IN the course of time Mr. Earnshaw
began to fail. He had been active
and healthy, yet his strength
left him suddenly; and when he
was confined to the chimney-corner
he grew grievously irritable.
A nothing vexed him; and suspected
slights of his authority nearly
threw him into fits. This was
especially to be remarked if
any one attempted to impose upon,
or domineer over, his favourite:
he was painfully jealous lest
a word should be spoken amiss
to him; seeming to have got into
his head the notion that, because
he liked Heathcliff, all hated,
and longed to do him an ill-turn.
It was a disadvantage to the
lad; for the kinder among us
did not wish to fret the master,
so we humoured his partiality;
and that humouring was rich nourishment
to the child's pride and black
tempers. Still it became in a
manner necessary; twice, or thrice,
Hindley's manifestation of scorn,
while his father was near, roused
the old man to a fury: he seized
his stick to strike him, and
shook with rage that he could
not do it.
At last, our curate (we had
a curate then who made the living
answer by teaching the little
Lintons and Earnshaws, and farming
his bit of land himself) advised
that the young man should be
sent to college; and Mr. Earnshaw
agreed, though with a heavy spirit,
for he said - 'Hindley was nought,
and would never thrive as where
he wandered.'
I hoped heartily we should
have peace now. It hurt me to
think the master should be made
uncomfortable by his own good
deed. I fancied the discontent
of age and disease arose from
his family disagreements; as
he would have it that it did:
really, you know, sir, it was
in his sinking frame. We might
have got on tolerably, notwithstanding,
but for two people - Miss Cathy,
and Joseph, the servant: you
saw him, I daresay, up yonder.
He was, and is yet most likely,
the wearisomest self-righteous
Pharisee that ever ransacked
a Bible to rake the promises
to himself and fling the curses
to his neighbours. By his knack
of sermonising and pious discoursing,
he contrived to make a great
impression on Mr. Earnshaw; and
the more feeble the master became,
the more influence he gained.
He was relentless in worrying
him about his soul's concerns,
and about ruling his children
rigidly. He encouraged him to
regard Hindley as a reprobate;
and, night after night, he regularly
grumbled out a long string of
tales against Heathcliff and
Catherine: always minding to
flatter Earnshaw's weakness by
heaping the heaviest blame on
the latter.
Certainly she had ways with
her such as I never saw a child
take up before; and she put all
of us past our patience fifty
times and oftener in a day: from
the hour she came down-stairs
till the hour she went to bed,
we had not a minute's security
that she wouldn't be in mischief.
Her spirits were always at high-water
mark, her tongue always going
- singing, laughing, and plaguing
everybody who would not do the
same. A wild, wicked slip she
was - but she had the bonniest
eye, the sweetest smile, and
lightest foot in the parish:
and, after all, I believe she
meant no harm; for when once
she made you cry in good earnest,
it seldom happened that she would
not keep you company, and oblige
you to be quiet that you might
comfort her. She was much too
fond of Heathcliff. The greatest
punishment we could invent for
her was to keep her separate
from him: yet she got chided
more than any of us on his account.
In play, she liked exceedingly
to act the little mistress; using
her hands freely, and commanding
her companions: she did so to
me, but I would not bear slapping
and ordering; and so I let her
know.
Now, Mr. Earnshaw did not understand
jokes from his children: he had
always been strict and grave
with them; and Catherine, on
her part, had no idea why her
father should be crosser and
less patient in his ailing condition
than he was in his prime. His
peevish reproofs wakened in her
a naughty delight to provoke
him: she was never so happy as
when we were all scolding her
at once, and she defying us with
her bold, saucy look, and her
ready words; turning Joseph's
religious curses into ridicule,
baiting me, and doing just what
her father hated most - showing
how her pretended insolence,
which he thought real, had more
power over Heathcliff than his
kindness: how the boy would do
HER bidding in anything, and
HIS only when it suited his own
inclination. After behaving as
badly as possible all day, she
sometimes came fondling to make
it up at night. 'Nay, Cathy,'
the old man would say, 'I cannot
love thee, thou'rt worse than
thy brother. Go, say thy prayers,
child, and ask God's pardon.
I doubt thy mother and I must
rue that we ever reared thee!'
That made her cry, at first;
and then being repulsed continually
hardened her, and she laughed
if I told her to say she was
sorry for her faults, and beg
to be forgiven.
But the hour came, at last,
that ended Mr. Earnshaw's troubles
on earth. He died quietly in
his chair one October evening,
seated by the fire-side. A high
wind blustered round the house,
and roared in the chimney: it
sounded wild and stormy, yet
it was not cold, and we were
all together - I, a little removed
from the hearth, busy at my knitting,
and Joseph reading his Bible
near the table (for the servants
generally sat in the house then,
after their work was done). Miss
Cathy had been sick, and that
made her still; she leant against
her father's knee, and Heathcliff
was lying on the floor with his
head in her lap. I remember the
master, before he fell into a
doze, stroking her bonny hair
- it pleased him rarely to see
her gentle - and saying, 'Why
canst thou not always be a good
lass, Cathy?' And she turned
her face up to his, and laughed,
and answered, 'Why cannot you
always be a good man, father?'
But as soon as she saw him vexed
again, she kissed his hand, and
said she would sing him to sleep.
She began singing very low, till
his fingers dropped from hers,
and his head sank on his breast.
Then I told her to hush, and
not stir, for fear she should
wake him. We all kept as mute
as mice a full half-hour, and
should have done so longer, only
Joseph, having finished his chapter,
got up and said that he must
rouse the master for prayers
and bed. He stepped forward,
and called him by name, and touched
his shoulder; but he would not
move: so he took the candle and
looked at him. I thought there
was something wrong as he set
down the light; and seizing the
children each by an arm, whispered
them to 'frame up- stairs, and
make little din - they might
pray alone that evening - he
had summut to do.'
'I shall bid father good-night
first,' said Catherine, putting
her arms round his neck, before
we could hinder her. The poor
thing discovered her loss directly
- she screamed out - 'Oh, he's
dead, Heathcliff! he's dead!'
And they both set up a heart-breaking
cry.
I joined my wail to theirs,
loud and bitter; but Joseph asked
what we could be thinking of
to roar in that way over a saint
in heaven. He told me to put
on my cloak and run to Gimmerton
for the doctor and the parson.
I could not guess the use that
either would be of, then. However,
I went, through wind and rain,
and brought one, the doctor,
back with me; the other said
he would come in the morning.
Leaving Joseph to explain matters,
I ran to the children's room:
their door was ajar, I saw they
had never lain down, though it
was past midnight; but they were
calmer, and did not need me to
console them. The little souls
were comforting each other with
better thoughts than I could
have hit on: no parson in the
world ever pictured heaven so
beautifully as they did, in their
innocent talk; and, while I sobbed
and listened, I could not help
wishing we were all there safe
together.
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