Wuthering Heights

with my hardly wrung replies. However, Mr. Earnshaw soon convinced him that he was alive still; he hastened to administer a dose of spirits, and by their succour his master presently regained motion and consciousness.
    Heathcliff, aware that he was ignorant of the treatment received while insensible, called him deliriously intoxicated; and said he should not notice his atrocious conduct further; but advised him to get to bed. To my joy, he left us after giving this judicious counsel, and Hindley stretched himself on the hearth-stone. I departed to my own room, marvelling that I had escaped so easily.
    This morning, when I came down, about half-an-hour before noon, Mr. Earnshaw was sitting by the fire, deadly sick; his evil genius almost as gaunt and ghastly, leant against the chimney. Neither appeared inclined to dine; and having waited till all was cold on the table, I commenced alone.
    Nothing hindered me from eating heartily; and I experienced a certain sense of satisfaction and superiority, as, at intervals, I cast a look towards my silent companions, and felt the comfort of a quiet conscience within me.
    After I had done, I ventured on the unusual liberty of drawing near the fire; going round Earnshaw's seat, and kneeling in the corner beside him.
    Heathcliff did not glance my way, and I gazed up, and contemplated his features, almost as confidently as if they had been turned to stone. His forehead, that I once thought so manly, and that I now think so diabolical, was shaded with a heavy cloud; his basilisk eyes were nearly quenched by sleeplessness – and weeping, perhaps, for the lashes were wet then: his lips devoid of their ferocious sneer, and sealed in an expression of unspeakable sadness. Had it been another, I would have covered my face, in the presence of such grief. In
his
case, I was gratified: and ignoble as it seems to insult a fallen enemy, I couldn't miss this chance of sticking in a dart; his weakness was the only time when I could taste the delight of paying wrong for wrong.«
    »Fie, fie, Miss!« I interrupted. »One might suppose you had never opened a Bible in your life. If God afflict your enemies, surely that ought to suffice you. It is both mean and presumptuous to add your torture to his!«
    »In general, I'll allow that it would be, Ellen,« she continued. »But what misery laid on Heathcliff could content me, unless I have a hand in it? I'd rather he suffered
less,
if I might cause his sufferings, and he might
know
that I was the cause. Oh, I owe him so much. On only one condition can I hope to forgive him. It is, if I may take an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth, for every wrench of agony, return a wrench, reduce him to my level. As he was the first to injure, make him the first to implore pardon; and then – why then, Ellen, I might show you some generosity. But it is utterly impossible I can ever be revenged, and therefore I cannot forgive him. Hindley wanted some water, and I handed him a glass, and asked him how he was.
    ›Not as ill as I wish,‹ he replied. ›But leaving out my arm, every inch of me is as sore as if I had been fighting with a legion of imps!‹
    ›Yes, no wonder,‹ was my next remark. ›Catherine used to boast that she stood between you and bodily harm – she meant that certain persons would not hurt you, for fear of offending her. It's well people don't
really
rise from their grave, or, last night, she might have witnessed a repulsive scene! Are not you bruised, and cut over your chest and shoulders?‹
    ›I can't say,‹ he answered; ›but what do you mean? Did he dare to strike me when
I
was down?‹
    ›He trampled on, and kicked you, and dashed you on the ground,‹ I whispered. ›And his mouth watered to tear you with his teeth; because, he's only half a man – not so much.‹
    Mr. Earnshaw looked up, like me, to the countenance of our mutual foe; who, absorbed in his anguish, seemed insensible to anything around him; the longer he stood, the plainer his reflections revealed their blackness through his features.
    ›Oh, if God would but give me strength to strangle him in my last agony, I'd go to hell with joy,‹ groaned the impatient man writhing to rise, and sinking back in despair, convinced of his inadequacy for the struggle.
    ›Nay, it's enough that he has murdered one of you,‹ I observed aloud. ›At the Grange, every one knows your sister would have been living now, had it not been for Mr. Heathcliff. After all, it is preferable to