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‘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.’

‘And nowhere else?’ I demanded.

‘No,’ was the muttered reply.

‘Oh, Catherine!’ I cried, sorrowfully.  ‘You know you have been doing wrong, or you wouldn’t be driven to uttering an untruth to me.  That does grieve me.  I’d rather be three months ill, than hear you frame a deliberate lie.’

She sprang forward, and bursting into tears, threw her arms round my neck.

‘Well, Ellen, I’m so afraid of you being angry,’ she said.  ‘Promise not to be angry, and you shall know the very truth: I hate to hide it.’

We sat down in the window-seat; I assured her I would not scold, whatever her secret might be, and I guessed it, of course; so she commenced—

‘I’ve been to Wuthering Heights, Ellen, and I’ve never missed going a day since you fell ill; except thrice before, and twice after you left your room.  I gave Michael books and pictures to prepare Minny every evening, and to put her back in the stable: you mustn’t scold him either, mind.  I was at the Heights by half-past six, and generally stayed till half-past eight, and then galloped home.  It was not to amuse myself that I went: I was often wretched all the time.  Now and then I was happy: once in a week perhaps.  At first, I expected there would be sad work persuading you to let me keep my word to Linton: for I had engaged to call again next day, when we quitted him; but, as you stayed up-stairs on the morrow, I escaped that trouble.  While Michael was refastening the lock of the park door in the afternoon, I got possession of the key, and told him how my cousin wished me to visit him, because he was sick, and couldn’t come to the Grange; and how papa would object to my going: and then I negotiated with him about the pony.  He is fond of reading, and he thinks of leaving soon to get married; so he offered, if I would lend him books out of the library, to do what I wished: but I preferred giving him my own, and that satisfied him better.

‘On my second visit Linton seemed in lively spirits; and Zillah (that is their housekeeper) made us a clean room and a good fire, and told us that, as Joseph was out at a prayer-meeting and Hareton Earnshaw was off with his dogs—robbing our woods of pheasants, as I heard afterwards—we might do what we liked.  She brought me some warm wine and gingerbread, and appeared exceedingly good-natured, and Linton sat in the arm-chair, and I in the little rocking chair on the hearth-stone, and we laughed and talked so merrily, and found so much to say: we planned where we would go, and what we would do in summer.  I needn’t repeat that, because you would call it silly.

‘One time, however, we were near quarrelling.  He said the pleasantest manner of spending a hot July day was lying from morning till evening on a bank of heath in the middle of the moors, with the bees humming dreamily about among the bloom, and the larks singing high up overhead, and the blue sky and bright sun shining steadily and cloudlessly.  That was his most perfect idea of heaven’s happiness: mine was rocking in a rustling green tree, with a west wind blowing, and bright white clouds flitting rapidly above; and not only larks, but throstles, and blackbirds, and linnets, and cuckoos pouring out music on every side, and the moors seen at a distance, broken into cool dusky dells; but close by great swells of long grass undulating in waves to the breeze; and woods and sounding water, and the whole world awake and wild with joy.  He wanted all to lie in an ecstasy of peace; I wanted all to sparkle and dance in a glorious jubilee.  I said his heaven would be only half alive; and he said mine would be drunk: I said I should fall asleep in his; and he said he could not breathe in mine, and began to grow very snappish.  At last, we agreed to try both, as soon as the right weather came; and then we kissed each other and were friends.

‘After sitting still an hour, I looked at the great room with its smooth uncarpeted floor, and thought how nice it would be to play in, if we removed the table; and I asked Linton to call Zillah in to help us, and we’d have a game at blindman’s-buff; she should try to catch us: you used to, you know, Ellen.  He wouldn’t: there was no pleasure in it, he said; but he consented to play at ball with me.  We found two in a cupboard, among a heap of old toys, tops, and hoops, and battledores and shuttlecocks.  One was marked C., and the other H.; I wished to have the C., because that stood for Catherine, and the H. might be for Heathcliff, his name; but the bran came out of H., and Linton didn’t like it.  I beat him constantly: and he got cross again, and coughed, and returned to his chair.  That night, though, he easily recovered his good humour: he was charmed with two or three pretty songs—your songs, Ellen; and when I was obliged to go, he begged and entreated me to come the following evening; and I promised.  Minny and I went flying home as light as air; and I dreamt of Wuthering Heights and my sweet, darling cousin, till morning.

‘On the morrow I was sad; partly because you were poorly, and partly that I wished my father knew, and approved of my excursions: but it was beautiful moonlight after tea; and, as I rode on, the gloom cleared.  I shall have another happy evening, I thought to myself; and what delights me more, my pretty Linton will.  I trotted up their garden, and was turning round to the back, when that fellow Earnshaw met me, took my bridle, and bid me go in by the front entrance.  He patted Minny’s neck, and said she was a bonny beast, and appeared as if he wanted me to speak to him.  I only told him to leave my horse alone, or else it would kick him.  He answered in his vulgar accent, “It wouldn’t do mitch hurt if it did;” and surveyed its legs with a smile.  I was half inclined to make it try; however, he moved off to open the door, and, as he raised the latch, he looked up to the inscription above, and said, with a stupid mixture of awkwardness and elation: “Miss Catherine!  I can read yon, now.”

‘“Wonderful,” I exclaimed.  “Pray let us hear you—you are grown clever!”

‘He spelt, and drawled over by syllables, the name—“Hareton Earnshaw.”

‘“And the figures?” I cried, encouragingly, perceiving that he came to a dead halt.

‘“I cannot tell them yet,” he answered.

‘“Oh, you dunce!” I said, laughing heartily at his failure.

‘The fool stared, with a grin hovering about his lips, and a scowl gathering over his eyes, as if uncertain whether he might not join in my mirth: whether it were not pleasant familiarity, or what it really was, contempt.  I settled his doubts, by suddenly retrieving my gravity and desiring him to walk away, for I came to see Linton, not him.  He reddened—I saw that by the moonlight—dropped his hand from the latch, and skulked off, a picture of mortified vanity.  He imagined himself to be as accomplished as Linton, I suppose, because he could spell his own name; and was marvellously discomfited that I didn’t think the same.’