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‘Where is Miss Catherine?’ I cried hurriedly.  ‘No accident, I hope?’  ‘At Thrushcross Grange,’ he answered; ‘and I would have been there too, but they had not the manners to ask me to stay.’  ‘Well, you will catch it!’ I said: ‘you’ll never be content till you’re sent about your business.  What in the world led you wandering to Thrushcross Grange?’  ‘Let me get off my wet clothes, and I’ll tell you all about it, Nelly,’ he replied.  I bid him beware of rousing the master, and while he undressed and I waited to put out the candle, he continued—‘Cathy and I escaped from the wash-house to have a ramble at liberty, and getting a glimpse of the Grange lights, we thought we would just go and see whether the Lintons passed their Sunday evenings standing shivering in corners, while their father and mother sat eating and drinking, and singing and laughing, and burning their eyes out before the fire.  Do you think they do?  Or reading sermons, and being catechised by their manservant, and set to learn a column of Scripture names, if they don’t answer properly?’  ‘Probably not,’ I responded.  ‘They are good children, no doubt, and don’t deserve the treatment you receive, for your bad conduct.’  ‘Don’t cant, Nelly,’ he said: ‘nonsense!  We ran from the top of the Heights to the park, without stopping—Catherine completely beaten in the race, because she was barefoot.  You’ll have to seek for her shoes in the bog to-morrow.  We crept through a broken hedge, groped our way up the path, and planted ourselves on a flower-plot under the drawing-room window.  The light came from thence; they had not put up the shutters, and the curtains were only half closed.  Both of us were able to look in by standing on the basement, and clinging to the ledge, and we saw—ah! it was beautiful—a splendid place carpeted with crimson, and crimson-covered chairs and tables, and a pure white ceiling bordered by gold, a shower of glass-drops hanging in silver chains from the centre, and shimmering with little soft tapers.  Old Mr. and Mrs. Linton were not there; Edgar and his sisters had it entirely to themselves.  Shouldn’t they have been happy?  We should have thought ourselves in heaven!  And now, guess what your good children were doing?  Isabella—I believe she is eleven, a year younger than Cathy—lay screaming at the farther end of the room, shrieking as if witches were running red-hot needles into her.  Edgar stood on the hearth weeping silently, and in the middle of the table sat a little dog, shaking its paw and yelping; which, from their mutual accusations, we understood they had nearly pulled in two between them.  The idiots!  That was their pleasure! to quarrel who should hold a heap of warm hair, and each begin to cry because both, after struggling to get it, refused to take it.  We laughed outright at the petted things; we did despise them!  When would you catch me wishing to have what Catherine wanted? or find us by ourselves, seeking entertainment in yelling, and sobbing, and rolling on the ground, divided by the whole room?  I’d not exchange, for a thousand lives, my condition here, for Edgar Linton’s at Thrushcross Grange—not if I might have the privilege of flinging Joseph off the highest gable, and painting the house-front with Hindley’s blood!’

‘Hush, hush!’ I interrupted.  ‘Still you have not told me, Heathcliff, how Catherine is left behind?’

‘I told you we laughed,’ he answered.  ‘The Lintons heard us, and with one accord they shot like arrows to the door; there was silence, and then a cry, “Oh, mamma, mamma!  Oh, papa!  Oh, mamma, come here.  Oh, papa, oh!”  They really did howl out something in that way.  We made frightful noises to terrify them still more, and then we dropped off the ledge, because somebody was drawing the bars, and we felt we had better flee.  I had Cathy by the hand, and was urging her on, when all at once she fell down.  “Run, Heathcliff, run!” she whispered.  “They have let the bull-dog loose, and he holds me!”  The devil had seized her ankle, Nelly: I heard his abominable snorting.  She did not yell out—no! she would have scorned to do it, if she had been spitted on the horns of a mad cow.  I did, though: I vociferated curses enough to annihilate any fiend in Christendom; and I got a stone and thrust it between his jaws, and tried with all my might to cram it down his throat.  A beast of a servant came up with a lantern, at last, shouting—“Keep fast, Skulker, keep fast!”  He changed his note, however, when he saw Skulker’s game.  The dog was throttled off; his huge, purple tongue hanging half a foot out of his mouth, and his pendent lips streaming with bloody slaver.  The man took Cathy up; she was sick: not from fear, I’m certain, but from pain.  He carried her in; I followed, grumbling execrations and vengeance.  “What prey, Robert?” hallooed Linton from the entrance.  “Skulker has caught a little girl, sir,” he replied; “and there’s a lad here,” he added, making a clutch at me, “who looks an out-and-outer!  Very like the robbers were for putting them through the window to open the doors to the gang after all were asleep, that they might murder us at their ease.  Hold your tongue, you foul-mouthed thief, you! you shall go to the gallows for this.  Mr. Linton, sir, don’t lay by your gun.”  “No, no, Robert,” said the old fool.  “The rascals knew that yesterday was my rent-day: they thought to have me cleverly.  Come in; I’ll furnish them a reception.  There, John, fasten the chain.  Give Skulker some water, Jenny.  To beard a magistrate in his stronghold, and on the Sabbath, too!  Where will their insolence stop?  Oh, my dear Mary, look here!  Don’t be afraid, it is but a boy—yet the villain scowls so plainly in his face; would it not be a kindness to the country to hang him at once, before he shows his nature in acts as well as features?”  He pulled me under the chandelier, and Mrs. Linton placed her spectacles on her nose and raised her hands in horror.  The cowardly children crept nearer also, Isabella lisping—“Frightful thing!  Put him in the cellar, papa.  He’s exactly like the son of the fortune-teller that stole my tame pheasant.  Isn’t he, Edgar?”

‘While they examined me, Cathy came round; she heard the last speech, and laughed.  Edgar Linton, after an inquisitive stare, collected sufficient wit to recognise her.  They see us at church, you know, though we seldom meet them elsewhere.  “That’s Miss Earnshaw?” he whispered to his mother, “and look how Skulker has bitten her—how her foot bleeds!”

‘“Miss Earnshaw?  Nonsense!” cried the dame; “Miss Earnshaw scouring the country with a gipsy!  And yet, my dear, the child is in mourning—surely it is—and she may be lamed for life!”

‘“What culpable carelessness in her brother!” exclaimed Mr. Linton, turning from me to Catherine.  “I’ve understood from Shielders”’ (that was the curate, sir) ‘“that he lets her grow up in absolute heathenism.  But who is this?  Where did she pick up this companion?  Oho! I declare he is that strange acquisition my late neighbour made, in his journey to Liverpool—a little Lascar, or an American or Spanish castaway.”