16 Emily Bronte, Wuthering Heights, selection from Chapters 27-end

Chapter 27, pp. 202-205

We deferred our excursion till the afternoon; a golden afternoon of August: every breath from the hills so full of life, that it seemed whoever respired it, though dying, might revive.  Catherine’s face was just like the landscape–shadows and sunshine flitting over it in rapid succession; but the shadows rested longer, and the sunshine was more transient; and her poor little heart reproached itself for even that passing forgetfulness of its cares.

We discerned Linton watching at the same spot he had selected before.  My young mistress alighted, and told me that, as she was resolved to stay a very little while, I had better hold the pony and remain on horseback; but I dissented: I wouldn’t risk losing sight of the charge committed to me a minute; so we climbed the slope of heath together.  Master Heathcliff received us with greater animation on this occasion: not the animation of high spirits though, nor yet of joy; it looked more like fear.

‘It is late!’ he said, speaking short and with difficulty.  ‘Is not your father very ill?  I thought you wouldn’t come.’

‘Why won’t you be candid?’ cried Catherine, swallowing her greeting. ‘Why cannot you say at once you don’t want me?  It is strange, Linton, that for the second time you have brought me here on purpose, apparently to distress us both, and for no reason besides!’

Linton shivered, and glanced at her, half supplicating, half ashamed; but his cousin’s patience was not sufficient to endure this enigmatical behaviour.

‘My father is very ill,’ she said; ‘and why am I called from his bedside?  Why didn’t you send to absolve me from my promise, when you wished I wouldn’t keep it?  Come!  I desire an explanation: playing and trifling are completely banished out of my mind; and I can’t dance
attendance on your affectations now!’

‘My affectations!’ he murmured; ‘what are they?  For heaven’s sake, Catherine, don’t look so angry!  Despise me as much as you please; I am a worthless, cowardly wretch: I can’t be scorned enough; but I’m too mean for your anger.  Hate my father, and spare me for contempt.’

‘Nonsense!’ cried Catherine in a passion.  ‘Foolish, silly boy!  And there! he trembles: as if I were really going to touch him!  You needn’t bespeak contempt, Linton: anybody will have it spontaneously at your service.  Get off!  I shall return home: it is folly dragging you from
the hearth-stone, and pretending–what do we pretend?  Let go my frock! If I pitied you for crying and looking so very frightened, you should spurn such pity.  Ellen, tell him how disgraceful this conduct is.  Rise, and don’t degrade yourself into an abject reptile—don’t!’

With streaming face and an expression of agony, Linton had thrown his nerveless frame along the ground: he seemed convulsed with exquisite terror.

‘Oh!’ he sobbed, ‘I cannot bear it!  Catherine, Catherine, I’m a traitor, too, and I dare not tell you!  But leave me, and I shall be killed! Dear Catherine, my life is in your hands: and you have said you loved me, and if you did, it wouldn’t harm you.  You’ll not go, then? Kind, sweet, good Catherine!  And perhaps you will consent —and he’ll let me die with you!’

My young lady, on witnessing his intense anguish, stooped to raise him. The old feeling of indulgent tenderness overcame her vexation, and she grew thoroughly moved and alarmed.

‘Consent to what?’ she asked.  ‘To stay! tell me the meaning of this strange talk, and I will.  You contradict your own words, and distract me!  Be calm and frank, and confess at once all that weighs on your heart.  You wouldn’t injure me, Linton, would you?  You wouldn’t let any enemy hurt me, if you could prevent it?  I’ll believe you are a coward, for yourself, but not a cowardly betrayer of your best friend.’

‘But my father threatened me,’ gasped the boy, clasping his attenuated fingers, ‘and I dread him—I dread him!  I dare not tell!’

‘Oh, well!’ said Catherine, with scornful compassion, ‘keep your secret: I’m no coward.  Save yourself: I’m not afraid!’

Her magnanimity provoked his tears: he wept wildly, kissing her supporting hands, and yet could not summon courage to speak out.  I was cogitating what the mystery might be, and determined Catherine should never suffer to benefit him or anyone else, by my good will; when, hearing a rustle among the ling, I looked up and saw Mr. Heathcliff almost close upon us, descending the Heights.  He didn’t cast a glance
towards my companions, though they were sufficiently near for Linton’s sobs to be audible; but hailing me in the almost hearty tone he assumed to none besides, and the sincerity of which I couldn’t avoid doubting, he said–

‘It is something to see you so near to my house, Nelly.  How are you at the Grange?  Let us hear.  The rumour goes,’ he added, in a lower tone, ‘that Edgar Linton is on his death-bed: perhaps they exaggerate his illness?’

‘No; my master is dying,’ I replied: ‘it is true enough.  A sad thing it will be for us all, but a blessing for him!’

‘How long will he last, do you think?’ he asked.

‘I don’t know,’ I said.

‘Because,’ he continued, looking at the two young people, who were fixed under his eye–Linton appeared as if he could not venture to stir or raise his head, and Catherine could not move, on his account–‘because
that lad yonder seems determined to beat me; and I’d thank his uncle to be quick, and go before him!  Hallo! has the whelp been playing that game long?  I did give him some lessons about snivelling.  Is he pretty lively with Miss Linton generally?’

‘Lively? no–he has shown the greatest distress,’ I answered.  ‘To see him, I should say, that instead of rambling with his sweetheart on the hills, he ought to be in bed, under the hands of a doctor.’

‘He shall be, in a day or two,’ muttered Heathcliff.  ‘But first—get up, Linton!  Get up!’ he shouted.  ‘Don’t grovel on the ground there up, this moment!’

Linton had sunk prostrate again in another paroxysm of helpless fear, caused by his father’s glance towards him, I suppose: there was nothing else to produce such humiliation.  He made several efforts to obey, but his little strength was annihilated for the time, and he fell back again with a moan.  Mr. Heathcliff advanced, and lifted him to lean against a ridge of turf.

‘Now,’ said he, with curbed ferocity, ‘I’m getting angry and if you don’t command that paltry spirit of yours—damn you! get up directly!’

‘I will, father,’ he panted.  ‘Only, let me alone, or I shall faint.  I’ve done as you wished, I’m sure.  Catherine will tell you that I—that I—have been cheerful.  Ah! keep by me, Catherine; give me your hand.’

‘Take mine,’ said his father; ‘stand on your feet.  There now—she’ll lend you her arm: that’s right, look at her.  You would imagine I was the devil himself, Miss Linton, to excite such horror.  Be so kind as to walk home with him, will you?  He shudders if I touch him.’

‘Linton dear!’ whispered Catherine, ‘I can’t go to Wuthering Heights: papa has forbidden me.  He’ll not harm you: why are you so afraid?’

‘I can never re-enter that house,’ he answered.  ‘I’m not to re-enter it without you!’

‘Stop!’ cried his father.  ‘We’ll respect Catherine’s filial scruples. Nelly, take him in, and I’ll follow your advice concerning the doctor, without delay.’