CHAPTER 18
The twelve years following that dismal period, continued Mrs. Dean, were the happiest of my life: my greatest troubles were our little lady’s minor illnesses. After the first six months, she grew like a larch, and could walk and talk before the heath blossomed a second time over Mrs. Linton’s dust.
She was the most winning thing that ever brought sunshine into a desolate house: a real beauty, with the Earnshaws’ handsome dark eyes, but the Lintons’ fair skin and yellow curling hair. Her spirit was high, and her heart was sensitive and lively. That capacity for intense attachments reminded me of her mother: yet she did not resemble her: for she could be soft and mild as a dove, and she had a gentle voice. Her anger was never furious; her love never fierce: it was deep and tender.
However, she was also saucy, like all indulged children. If a servant vexed her, it was always – ‘I shall tell papa!’ And if her father reproved her, even by a look, you would have thought her heart-broken: I don’t believe he ever spoke a harsh word to her. He taught her himself, and she learned rapidly and eagerly.
Till she reached the age of thirteen she had not once been beyond Thrushcross Park by herself. Mr. Linton would take her with him a mile or so outside, on rare occasions; but he trusted her to no one else. The chapel was the only building she had entered other than her own home. She knew nothing of Wuthering Heights and Mr. Heathcliff; and was, apparently, perfectly contented.
Sometimes, indeed, while surveying the country from her window, she would ask:
‘Ellen, how long will it be before I can walk to the top of those hills? I wonder what lies on the other side – is it the sea?’
‘No, Miss Cathy,’ I would answer; ‘it is hills again, just like these.’
‘And what are those golden rocks like when you stand under them?’
Penistone Crags particularly attracted her notice; especially when the setting sun shone on their heights. I explained that they were bare masses of stone, with hardly enough earth in their clefts to nourish a stunted tree.
‘And why are they bright so long after it is evening here?’ she pursued.
‘Because they are a great deal higher up than we are,’ replied I; ‘you could not climb them, they are too high and steep. In winter the frost is always there before it comes to us; and deep into summer I have found snow under their north-east side!’
‘Oh, you have been on them!’ she cried gleefully. ‘Then I can go, too, when I am a woman. Has papa been, Ellen?’
‘Papa would tell you, Miss,’ I answered, hastily, ‘that they are not worth the trouble of visiting. The moors, where you ramble with him, are much nicer; and Thrushcross Park is the finest place in the world.’
‘But I know the park, and I don’t know those,’ she murmured. ‘And I should like to look round me from that tallest point: my pony Minny shall take me some time.’
‘Now, am I old enough to go to Penistone Crags?’ became her constant question. The road there wound close by Wuthering Heights; and Edgar always answered, ‘Not yet, love: not yet.’
I said Mrs. Heathcliff lived over a dozen years after leaving her husband. She and Edgar were both delicate; what her last illness was, I am not certain, but she wrote to inform her brother that she was probably dying, and begged him to come to her. She wished to bid him adieu, and deliver her son Linton safely into his hands.
My master did not hesitate: reluctant as he usually was to leave home, he flew to her; telling me that in his absence, I must ensure that Catherine did not wander out of the park.
He was away three weeks. The first day or two Catherine sat in the library, too sad for either reading or playing: her quiet state caused me little trouble; but it was followed by fretful weariness; and to amuse her, I sent her on her travels round the grounds – on foot, or on a pony; listening to her real and imaginary adventures when she returned.
The summer shone; and she took such a taste for this solitary rambling that she often stayed out till tea; and then spent the evenings recounting her fanciful tales. I did not fear her leaving the park, because the gates were generally locked, and I thought she would scarcely venture out alone, even if they had stood wide open.
Unluckily, my confidence proved misplaced. Catherine came to me one morning, and said she was an Arabian merchant, going to cross the Desert with his caravan; and I must give her plenty of food for herself, a horse, and three camels, impersonated by a large hound and a couple of pointer dogs. I put some dainties in a basket beside her saddle; and she sprang up gaily, and trotted off with a merry laugh, mocking my advice to avoid galloping.
The naughty thing never appeared at tea. The hound, being an old dog and fond of its ease, returned; but neither Cathy, nor the pony, nor the two pointers were visible in any direction: so I sent servants down this path and that, and went wandering in search of her myself.
There was a labourer working on the borders of the grounds, and I asked him if he had seen our young lady.
‘I saw her this morning,’ he replied: ‘she leapt her pony over the hedge yonder, and galloped out of sight.’
You may guess how I felt at hearing this news. It struck me directly she must have started for Penistone Crags.
‘What will become of her?’ I exclaimed, making straight for the high-road. I walked swiftly, mile after mile, till a turn brought me in view of Wuthering Heights; but no Catherine could I see. The Crags lie about four miles from the Grange, and I began to fear night would fall before I could reach them.
‘What if she has slipped in clambering among them,’ I reflected, ‘and been killed, or broken some bones?’ My suspense was painful; and in hurrying past the Heights it gave me great relief to see Charlie, the fiercest of the pointers, lying under a window, with a bleeding ear.
I ran to the door and knocked loudly. A woman whom I knew answered: she had been servant there since the death of Mr. Earnshaw.
‘Ah,’ said she, ‘you are come a-seeking your little mistress! Don’t be frightened. She’s here safe: but I’m glad you’re not the master.’
‘He is not at home then?’ I panted, breathless.
‘No,’ she replied: ‘both he and Joseph are out, and they won’t return this hour or more. Step in and rest a bit.’
I entered, and beheld my stray lamb seated on the hearth, rocking herself in a little chair that had been her mother’s when a child. She seemed perfectly at home, laughing and chattering to Hareton – now a great, strong lad of eighteen – who stared at her with curiosity and astonishment: comprehending little of the stream of remarks and questions which she poured forth.
‘Well, Miss!’ I exclaimed, concealing my joy with an angry face. ‘This is your last ride, till papa comes back. I’ll not trust you again, you naughty, naughty girl!’
‘Aha, Ellen!’ she cried gaily, jumping up and running to my side. ‘I shall have a pretty story to tell tonight. Have you ever been here before?’
‘Put that hat on, and come home at once,’ said I. ‘I’m dreadfully grieved at you, Miss Cathy: you’ve done extremely wrong! It’s no use pouting and crying: that won’t repay the trouble I’ve had, scouring the country for you after your Papa charged me to keep you safe! You’re a cunning little fox.’
‘What have I done?’ sobbed she. ‘Papa charged me nothing: he’ll not scold me, Ellen – he’s never cross, like you!’
‘Come, come!’ I repeated. ‘Let us have no petulance. Oh, for shame! You thirteen years old, and such a baby!’
‘Nay,’ said the servant, ‘don’t be hard on the bonny lass, Mrs. Dean. We made her stop though she wanted to ride on. Hareton offered to go with her, and I thought he should: it’s a wild road over the hills.’
Hareton stood with his hands in his pockets, too awkward to speak.
‘How long am I to wait?’ I continued, ignoring the woman’s interference. ‘It will be dark in ten minutes. Where is the pony, Miss Cathy? And where is Phoenix? Be quick!’
‘The pony is in the yard,’ she replied, ‘and Phoenix is shu
t in there. He’s been bitten – and so has Charlie. I was going to tell you all about it; but you are in a bad temper, and don’t deserve to hear.’
I picked up her hat, but she, seeing that the people of the house took her side, began to caper round the room; and on my giving chase, ran like a mouse over and under and behind the furniture. Hareton and the woman laughed, and she joined them; till I cried, in great irritation, ‘Well, Miss Cathy, if you knew whose house this is you’d be glad enough to get out.’
‘It’s your father’s, isn’t it?’ said she, turning to Hareton.
‘Nay,’ he replied, looking down, and blushing.
‘Whose then – your master’s?’ she asked.
He coloured deeper, muttered an oath, and turned away.
‘Who is his master?’ continued the tiresome girl, appealing to me. ‘He talked about “our house,” and “our folk.” I thought he was the owner’s son. And he never said Miss: he should have done, shouldn’t he, if he’s a servant?’
Hareton grew black as a thunder-cloud at this. I silently shook Catherine, and put her hat on her head.
‘Get my horse,’ she said, addressing Hareton as if he were a stable-boy. ‘You may come with me. I want to see where the goblin-hunter rises in the marsh, and to hear about the fairishes, as you call them: but make haste! What’s the matter? Get my horse, I say.’
‘I’ll see thee damned before I be thy servant!’ growled the lad.
‘You’ll see me what?’ asked Catherine in surprise.
‘Damned – thou saucy witch!’ he replied.
‘There, Miss Cathy! you see you have got into pretty company,’ I said. ‘Nice words to use to a young lady! Don’t argue with him. Come, let us find your pony, and begone.’
‘But, Ellen,’ cried she, staring in astonishment, ‘how dare he speak so to me? You wicked creature, I shall tell papa what you said!’
Hareton did not appear to feel this threat; so the tears sprang into her eyes with indignation. ‘You bring the pony,’ she exclaimed, turning to the woman, ‘and let my dog free this moment!’
‘Softly, Miss,’ she answered; ‘you’ll lose nothing by being civil. Mr. Hareton there is your cousin: and I was never hired to serve you.’
‘My cousin!’ cried Cathy, with a scornful laugh.
‘Yes, indeed.’
‘Oh, Ellen! don’t let them say such things,’ she pursued, troubled. ‘Papa is gone to fetch my cousin from London: my cousin is a gentleman’s son. That—’ she stopped, and wept outright.
‘Hush!’ I whispered; ‘people can have many cousins, Miss Cathy; only they needn’t keep their company, if they be disagreeable and bad.’
‘He’s not my cousin, Ellen!’ she said.
I was vexed. I had no doubt that Linton’s approaching arrival would now be reported to Mr. Heathcliff; and I was sure that Catherine would seek an explanation about Hareton from her father as soon as he returned.
Hareton, recovering from his disgust at being taken for a servant, seemed moved by her distress; and, having fetched the pony to the door, he took a fine terrier pup from the kennel, and putting it into her hand, bid her whist! for he meant naught. She looked at him with awe and horror, then wept anew.
I could scarcely help smiling at this antipathy to the poor fellow. He was a well-made, athletic youth, good-looking, strong and healthy, but dressed as a rough farm-worker. Still, he looked as if he had better qualities than his father ever possessed. Mr. Heathcliff, I believe, had not treated him physically ill, thanks to his fearless nature: he had none of the timidity that would have tempted Heathcliff to mistreat him.
Instead, Heathcliff had bent his ill-will on making him a brute: he was never taught to read or write; never rebuked for any bad habit, nor led towards virtue, or guarded by a single word against vice.
And from what I heard, Joseph had made matters worse by flattering and petting him, because he was the head of the old family. Joseph laid the whole burden of Hareton’s faults on Heathcliff’s shoulders. He wouldn’t correct the lad no matter how ill he behaved. It gave Joseph satisfaction, apparently, to watch him go the worst lengths: he allowed that the lad was ruined and his soul damned, but reflected that Heathcliff must answer for it.
I only speak from hearsay; for I saw little of life at Wuthering Heights. The villagers said Mr. Heathcliff was miserly, and a cruel hard landlord to his tenants; but the house, inside, had regained its ancient aspect of comfort under its female management, and there was none of the riot of Hindley’s time. The master was too gloomy to seek companionship; and he is still.
Well, Miss Cathy rejected the peace-offering of the terrier, and we set out for home with our own dogs, sadly out of sorts. She told me that she had aimed for Penistone Crags; and she arrived at the gate of the farm-house, when Hareton came out with some dogs, which attacked hers before their owners could separate them. Catherine told Hareton who she was, and where she was going; and asked him to show her the way. He told her about the Fairy Cave, and other queer places. I gathered that he was a favourite till she hurt his feelings by addressing him as a servant. Then the language he had used rankled; she was shocked to be insulted so by a stranger!
She did not comprehend it; and I had hard work to make her promise not to tell her father. I explained how he objected to the whole household at the Heights, and how sorry he would be to find she had been there; but I insisted most on the fact that he might be so angry with me that I should have to leave. Cathy couldn’t bear that prospect: she pledged her word, and kept it for my sake. After all, she was a sweet little girl.