It's only a cold that ails him, the same as papa has.
You say papa will get better, and why shouldn't he?’
‘Well, well,’ I cried, ‘after all, we needn't trouble ourselves; for listen, Miss,—and mind, I'll keep my word,—if you attempt going to Wuthering Heights again, with or without me, I shall inform Mr. Linton, and, unless he allow it, the intimacy with your cousin must not be revived.’
‘It has been revived,’ muttered Cathy, sulkily.
‘Must not be continued, then,’ I said.
‘We'll see,’ was her reply, and she set off at a gallop, leaving me to toil in the rear.
We both reached home before our dinner-time; my master supposed we had been wandering through the park, and therefore he demanded no explanation of our absence.
As soon as I entered I hastened to change my soaked shoes and stockings; but sitting such awhile at the Heights had done the mischief.
On the succeeding morning I was laid up, and during three weeks I remained incapacitated for attending to my duties: a calamity never experienced prior to that period, and never, I am thankful to say, since.
My little mistress behaved like an angel in coming to wait on me, and cheer my solitude; the confinement brought me exceedingly low.
It is wearisome, to a stirring active body: but few have slighter reasons for complaint than I had.
The moment Catherine left Mr. Linton's room she appeared at my bedside.
Her day was divided between us; no amusement usurped a minute: she neglected her meals, her studies, and her play; and she was the fondest nurse that ever watched.
She must have had a warm heart, when she loved her father so, to give so much to me.
I said her days were divided between us; but the master retired early, and I generally needed nothing after six o'clock, thus the evening was her own.
Poor thing!
I never considered what she did with herself after tea.
And though frequently, when she looked in to bid me good-night, I remarked a fresh colour in her cheeks and a pinkness over her slender fingers, instead of fancying the line borrowed from a cold ride across the moors, I laid it to the charge of a hot fire in the library.
CHAPTER XXIV
AT the close of three weeks I was able to quit my chamber and move about the house.
And on the first occasion of my sitting up in the evening I asked Catherine to read to me, because my eyes were weak.
We were in the library, the master having gone to bed: she consented, rather unwillingly, I fancied; and imagining my sort of books did not suit her, I bid her please herself in the choice of what she perused.
She selected one of her own favourites, and got forward steadily about an hour; then came frequent questions.
‘Ellen, are not you tired?
Hadn't you better lie down now?
You'll be sick, keeping up so long, Ellen.’
‘No, no, dear, I'm not tired,’ I returned, continually.
Perceiving me immovable, she essayed another method of showing her disrelish for her occupation.
It changed to yawning, and stretching, and—
‘Ellen, I'm tired.’
‘Give over then and talk,’ I answered.
That was worse: she fretted and sighed, and looked at her watch till eight, and finally went to her room, completely overdone with sleep; judging by her peevish, heavy look, and the constant rubbing she inflicted on her eyes.
The following night she seemed more impatient still; and on the third from recovering my company she complained of a headache, and left me.
I thought her conduct odd; and having remained alone a long while, I resolved on going and inquiring whether she were better, and asking her to come and lie on the sofa, instead of up-stairs in the dark.
No Catherine could I discover up-stairs, and none below.
The servants affirmed they had not seen her.
I listened at Mr. Edgar's door; all was silence.
I returned to her apartment, extinguished my candle, and seated myself in the window.
The moon shone bright; a sprinkling of snow covered the ground, and I reflected that she might, possibly, have taken it into her head to walk about the garden, for refreshment.
I did detect a figure creeping along the inner fence of the park; but it was not my young mistress: on its emerging into the light, I recognised one of the grooms.
He stood a considerable period, viewing the carriage-road through the grounds; then started off at a brisk pace, as if he had detected something, and reappeared presently, leading Miss's pony; and there she was, just dismounted, and walking by its side.
The man took his charge stealthily across the grass towards the stable.
Cathy entered by the casement-window of the drawing-room, and glided noiselessly up to where I awaited her.
She put the door gently too, slipped off her snowy shoes, untied her hat, and was proceeding, unconscious of my espionage, to lay aside her mantle, when I suddenly rose and revealed myself.
The surprise petrified her an instant: she uttered an inarticulate exclamation, and stood fixed.
‘My dear Miss Catherine,’ I began, too vividly impressed by her recent kindness to break into a scold, ‘where have you been riding out at this hour?
And why should you try to deceive me by telling a tale?
Where have you been?
Speak!’
‘To the bottom of the park,’ she stammered. ‘I didn't tell a tale.’