in a stride or two was at her side, and had her grasped in his arms.
He neither spoke nor loosed his hold for some five minutes,during which period he bestowed more kisses than ever he gave in his life before, I daresay: but then my mistress had kissed him first, and I plainly saw that he could hardly bear, for downright agony, to look into her face!The same conviction had stricken him as me,from the instant he beheld her,that there was no prospect of ultimate recovery there—she was fated, sure to die.
“Oh, Cathy!Oh, my life!how can I bear it?” was the first sentence he uttered,in a tone that did not seek to disguise his despair.And now he stared at her so earnestly that I thought the very intensity of his gaze would bring tears into his eyes; but they burned with anguish: they did not melt.
“What now?” said Catherine, leaning back,and returning his look with a suddenly clouded brow:her humour was a mere vane for constantly varying caprices.“You and Edgar have broken my heart, Heathcliff!And you both come to bewail the deed to me,as if you were the people to be pitied!I shall not pity you, not I.You have killed me—and thriven on it, I think. How strong you are!How many years do you mean to live after I am gone?”
Heathcliff had knelt on one knee to embrace her;he attempted to rise, but she seized his hair, and kept him down.
“I wish I could hold you,” she continued, bitterly,“till we were both dead!I shouldn’t care what you suffered.I care nothing for your sufferings.Why shouldn’t you suffer?I do!Will you forget me?Will you be happy when I am in the earth?Will you say twenty years hence,‘That’s the grave of Catherine Earnshaw?I loved her long ago, and was wretched to lose her;but it is past. I’ve loved many others since:my children are dearer to me than she was; and,at death, I shall not rejoice that I am going to her:I shall be sorry that I must leave them!’ Will you say so, Heathcliff?”
“Don’t torture me till I’m as mad as yourself,” cried he, wrenching his head free,and grinding his teeth.