Wuthering Heights

independent house; and I can see no remedy, at present, unless she could marry again; and that scheme, it does not come within my province to arrange.
     
    Thus ended Mrs. Dean's story. Notwithstanding the doctor's prophecy, I am rapidly recovering strength, and, though it be only the second week in January, I propose getting out on horseback, in a day or two, and riding over to Wuthering Heights, to inform my landlord that I shall spend the next six months in London; and, if he likes, he may look out for another tenant to take the place, after October – I would not pass another winter here, for much.
     
     
Chapter XXXI
    Yesterday was bright, calm, and frosty. I went to the Heights as I proposed; my housekeeper entreated me to bear a little note from her to her young lady, and I did not refuse, for the worthy woman was not conscious of anything odd in her request.
    The front door stood open, but the jealous gate was fastened, as at my last visit; I knocked and invoked Earnshaw from among the garden beds; he unchained it, and I entered. The fellow is as handsome a rustic as need be seen. I took particular notice of him this time; but then, he does his best, apparently, to make the least of his advantages.
    I asked if Mr. Heathcliff were at home? He answered, no; but he would be in at dinner-time. It was eleven o'clock, and I announced my intention of going in, and waiting for him, at which he immediately flung down his tools and accompanied me, in the office of watchdog, not as a substitute for the host.
    We entered together; Catherine was there, making herself useful in preparing some vegetables for the approaching meal; she looked more sulky, and less spirited than when I had seen her first. She hardly raised her eyes to notice me, and continued her employment with the same disregard to common forms of politeness, as before; never returning my bow and good morning, by the slightest acknowledgment.
    »She does not seem so amiable,« I thought, »as Mrs. Dean would persuade me to believe. She's a beauty, it is true; but not an angel.«
    Earnshaw surlily bid her remove her things to the kitchen.
    »Remove them yourself,« she said; pushing them from her, as soon as she had done; and retiring to a stool by the window, where she began to carve figures of birds and beasts, out of the turnip parings in her lap.
    I approached her, pretending to desire a view of the garden; and, as I fancied, adroitly dropped Mrs. Dean's note onto her knee, unnoticed by Hareton – but she asked aloud –
    »What is that?« And chucked it off.
    »A letter from your old acquaintance, the housekeeper at the Grange,« I answered, annoyed at her exposing my kind deed, and fearful lest it should be imagined a missive of my own.
    She would gladly have gathered it up, at this information, but Hareton beat her; he seized, and put it in his waistcoat, saying Mr. Heathcliff should look at it first.
    Thereat, Catherine silently turned her face from us, and, very stealthily, drew out her pocket-handkerchief and applied it to her eyes; and her cousin, after struggling a while to keep down his softer feelings, pulled out the letter and flung it on the floor beside her as ungraciously as he could.
    Catherine caught, and perused it eagerly; then she put a few questions to me concerning the inmates, rational and irrational, of her former home; and gazing towards the hills, murmured in soliloquy.
    »I should like to be riding Minny down there! I should like to be climbing up there – Oh! I'm tired – I'm
stalled,
Hareton!«
    And she leant her pretty head back against the sill, with half a yawn and half a sigh, and lapsed into an aspect of abstracted sadness, neither caring, nor knowing whether we remarked her.
    »Mrs. Heathcliff,« I said, after sitting some time mute, »you are not aware that I am an acquaintance of yours? so intimate, that I think it strange you won't come and speak to me. My housekeeper never wearies of talking about and praising you; and she'll be greatly disappointed if I return with no news of, or from you, except that you received her letter, and said nothing!«
    She appeared to wonder at this speech and asked,
    »Does Ellen like you?«
    »Yes, very well,« I replied unhesitatingly.
    »You must tell her,« she continued, »that I would answer her letter, but I have no materials for writing, not even a book from which I might tear a leaf.«
    »No books!« I exclaimed. »How do you contrive to live here without them? If I may take