Chapter XXVI

Summer was already past its prime, when Edgar reluctantly yielded his
assent to their entreaties, and Catherine and I set out on our first
ride to join her cousin. It was a close, sultry day: devoid of
sunshine, but with a sky too dappled and hazy to threaten rain: and our
place of meeting had been fixed at the guide-stone, by the cross-roads.
On arriving there, however, a little herd-boy, despatched as a
messenger, told us that,—“Maister Linton wer just o’ this side th’
Heights: and he’d be mitch obleeged to us to gang on a bit further.”

“Then Master Linton has forgot the first injunction of his uncle,” I
observed: “he bid us keep on the Grange land, and here we are off at
once.”

“Well, we’ll turn our horses’ heads round when we reach him,” answered
my companion; “our excursion shall lie towards home.”

But when we reached him, and that was scarcely a quarter of a mile from
his own door, we found he had no horse; and we were forced to dismount,
and leave ours to graze. He lay on the heath, awaiting our approach,
and did not rise till we came within a few yards. Then he walked so
feebly, and looked so pale, that I immediately exclaimed,—“Why, Master
Heathcliff, you are not fit for enjoying a ramble this morning. How ill
you do look!”

Catherine surveyed him with grief and astonishment: she changed the
ejaculation of joy on her lips to one of alarm; and the congratulation
on their long-postponed meeting to an anxious inquiry, whether he were
worse than usual?

“No—better—better!” he panted, trembling, and retaining her hand as if
he needed its support, while his large blue eyes wandered timidly over
her; the hollowness round them transforming to haggard wildness the
languid expression they once possessed.

“But you have been worse,” persisted his cousin; “worse than when I saw
you last; you are thinner, and—”

“I’m tired,” he interrupted, hurriedly. “It is too hot for walking, let
us rest here. And, in the morning, I often feel sick—papa says I grow
so fast.”

Badly satisfied, Cathy sat down, and he reclined beside her.

“This is something like your paradise,” said she, making an effort at
cheerfulness. “You recollect the two days we agreed to spend in the
place and way each thought pleasantest? This is nearly yours, only
there are clouds; but then they are so soft and mellow: it is nicer
than sunshine. Next week, if you can, we’ll ride down to the Grange
Park, and try mine.”

Linton did not appear to remember what she talked of; and he had
evidently great difficulty in sustaining any kind of conversation. His
lack of interest in the subjects she started, and his equal incapacity
to contribute to her entertainment, were so obvious that she could not
conceal her disappointment. An indefinite alteration had come over his
whole person and manner. The pettishness that might be caressed into
fondness, had yielded to a listless apathy; there was less of the
peevish temper of a child which frets and teases on purpose to be
soothed, and more of the self-absorbed moroseness of a confirmed
invalid, repelling consolation, and ready to regard the good-humoured
mirth of others as an insult. Catherine perceived, as well as I did,
that he held it rather a punishment, than a gratification, to endure
our company; and she made no scruple of proposing, presently, to
depart. That proposal, unexpectedly, roused Linton from his lethargy,
and threw him into a strange state of agitation. He glanced fearfully
towards the Heights, begging she would remain another half-hour, at
least.

“But I think,” said Cathy, “you’d be more comfortable at home than
sitting here; and I cannot amuse you to-day, I see, by my tales, and
songs, and chatter: you have grown wiser than I, in these six months;
you have little taste for my diversions now: or else, if I could amuse
you, I’d willingly stay.”

“Stay to rest yourself,” he replied. “And, Catherine, don’t think or
say that I’m very unwell: it is the heavy weather and heat that make
me dull; and I walked about, before you came, a great deal for me. Tell
uncle I’m in tolerable health, will you?”

“I’ll tell him that you say so, Linton. I couldn’t affirm that you
are,” observed my young lady, wondering at his pertinacious assertion
of what was evidently an untruth.

“And be here again next Thursday,” continued he, shunning her puzzled
gaze. “And give him my thanks for permitting you to come—my best
thanks, Catherine. And—and, if you did meet my father, and he asked
you about me, don’t lead him to suppose that I’ve been extremely silent
and stupid: don’t look sad and downcast, as you are doing—he’ll be
angry.”

“I care nothing for his anger,” exclaimed Cathy, imagining she would be
its object.

“But I do,” said her cousin, shuddering. “Don’t provoke him against
me, Catherine, for he is very hard.”

“Is he severe to you, Master Heathcliff?” I inquired. “Has he grown
weary of indulgence, and passed from passive to active hatred?”

Linton looked at me, but did not answer; and, after keeping her seat by
his side another ten minutes, during which his head fell drowsily on
his breast, and he uttered nothing except suppressed moans of
exhaustion or pain, Cathy began to seek solace in looking for
bilberries, and sharing the produce of her researches with me: she did
not offer them to him, for she saw further notice would only weary and
annoy.

“Is it half-an-hour now, Ellen?” she whispered in my ear, at last. “I
can’t tell why we should stay. He’s asleep, and papa will be wanting us
back.”

“Well, we must not leave him asleep,” I answered; “wait till he wakes,
and be patient. You were mighty eager to set off, but your longing to
see poor Linton has soon evaporated!”

“Why did he wish to see me?” returned Catherine. “In his crossest
humours, formerly, I liked him better than I do in his present curious
mood. It’s just as if it were a task he was compelled to perform—this
interview—for fear his father should scold him. But I’m hardly going to
come to give Mr. Heathcliff pleasure; whatever reason he may have for
ordering Linton to undergo this penance. And, though I’m glad he’s
better in health, I’m sorry he’s so much less pleasant, and so much
less affectionate to me.”

“You think he is better in health, then?” I said.

“Yes,” she answered; “because he always made such a great deal of his
sufferings, you know. He is not tolerably well, as he told me to tell
papa; but he’s better, very likely.”

“There you differ with me, Miss Cathy,” I remarked; “I should
conjecture him to be far worse.”

Linton here started from his slumber in bewildered terror, and asked if
any one had called his name.

“No,” said Catherine; “unless in dreams. I cannot conceive how you
manage to doze out of doors, in the morning.”

“I thought I heard my father,” he gasped, glancing up to the frowning
nab above us. “You are sure nobody spoke?”

“Quite sure,” replied his cousin. “Only Ellen and I were disputing
concerning your health. Are you truly stronger, Linton, than when we
separated in winter? If you be, I’m certain one thing is not
stronger—your regard for me: speak,—are you?”

The tears gushed from Linton’s eyes as he answered, “Yes, yes, I am!”
And, still under the spell of the imaginary voice, his gaze wandered up
and down to detect its owner.

Cathy rose. “For to-day we must part,” she said. “And I won’t conceal
that I have been sadly disappointed with our meeting; though I’ll
mention it to nobody but you: not that I stand in awe of Mr.
Heathcliff.”

“Hush,” murmured Linton; “for God’s sake, hush! He’s coming.” And he
clung to Catherine’s arm, striving to detain her; but at that
announcement she hastily disengaged herself, and whistled to Minny, who
obeyed her like a dog.

“I’ll be here next Thursday,” she cried, springing to the saddle.
“Good-bye. Quick, Ellen!”

And so we left him, scarcely conscious of our departure, so absorbed
was he in anticipating his father’s approach.

Before we reached home, Catherine’s displeasure softened into a
perplexed sensation of pity and regret, largely blended with vague,
uneasy doubts about Linton’s actual circumstances, physical and social:
in which I partook, though I counselled her not to say much; for a
second journey would make us better judges. My master requested an
account of our ongoings. His nephew’s offering of thanks was duly
delivered, Miss Cathy gently touching on the rest: I also threw little
light on his inquiries, for I hardly knew what to hide and what to
reveal.