We had sad work with little Cathy that day: she rose in high glee,

eager to join her cousin, and such passionate tears and lamentations

followed the news of his departure that Edgar himself was obliged to

soothe her, by affirming he should come back soon: he added, however,

“if I can get him”; and there were no hopes of that. This promise

poorly pacified her; but time was more potent; and though still at

intervals she inquired of her father when Linton would return, before

she did see him again his features had waxed so dim in her memory that

she did not recognise him.



When I chanced to encounter the housekeeper of Wuthering Heights, in

paying business visits to Gimmerton, I used to ask how the young master

got on; for he lived almost as secluded as Catherine herself, and was

never to be seen. I could gather from her that he continued in weak

health, and was a tiresome inmate. She said Mr. Heathcliff seemed to

dislike him ever longer and worse, though he took some trouble to

conceal it: he had an antipathy to the sound of his voice, and could

not do at all with his sitting in the same room with him many minutes

together. There seldom passed much talk between them: Linton learnt his

lessons and spent his evenings in a small apartment they called the

parlour: or else lay in bed all day: for he was constantly getting

coughs, and colds, and aches, and pains of some sort.



“And I never knew such a faint-hearted creature,” added the woman; “nor

one so careful of hisseln. He _will_ go on, if I leave the window open

a bit late in the evening. Oh! it’s killing, a breath of night air! And

he must have a fire in the middle of summer; and Joseph’s bacca-pipe is

poison; and he must always have sweets and dainties, and always milk,

milk for ever—heeding naught how the rest of us are pinched in winter;

and there he’ll sit, wrapped in his furred cloak in his chair by the

fire, with some toast and water or other slop on the hob to sip at; and

if Hareton, for pity, comes to amuse him—Hareton is not bad-natured,

though he’s rough—they’re sure to part, one swearing and the other

crying. I believe the master would relish Earnshaw’s thrashing him to a

mummy, if he were not his son; and I’m certain he would be fit to turn

him out of doors, if he knew half the nursing he gives hisseln. But

then he won’t go into danger of temptation: he never enters the

parlour, and should Linton show those ways in the house where he is, he

sends him upstairs directly.”



I divined, from this account, that utter lack of sympathy had rendered

young Heathcliff selfish and disagreeable, if he were not so

originally; and my interest in him, consequently, decayed: though still

I was moved with a sense of grief at his lot, and a wish that he had

been left with us. Mr. Edgar encouraged me to gain information: he

thought a great deal about him, I fancy, and would have run some risk

to see him; and he told me once to ask the housekeeper whether he ever

came into the village? She said he had only been twice, on horseback,

accompanying his father; and both times he pretended to be quite

knocked up for three or four days afterwards. That housekeeper left, if

I recollect rightly, two years after he came; and another, whom I did

not know, was her successor; she lives there still.



Time wore on at the Grange in its former pleasant way till Miss Cathy

reached sixteen. On the anniversary of her birth we never manifested

any signs of rejoicing, because it was also the anniversary of my late

mistress’s death. Her father invariably spent that day alone in the

library; and walked, at dusk, as far as Gimmerton kirkyard, where he

would frequently prolong his stay beyond midnight. Therefore Catherine

was thrown on her own resources for amusement. This twentieth of March

was a beautiful spring day, and when her father had retired, my young

lady came down dressed for going out, and said she asked to have a

ramble on the edge of the moor with me: Mr. Linton had given her leave,

if we went only a short distance and were back within the hour.



“So make haste, Ellen!” she cried. “I know where I wish to go; where a

colony of moor-game are settled: I want to see whether they have made

their nests yet.”



“That must be a good distance up,” I answered; “they don’t breed on the

edge of the moor.”



“No, it’s not,” she said. “I’ve gone very near with papa.”



I put on my bonnet and sallied out, thinking nothing more of the

matter. She bounded before me, and returned to my side, and was off

again like a young greyhound; and, at first, I found plenty of

entertainment in listening to the larks singing far and near, and

enjoying the sweet, warm sunshine; and watching her, my pet and my

delight, with her golden ringlets flying loose behind, and her bright

cheek, as soft and pure in its bloom as a wild rose, and her eyes

radiant with cloudless pleasure. She was a happy creature, and an

angel, in those days. It’s a pity she could not be content.



“Well,” said I, “where are your moor-game, Miss Cathy? We should be at

them: the Grange park-fence is a great way off now.”



“Oh, a little further—only a little further, Ellen,” was her answer,

continually. “Climb to that hillock, pass that bank, and by the time

you reach the other side I shall have raised the birds.”



But there were so many hillocks and banks to climb and pass, that, at

length, I began to be weary, and told her we must halt, and retrace our

steps. I shouted to her, as she had outstripped me a long way; she

either did not hear or did not regard, for she still sprang on, and I

was compelled to follow. Finally, she dived into a hollow; and before I

came in sight of her again, she was two miles nearer Wuthering Heights

than her own home; and I beheld a couple of persons arrest her, one of

whom I felt convinced was Mr. Heathcliff himself.



Cathy had been caught in the fact of plundering, or, at least, hunting

out the nests of the grouse. The Heights were Heathcliff’s land, and he

was reproving the poacher.



“I’ve neither taken any nor found any,” she said, as I toiled to them,

expanding her hands in corroboration of the statement. “I didn’t mean

to take them; but papa told me there were quantities up here, and I

wished to see the eggs.”



Heathcliff glanced at me with an ill-meaning smile, expressing his

acquaintance with the party, and, consequently, his malevolence towards

it, and demanded who “papa” was?



“Mr. Linton of Thrushcross Grange,” she replied. “I thought you did not

know me, or you wouldn’t have spoken in that way.”



“You suppose papa is highly esteemed and respected, then?” he said,

sarcastically.



“And what are you?” inquired Catherine, gazing curiously on the

speaker. “That man I’ve seen before. Is he your son?”



She pointed to Hareton, the other individual, who had gained nothing

but increased bulk and strength by the addition of two years to his

age: he seemed as awkward and rough as ever.



“Miss Cathy,” I interrupted, “it will be three hours instead of one

that we are out, presently. We really must go back.”



“No, that man is not my son,” answered Heathcliff, pushing me aside.

“But I have one, and you have seen him before too; and, though your

nurse is in a hurry, I think both you and she would be the better for a

little rest. Will you just turn this nab of heath, and walk into my

house? You’ll get home earlier for the ease; and you shall receive a

kind welcome.”



I whispered Catherine that she mustn’t, on any account, accede to the

proposal: it was entirely out of the question.



“Why?” she asked, aloud. “I’m tired of running, and the ground is dewy:

I can’t sit here. Let us go, Ellen. Besides, he says I have seen his

son. He’s mistaken, I think; but I guess where he lives: at the

farmhouse I visited in coming from Penistone Crags. Don’t you?”



“I do. Come, Nelly, hold your tongue—it will be a treat for her to look

in on us. Hareton, get forwards with the lass. You shall walk with me,

Nelly.”



“No, she’s not going to any such place,” I cried, struggling to release

my arm, which he had seized: but she was almost at the door-stones

already, scampering round the brow at full speed. Her appointed

companion did not pretend to escort her: he shied off by the road-side,

and vanished.



“Mr. Heathcliff, it’s very wrong,” I continued: “you know you mean no

good. And there she’ll see Linton, and all will be told as soon as ever

we return; and I shall have the blame.”



“I want her to see Linton,” he answered; “he’s looking better these few

days; it’s not often he’s fit to be seen. And we’ll soon persuade her

to keep the visit secret: where is the harm of it?”



“The harm of it is, that her father would hate me if he found I

suffered her to enter your house; and I am convinced you have a bad

design in encouraging her to do so,” I replied.



“My design is as honest as possible. I’ll inform you of its whole

scope,” he said. “That the two cousins may fall in love, and get

married. I’m acting generously to your master: his young chit has no

expectations, and should she second my wishes she’ll be provided for at

once as joint successor with Linton.”



“If Linton died,” I answered, “and his life is quite uncertain,

Catherine would be the heir.”



“No, she would not,” he said. “There is no clause in the will to secure

it so: his property would go to me; but, to prevent disputes, I desire

their union, and am resolved to bring it about.”



“And I’m resolved she shall never approach your house with me again,” I

returned, as we reached the gate, where Miss Cathy waited our coming.



Heathcliff bade me be quiet; and, preceding us up the path, hastened to

open the door. My young lady gave him several looks, as if she could

not exactly make up her mind what to think of him; but now he smiled

when he met her eye, and softened his voice in addressing her; and I

was foolish enough to imagine the memory of her mother might disarm him

from desiring her injury. Linton stood on the hearth. He had been out

walking in the fields, for his cap was on, and he was calling to Joseph

to bring him dry shoes. He had grown tall of his age, still wanting

some months of sixteen. His features were pretty yet, and his eye and

complexion brighter than I remembered them, though with merely

temporary lustre borrowed from the salubrious air and genial sun.



“Now, who is that?” asked Mr. Heathcliff, turning to Cathy. “Can you

tell?”



“Your son?” she said, having doubtfully surveyed, first one and then

the other.



“Yes, yes,” answered he: “but is this the only time you have beheld

him? Think! Ah! you have a short memory. Linton, don’t you recall your

cousin, that you used to tease us so with wishing to see?”



“What, Linton!” cried Cathy, kindling into joyful surprise at the name.

“Is that little Linton? He’s taller than I am! Are you Linton?”



The youth stepped forward, and acknowledged himself: she kissed him

fervently, and they gazed with wonder at the change time had wrought in

the appearance of each. Catherine had reached her full height; her

figure was both plump and slender, elastic as steel, and her whole

aspect sparkling with health and spirits. Linton’s looks and movements

were very languid, and his form extremely slight; but there was a grace

in his manner that mitigated these defects, and rendered him not

unpleasing. After exchanging numerous marks of fondness with him, his

cousin went to Mr. Heathcliff, who lingered by the door, dividing his

attention between the objects inside and those that lay without:

pretending, that is, to observe the latter, and really noting the

former alone.



“And you are my uncle, then!” she cried, reaching up to salute him. “I

thought I liked you, though you were cross at first. Why don’t you

visit at the Grange with Linton? To live all these years such close

neighbours, and never see us, is odd: what have you done so for?”



“I visited it once or twice too often before you were born,” he

answered. “There—damn it! If you have any kisses to spare, give them to

Linton: they are thrown away on me.”



“Naughty Ellen!” exclaimed Catherine, flying to attack me next with her

lavish caresses. “Wicked Ellen! to try to hinder me from entering. But

I’ll take this walk every morning in future: may I, uncle? and

sometimes bring papa. Won’t you be glad to see us?”



“Of course,” replied the uncle, with a hardly suppressed grimace,

resulting from his deep aversion to both the proposed visitors. “But

stay,” he continued, turning towards the young lady. “Now I think of

it, I’d better tell you. Mr. Linton has a prejudice against me: we

quarrelled at one time of our lives, with unchristian ferocity; and, if

you mention coming here to him, he’ll put a veto on your visits

altogether. Therefore, you must not mention it, unless you be careless

of seeing your cousin hereafter: you may come, if you will, but you

must not mention it.”



“Why did you quarrel?” asked Catherine, considerably crestfallen.



“He thought me too poor to wed his sister,” answered Heathcliff, “and

was grieved that I got her: his pride was hurt, and he’ll never forgive

it.”



“That’s wrong!” said the young lady: “some time I’ll tell him so. But

Linton and I have no share in your quarrel. I’ll not come here, then;

he shall come to the Grange.”



“It will be too far for me,” murmured her cousin: “to walk four miles

would kill me. No, come here, Miss Catherine, now and then: not every

morning, but once or twice a week.”



The father launched towards his son a glance of bitter contempt.



“I am afraid, Nelly, I shall lose my labour,” he muttered to me. “Miss

Catherine, as the ninny calls her, will discover his value, and send

him to the devil. Now, if it had been Hareton!—Do you know that, twenty

times a day, I covet Hareton, with all his degradation? I’d have loved

the lad had he been some one else. But I think he’s safe from _her_

love. I’ll pit him against that paltry creature, unless it bestir

itself briskly. We calculate it will scarcely last till it is eighteen.

Oh, confound the vapid thing! He’s absorbed in drying his feet, and

never looks at her.—Linton!”



“Yes, father,” answered the boy.



“Have you nothing to show your cousin anywhere about, not even a rabbit

or a weasel’s nest? Take her into the garden, before you change your

shoes; and into the stable to see your horse.”



“Wouldn’t you rather sit here?” asked Linton, addressing Cathy in a

tone which expressed reluctance to move again.



“I don’t know,” she replied, casting a longing look to the door, and

evidently eager to be active.



He kept his seat, and shrank closer to the fire. Heathcliff rose, and

went into the kitchen, and from thence to the yard, calling out for

Hareton. Hareton responded, and presently the two re-entered. The young

man had been washing himself, as was visible by the glow on his cheeks

and his wetted hair.



“Oh, I’ll ask _you_, uncle,” cried Miss Cathy, recollecting the

housekeeper’s assertion. “That is not my cousin, is he?”



“Yes,” he replied, “your mother’s nephew. Don’t you like him?”



Catherine looked queer.



“Is he not a handsome lad?” he continued.



The uncivil little thing stood on tiptoe, and whispered a sentence in

Heathcliff’s ear. He laughed; Hareton darkened: I perceived he was very

sensitive to suspected slights, and had obviously a dim notion of his

inferiority. But his master or guardian chased the frown by exclaiming—



“You’ll be the favourite among us, Hareton! She says you are a—What was

it? Well, something very flattering. Here! you go with her round the

farm. And behave like a gentleman, mind! Don’t use any bad words; and

don’t stare when the young lady is not looking at you, and be ready to

hide your face when she is; and, when you speak, say your words slowly,

and keep your hands out of your pockets. Be off, and entertain her as

nicely as you can.”



He watched the couple walking past the window. Earnshaw had his

countenance completely averted from his companion. He seemed studying

the familiar landscape with a stranger’s and an artist’s interest.

Catherine took a sly look at him, expressing small admiration. She then

turned her attention to seeking out objects of amusement for herself,

and tripped merrily on, lilting a tune to supply the lack of

conversation.



“I’ve tied his tongue,” observed Heathcliff. “He’ll not venture a

single syllable all the time! Nelly, you recollect me at his age—nay,

some years younger. Did I ever look so stupid: so ‘gaumless,’ as Joseph

calls it?”



“Worse,” I replied, “because more sullen with it.”



“I’ve a pleasure in him,” he continued, reflecting aloud. “He has

satisfied my expectations. If he were a born fool I should not enjoy it

half so much. But he’s no fool; and I can sympathise with all his

feelings, having felt them myself. I know what he suffers now, for

instance, exactly: it is merely a beginning of what he shall suffer,

though. And he’ll never be able to emerge from his bathos of coarseness

and ignorance. I’ve got him faster than his scoundrel of a father

secured me, and lower; for he takes a pride in his brutishness. I’ve

taught him to scorn everything extra-animal as silly and weak. Don’t

you think Hindley would be proud of his son, if he could see him?

almost as proud as I am of mine. But there’s this difference; one is

gold put to the use of paving-stones, and the other is tin polished to

ape a service of silver. _Mine_ has nothing valuable about it; yet I

shall have the merit of making it go as far as such poor stuff can go.

_His_ had first-rate qualities, and they are lost: rendered worse than

unavailing. _I_ have nothing to regret; _he_ would have more than any,

but I, are aware of. And the best of it is, Hareton is damnably fond of

me! You’ll own that I’ve outmatched Hindley there. If the dead villain

could rise from his grave to abuse me for his offspring’s wrongs, I

should have the fun of seeing the said offspring fight him back again,

indignant that he should dare to rail at the one friend he has in the

world!”



Heathcliff chuckled a fiendish laugh at the idea. I made no reply,

because I saw that he expected none. Meantime, our young companion, who

sat too removed from us to hear what was said, began to evince symptoms

of uneasiness, probably repenting that he had denied himself the treat

of Catherine’s society for fear of a little fatigue. His father

remarked the restless glances wandering to the window, and the hand

irresolutely extended towards his cap.



“Get up, you idle boy!” he exclaimed, with assumed heartiness. “Away

after them! they are just at the corner, by the stand of hives.”



Linton gathered his energies, and left the hearth. The lattice was

open, and, as he stepped out, I heard Cathy inquiring of her unsociable

attendant what was that inscription over the door? Hareton stared up,

and scratched his head like a true clown.



“It’s some damnable writing,” he answered. “I cannot read it.”



“Can’t read it?” cried Catherine; “I can read it: it’s English. But I

want to know why it is there.”



Linton giggled: the first appearance of mirth he had exhibited.



“He does not know his letters,” he said to his cousin. “Could you

believe in the existence of such a colossal dunce?”



“Is he all as he should be?” asked Miss Cathy, seriously; “or is he

simple: not right? I’ve questioned him twice now, and each time he

looked so stupid I think he does not understand me. I can hardly

understand _him_, I’m sure!”



Linton repeated his laugh, and glanced at Hareton tauntingly; who

certainly did not seem quite clear of comprehension at that moment.



“There’s nothing the matter but laziness; is there, Earnshaw?” he said.

“My cousin fancies you are an idiot. There you experience the

consequence of scorning ‘book-larning,’ as you would say. Have you

noticed, Catherine, his frightful Yorkshire pronunciation?”



“Why, where the devil is the use on’t?” growled Hareton, more ready in

answering his daily companion. He was about to enlarge further, but the

two youngsters broke into a noisy fit of merriment: my giddy miss being

delighted to discover that she might turn his strange talk to matter of

amusement.



“Where is the use of the devil in that sentence?” tittered Linton.

“Papa told you not to say any bad words, and you can’t open your mouth

without one. Do try to behave like a gentleman, now do!”



“If thou weren’t more a lass than a lad, I’d fell thee this minute, I

would; pitiful lath of a crater!” retorted the angry boor, retreating,

while his face burnt with mingled rage and mortification; for he was

conscious of being insulted, and embarrassed how to resent it.



Mr. Heathcliff having overheard the conversation, as well as I, smiled

when he saw him go; but immediately afterwards cast a look of singular

aversion on the flippant pair, who remained chattering in the doorway:

the boy finding animation enough while discussing Hareton’s faults and

deficiencies, and relating anecdotes of his goings on; and the girl

relishing his pert and spiteful sayings, without considering the

ill-nature they evinced. I began to dislike, more than to compassionate

Linton, and to excuse his father in some measure for holding him cheap.



We stayed till afternoon: I could not tear Miss Cathy away sooner; but

happily my master had not quitted his apartment, and remained ignorant

of our prolonged absence. As we walked home, I would fain have

enlightened my charge on the characters of the people we had quitted:

but she got it into her head that I was prejudiced against them.



“Aha!” she cried, “you take papa’s side, Ellen: you are partial I know;

or else you wouldn’t have cheated me so many years into the notion that

Linton lived a long way from here. I’m really extremely angry; only I’m

so pleased I can’t show it! But you must hold your tongue about my

uncle; he’s _my_ uncle, remember; and I’ll scold papa for quarrelling

with him.”



And so she ran on, till I relinquished the endeavour to convince her of

her mistake. She did not mention the visit that night, because she did

not see Mr. Linton. Next day it all came out, sadly to my chagrin; and

still I was not altogether sorry: I thought the burden of directing and

warning would be more efficiently borne by him than me. But he was too

timid in giving satisfactory reasons for his wish that she should shun

connection with the household of the Heights, and Catherine liked good

reasons for every restraint that harassed her petted will.



“Papa!” she exclaimed, after the morning’s salutations, “guess whom I

saw yesterday, in my walk on the moors. Ah, papa, you started! you’ve

not done right, have you, now? I saw—but listen, and you shall hear how

I found you out; and Ellen, who is in league with you, and yet

pretended to pity me so, when I kept hoping, and was always

disappointed about Linton’s coming back!”



She gave a faithful account of her excursion and its consequences; and

my master, though he cast more than one reproachful look at me, said

nothing till she had concluded. Then he drew her to him, and asked if

she knew why he had concealed Linton’s near neighbourhood from her?

Could she think it was to deny her a pleasure that she might harmlessly

enjoy?



“It was because you disliked Mr. Heathcliff,” she answered.



“Then you believe I care more for my own feelings than yours, Cathy?”

he said. “No, it was not because I disliked Mr. Heathcliff, but because

Mr. Heathcliff dislikes me; and is a most diabolical man, delighting to

wrong and ruin those he hates, if they give him the slightest

opportunity. I knew that you could not keep up an acquaintance with

your cousin without being brought into contact with him; and I knew he

would detest you on my account; so for your own good, and nothing else,

I took precautions that you should not see Linton again. I meant to

explain this some time as you grew older, and I’m sorry I delayed it.”



“But Mr. Heathcliff was quite cordial, papa,” observed Catherine, not

at all convinced; “and _he_ didn’t object to our seeing each other: he

said I might come to his house when I pleased; only I must not tell

you, because you had quarrelled with him, and would not forgive him for

marrying aunt Isabella. And you won’t. _You_ are the one to be blamed:

he is willing to let _us_ be friends, at least; Linton and I; and you

are not.”



My master, perceiving that she would not take his word for her

uncle-in-law’s evil disposition, gave a hasty sketch of his conduct to

Isabella, and the manner in which Wuthering Heights became his

property. He could not bear to discourse long upon the topic; for

though he spoke little of it, he still felt the same horror and

detestation of his ancient enemy that had occupied his heart ever since

Mrs. Linton’s death. “She might have been living yet, if it had not

been for him!” was his constant bitter reflection; and, in his eyes,

Heathcliff seemed a murderer. Miss Cathy—conversant with no bad deeds

except her own slight acts of disobedience, injustice, and passion,

arising from hot temper and thoughtlessness, and repented of on the day

they were committed—was amazed at the blackness of spirit that could

brood on and cover revenge for years, and deliberately prosecute its

plans without a visitation of remorse. She appeared so deeply impressed

and shocked at this new view of human nature—excluded from all her

studies and all her ideas till now—that Mr. Edgar deemed it unnecessary

to pursue the subject. He merely added: “You will know hereafter,

darling, why I wish you to avoid his house and family; now return to

your old employments and amusements, and think no more about them.”



Catherine kissed her father, and sat down quietly to her lessons for a

couple of hours, according to custom; then she accompanied him into the

grounds, and the whole day passed as usual: but in the evening, when

she had retired to her room, and I went to help her to undress, I found

her crying, on her knees by the bedside.



“Oh, fie, silly child!” I exclaimed. “If you had any real griefs you’d

be ashamed to waste a tear on this little contrariety. You never had

one shadow of substantial sorrow, Miss Catherine. Suppose, for a

minute, that master and I were dead, and you were by yourself in the

world: how would you feel, then? Compare the present occasion with such

an affliction as that, and be thankful for the friends you have,

instead of coveting more.”



“I’m not crying for myself, Ellen,” she answered, “it’s for him. He

expected to see me again to-morrow, and there he’ll be so disappointed:

and he’ll wait for me, and I sha’n’t come!”



“Nonsense!” said I, “do you imagine he has thought as much of you as

you have of him? Hasn’t he Hareton for a companion? Not one in a

hundred would weep at losing a relation they had just seen twice, for

two afternoons. Linton will conjecture how it is, and trouble himself

no further about you.”



“But may I not write a note to tell him why I cannot come?” she asked,

rising to her feet. “And just send those books I promised to lend him?

His books are not as nice as mine, and he wanted to have them

extremely, when I told him how interesting they were. May I not,

Ellen?”



“No, indeed! no, indeed!” replied I with decision. “Then he would write

to you, and there’d never be an end of it. No, Miss Catherine, the

acquaintance must be dropped entirely: so papa expects, and I shall see

that it is done.”



“But how can one little note—?” she recommenced, putting on an

imploring countenance.



“Silence!” I interrupted. “We’ll not begin with your little notes. Get

into bed.”



She threw at me a very naughty look, so naughty that I would not kiss

her good-night at first: I covered her up, and shut her door, in great

displeasure; but, repenting half-way, I returned softly, and lo! there

was Miss standing at the table with a bit of blank paper before her and

a pencil in her hand, which she guiltily slipped out of sight on my

entrance.



“You’ll get nobody to take that, Catherine,” I said, “if you write it;

and at present I shall put out your candle.”



I set the extinguisher on the flame, receiving as I did so a slap on my

hand and a petulant “cross thing!” I then quitted her again, and she

drew the bolt in one of her worst, most peevish humours. The letter was

finished and forwarded to its destination by a milk-fetcher who came

from the village; but that I didn’t learn till some time afterwards.

Weeks passed on, and Cathy recovered her temper; though she grew

wondrous fond of stealing off to corners by herself; and often, if I

came near her suddenly while reading, she would start and bend over the

book, evidently desirous to hide it; and I detected edges of loose

paper sticking out beyond the leaves. She also got a trick of coming

down early in the morning and lingering about the kitchen, as if she

were expecting the arrival of something; and she had a small drawer in

a cabinet in the library, which she would trifle over for hours, and

whose key she took special care to remove when she left it.



One day, as she inspected this drawer, I observed that the playthings

and trinkets which recently formed its contents were transmuted into

bits of folded paper. My curiosity and suspicions were roused; I

determined to take a peep at her mysterious treasures; so, at night, as

soon as she and my master were safe upstairs, I searched, and readily

found among my house keys one that would fit the lock. Having opened, I

emptied the whole contents into my apron, and took them with me to

examine at leisure in my own chamber. Though I could not but suspect, I

was still surprised to discover that they were a mass of

correspondence—daily almost, it must have been—from Linton Heathcliff:

answers to documents forwarded by her. The earlier dated were

embarrassed and short; gradually, however, they expanded into copious

love-letters, foolish, as the age of the writer rendered natural, yet

with touches here and there which I thought were borrowed from a more

experienced source. Some of them struck me as singularly odd compounds

of ardour and flatness; commencing in strong feeling, and concluding in

the affected, wordy style that a schoolboy might use to a fancied,

incorporeal sweetheart. Whether they satisfied Cathy I don’t know; but

they appeared very worthless trash to me. After turning over as many as

I thought proper, I tied them in a handkerchief and set them aside,

relocking the vacant drawer.



Following her habit, my young lady descended early, and visited the

kitchen: I watched her go to the door, on the arrival of a certain

little boy; and, while the dairymaid filled his can, she tucked

something into his jacket pocket, and plucked something out. I went

round by the garden, and laid wait for the messenger; who fought

valorously to defend his trust, and we spilt the milk between us; but I

succeeded in abstracting the epistle; and, threatening serious

consequences if he did not look sharp home, I remained under the wall

and perused Miss Cathy’s affectionate composition. It was more simple

and more eloquent than her cousin’s: very pretty and very silly. I

shook my head, and went meditating into the house. The day being wet,

she could not divert herself with rambling about the park; so, at the

conclusion of her morning studies, she resorted to the solace of the

drawer. Her father sat reading at the table; and I, on purpose, had

sought a bit of work in some unripped fringes of the window-curtain,

keeping my eye steadily fixed on her proceedings. Never did any bird

flying back to a plundered nest, which it had left brimful of chirping

young ones, express more complete despair, in its anguished cries and

flutterings, than she by her single “Oh!” and the change that

transfigured her late happy countenance. Mr. Linton looked up.



“What is the matter, love? Have you hurt yourself?” he said.



His tone and look assured her _he_ had not been the discoverer of the

hoard.



“No, papa!” she gasped. “Ellen! Ellen! come upstairs—I’m sick!”



I obeyed her summons, and accompanied her out.



“Oh, Ellen! you have got them,” she commenced immediately, dropping on

her knees, when we were enclosed alone. “Oh, give them to me, and I’ll

never, never do so again! Don’t tell papa. You have not told papa,

Ellen? say you have not? I’ve been exceedingly naughty, but I won’t do

it any more!”



With a grave severity in my manner I bade her stand up.



“So,” I exclaimed, “Miss Catherine, you are tolerably far on, it seems:

you may well be ashamed of them! A fine bundle of trash you study in

your leisure hours, to be sure: why, it’s good enough to be printed!

And what do you suppose the master will think when I display it before

him? I hav’n’t shown it yet, but you needn’t imagine I shall keep your

ridiculous secrets. For shame! and you must have led the way in writing

such absurdities: he would not have thought of beginning, I’m certain.”



“I didn’t! I didn’t!” sobbed Cathy, fit to break her heart. “I didn’t

once think of loving him till—”



“_Loving_!” cried I, as scornfully as I could utter the word.

“_Loving_! Did anybody ever hear the like! I might just as well talk of

loving the miller who comes once a year to buy our corn. Pretty loving,

indeed! and both times together you have seen Linton hardly four hours

in your life! Now here is the babyish trash. I’m going with it to the

library; and we’ll see what your father says to such _loving_.”



She sprang at her precious epistles, but I held them above my head; and

then she poured out further frantic entreaties that I would burn

them—do anything rather than show them. And being really fully as much

inclined to laugh as scold—for I esteemed it all girlish vanity—I at

length relented in a measure, and asked,—“If I consent to burn them,

will you promise faithfully neither to send nor receive a letter again,

nor a book (for I perceive you have sent him books), nor locks of hair,

nor rings, nor playthings?”



“We don’t send playthings,” cried Catherine, her pride overcoming her

shame.



“Nor anything at all, then, my lady?” I said. “Unless you will, here I

go.”



“I promise, Ellen!” she cried, catching my dress. “Oh, put them in the

fire, do, do!”



But when I proceeded to open a place with the poker the sacrifice was

too painful to be borne. She earnestly supplicated that I would spare

her one or two.



“One or two, Ellen, to keep for Linton’s sake!”



I unknotted the handkerchief, and commenced dropping them in from an

angle, and the flame curled up the chimney.



“I will have one, you cruel wretch!” she screamed, darting her hand

into the fire, and drawing forth some half-consumed fragments, at the

expense of her fingers.



“Very well—and I will have some to exhibit to papa!” I answered,

shaking back the rest into the bundle, and turning anew to the door.



She emptied her blackened pieces into the flames, and motioned me to

finish the immolation. It was done; I stirred up the ashes, and

interred them under a shovelful of coals; and she mutely, and with a

sense of intense injury, retired to her private apartment. I descended

to tell my master that the young lady’s qualm of sickness was almost

gone, but I judged it best for her to lie down a while. She wouldn’t

dine; but she reappeared at tea, pale, and red about the eyes, and

marvellously subdued in outward aspect. Next morning I answered the

letter by a slip of paper, inscribed, “Master Heathcliff is requested

to send no more notes to Miss Linton, as she will not receive them.”

And, thenceforth, the little boy came with vacant pockets.