Wuthering Heights

the encounter with Heathcliff, as we stretched towards home; but I divined instinctively that Catherine's heart was clouded now in double darkness. Her features were so sad, they did not seem hers: she evidently regarded what she had heard as every syllable true.
    The master had retired to rest before we came in. Cathy stole to his room to inquire how he was; he had fallen asleep. She returned, and asked me to sit with her in the library. We took our tea together; and afterwards she lay down on the rug, and told me not to talk for she was weary.
    I got a book, and pretended to read. As soon as she supposed me absorbed in my occupation, she recommenced her silent weeping: it appeared, at present, her favourite diversion. I suffered her to enjoy it a while; then, I expostulated; deriding and ridiculing all Mr. Heathcliff's assertions about his son; as if I were certain she would coincide. Alas! I hadn't skill to counteract the effect his account had produced; it was just what he intended.
    »You may be right, Ellen,« she answered; »but I shall never feel at ease till I know – and I must tell Linton it is not my fault that I don't write; and convince him that I shall not change.«
    What use were anger and protestations against her silly credulity? We parted that night hostile – but next day beheld me on the road to Wuthering Heights, by the side of my wilful young mistress's pony. I couldn't bear to witness her sorrow, to see her pale, dejected countenance, and heavy eyes; and I yielded in the faint hope that Linton himself might prove by his reception of us, how little of the tale was founded on fact.
     
     
Chapter XXIII
    The rainy night had ushered in a misty morning – half frost, half drizzle – and temporary brooks crossed our path, gurgling from the uplands. My feet were thoroughly wetted; I was cross and low, exactly the humour suited for making the most of these disagreeable things.
    We entered the farm-house by the kitchen way to ascertain whether Mr. Heathcliff were really absent; because I put slight faith in his own affirmation.
    Joseph seemed sitting in a sort of elysium alone, beside a roaring fire; a quart of ale on the table near him, bristling with large pieces of toasted oat cake; and his black, short pipe in his mouth.
    Catherine ran to the hearth to warm herself. I asked if the master were in?
    My question remained so long unanswered, that I thought the old man had grown deaf, and repeated it louder.
    »Na – ay!« he snarled, or rather screamed through his nose. »Na – ay! yah mun goa back whear yah coom frough.«
    »Joseph,« cried a peevish voice, simultaneously with me, from the inner room. »How often am I to call you? There are only a few red ashes now. Joseph! come this moment.«
    Vigorous puffs, and a resolute stare into the grate declared he had no ear for this appeal. The housekeeper and Hareton were invisible; one gone on an errand, and the other at his work, probably. We knew Linton's tones and entered.
    »Oh, I hope you'll die in a garret! starved to death,« said the boy, mistaking our approach for that of his negligent attendant.
    He stopped, on observing his error; his cousin flew to him.
    »Is that you, Miss Linton?« he said, raising his head from the arm of the great chair, in which he reclined. »No – don't kiss me. It takes my breath – dear me! Papa said you would call,« continued he, after recovering a little from Catherine's embrace; while she stood by looking very contrite. »Will you shut the door, if you please? you left it open – and those – those
detestable
creatures won't bring coals to the fire. It's so cold!«
    I stirred up the cinders, and fetched a scuttle full myself. The invalid complained of being covered with ashes; but he had a tiresome cough, and looked feverish and ill, so I did not rebuke his temper.
    »Well, Linton,« murmured Catherine, when his corrugated brow relaxed. »Are you glad to see me? Can I do you any good?«
    »Why didn't you come before?« he said. »You should have come, instead of writing. It tired me dreadfully, writing those long letters. I'd far rather have talked to you. Now, I can neither bear to talk, nor anything else. I wonder where Zillah is! will you (looking at me,) step into the kitchen and see?«
    I had received no thanks for my other service; and being unwilling to run to and fro at his behest, I replied –
    »Nobody is out there but Joseph.«
    »I want to drink,« he exclaimed, fretfully, turning away.