{"id":45,"date":"2021-06-11T09:10:02","date_gmt":"2021-06-11T13:10:02","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/pressbooks.library.ryerson.ca\/wutheringheights\/chapter\/the-project-gutenberg-ebook-of-wuthering-heights-by-emily-bronte-21\/"},"modified":"2022-01-31T09:18:55","modified_gmt":"2022-01-31T14:18:55","slug":"22","status":"publish","type":"chapter","link":"https:\/\/pressbooks.library.torontomu.ca\/wutheringheights\/chapter\/22\/","title":{"raw":"Chapter XXII","rendered":"Chapter XXII"},"content":{"raw":"Summer drew to an end, and early autumn: it was past Michaelmas, but the harvest was late that year, and a few of our fields were still uncleared. Mr. Linton and his daughter would frequently walk out among the reapers; at the carrying of the last sheaves they stayed till dusk, and the evening happening to be chill and damp, my master caught a bad cold, that settled obstinately on his lungs, and confined him indoors throughout the whole of the winter, nearly without intermission.\r\n\r\nPoor Cathy, frightened from her little romance, had been considerably sadder and duller since its abandonment; and her father insisted on her reading less, and taking more exercise. She had his companionship no longer; I esteemed it a duty to supply its lack, as much as possible, with mine: an inefficient substitute; for I could only spare two or three hours, from my numerous diurnal occupations, to follow her footsteps, and then my society was obviously less desirable than his.\r\n\r\nOn an afternoon in October, or the beginning of November\u2014a fresh watery afternoon, when the turf and paths were rustling with moist, withered leaves, and the cold blue sky was half hidden by clouds\u2014dark grey streamers, rapidly mounting from the west, and boding abundant rain\u2014I requested my young lady to forego her ramble, because I was certain of showers. She refused; and I unwillingly donned a cloak, and took my umbrella to accompany her on a stroll to the bottom of the park: a formal walk which she generally affected if low-spirited\u2014and that she invariably was when Mr. Edgar had been worse than ordinary, a thing never known from his confession, but guessed both by her and me from his increased silence and the melancholy of his countenance. She went sadly on: there was no running or bounding now, though the chill wind might well have tempted her to race. And often, from the side of my eye, I could detect her raising a hand, and brushing something off her cheek. I gazed round for a means of diverting her thoughts. On one side of the road rose a high, rough bank, where hazels and stunted oaks, with their roots half exposed, held uncertain tenure: the soil was too loose for the latter; and strong winds had blown some nearly horizontal. In summer Miss Catherine delighted to climb along these trunks, and sit in the branches, swinging twenty feet above the ground; and I, pleased with her agility and her light, childish heart, still considered it proper to scold every time I caught her at such an elevation, but so that she knew there was no necessity for descending. From dinner to tea she would lie in her breeze-rocked cradle, doing nothing except singing old songs\u2014my nursery lore\u2014to herself, or watching the birds, joint tenants, feed and entice their young ones to fly: or nestling with closed lids, half thinking, half dreaming, happier than words can express.\r\n\r\n\u201cLook, Miss!\u201d I exclaimed, pointing to a nook under the roots of one twisted tree. \u201cWinter is not here yet. There\u2019s a little flower up yonder, the last bud from the multitude of bluebells that clouded those turf steps in July with a lilac mist. Will you clamber up, and pluck it to show to papa?\u201d Cathy stared a long time at the lonely blossom trembling in its earthy shelter, and replied, at length\u2014\u201cNo, I\u2019ll not touch it: but it looks melancholy, does it not, Ellen?\u201d\r\n\r\n\u201cYes,\u201d I observed, \u201cabout as starved and suckless as you: your cheeks are bloodless; let us take hold of hands and run. You\u2019re so low, I daresay I shall keep up with you.\u201d\r\n\r\n\u201cNo,\u201d she repeated, and continued sauntering on, pausing at intervals to muse over a bit of moss, or a tuft of blanched grass, or a fungus spreading its bright orange among the heaps of brown foliage; and, ever and anon, her hand was lifted to her averted face.\r\n\r\n\u201cCatherine, why are you crying, love?\u201d I asked, approaching and putting my arm over her shoulder. \u201cYou mustn\u2019t cry because papa has a cold; be thankful it is nothing worse.\u201d\r\n\r\nShe now put no further restraint on her tears; her breath was stifled by sobs.\r\n\r\n\u201cOh, it will be something worse,\u201d she said. \u201cAnd what shall I do when papa and you leave me, and I am by myself? I can\u2019t forget your words, Ellen; they are always in my ear. How life will be changed, how dreary the world will be, when papa and you are dead.\u201d\r\n\r\n\u201cNone can tell whether you won\u2019t die before us,\u201d I replied. \u201cIt\u2019s wrong to anticipate evil. We\u2019ll hope there are years and years to come before any of us go: master is young, and I am strong, and hardly forty-five. My mother lived till eighty, a canty dame to the last. And suppose Mr. Linton were spared till he saw sixty, that would be more years than you have counted, Miss. And would it not be foolish to mourn a calamity above twenty years beforehand?\u201d\r\n\r\n\u201cBut Aunt Isabella was younger than papa,\u201d she remarked, gazing up with timid hope to seek further consolation.\r\n\r\n\u201cAunt Isabella had not you and me to nurse her,\u201d I replied. \u201cShe wasn\u2019t as happy as Master: she hadn\u2019t as much to live for. All you need do, is to wait well on your father, and cheer him by letting him see you cheerful; and avoid giving him anxiety on any subject: mind that, Cathy! I\u2019ll not disguise but you might kill him if you were wild and reckless, and cherished a foolish, fanciful affection for the son of a person who would be glad to have him in his grave; and allowed him to discover that you fretted over the separation he has judged it expedient to make.\u201d\r\n\r\n\u201cI fret about nothing on earth except papa\u2019s illness,\u201d answered my companion. \u201cI care for nothing in comparison with papa. And I\u2019ll never\u2014never\u2014oh, never, while I have my senses, do an act or say a word to vex him. I love him better than myself, Ellen; and I know it by this: I pray every night that I may live after him; because I would rather be miserable than that he should be: that proves I love him better than myself.\u201d\r\n\r\n\u201cGood words,\u201d I replied. \u201cBut deeds must prove it also; and after he is well, remember you don\u2019t forget resolutions formed in the hour of fear.\u201d\r\n\r\nAs we talked, we neared a door that opened on the road; and my young lady, lightening into sunshine again, climbed up and seated herself on the top of the wall, reaching over to gather some hips that bloomed scarlet on the summit branches of the wild-rose trees shadowing the highway side: the lower fruit had disappeared, but only birds could touch the upper, except from Cathy\u2019s present station. In stretching to pull them, her hat fell off; and as the door was locked, she proposed scrambling down to recover it. I bid her be cautious lest she got a fall, and she nimbly disappeared. But the return was no such easy matter: the stones were smooth and neatly cemented, and the rose-bushes and black-berry stragglers could yield no assistance in re-ascending. I, like a fool, didn\u2019t recollect that, till I heard her laughing and exclaiming\u2014\u201cEllen! you\u2019ll have to fetch the key, or else I must run round to the porter\u2019s lodge. I can\u2019t scale the ramparts on this side!\u201d\r\n\r\n\u201cStay where you are,\u201d I answered; \u201cI have my bundle of keys in my pocket: perhaps I may manage to open it; if not, I\u2019ll go.\u201d\r\n\r\nCatherine amused herself with dancing to and fro before the door, while I tried all the large keys in succession. I had applied the last, and found that none would do; so, repeating my desire that she would remain there, I was about to hurry home as fast as I could, when an approaching sound arrested me. It was the trot of a horse; Cathy\u2019s dance stopped also.\r\n\r\n\u201cWho is that?\u201d I whispered.\r\n\r\n\u201cEllen, I wish you could open the door,\u201d whispered back my companion, anxiously.\r\n\r\n\u201cHo, Miss Linton!\u201d cried a deep voice (the rider\u2019s), \u201cI\u2019m glad to meet you. Don\u2019t be in haste to enter, for I have an explanation to ask and obtain.\u201d\r\n\r\n\u201cI sha\u2019n\u2019t speak to you, Mr. Heathcliff,\u201d answered Catherine. \u201cPapa says you are a wicked man, and you hate both him and me; and Ellen says the same.\u201d\r\n\r\n\u201cThat is nothing to the purpose,\u201d said Heathcliff. (He it was.) \u201cI don\u2019t hate my son, I suppose; and it is concerning him that I demand your attention. Yes; you have cause to blush. Two or three months since, were you not in the habit of writing to Linton? making love in play, eh? You deserved, both of you, flogging for that! You especially, the elder; and less sensitive, as it turns out. I\u2019ve got your letters, and if you give me any pertness I\u2019ll send them to your father. I presume you grew weary of the amusement and dropped it, didn\u2019t you? Well, you dropped Linton with it into a Slough of Despond. He was in earnest: in love, really. As true as I live, he\u2019s dying for you; breaking his heart at your fickleness: not figuratively, but actually. Though Hareton has made him a standing jest for six weeks, and I have used more serious measures, and attempted to frighten him out of his idiocy, he gets worse daily; and he\u2019ll be under the sod before summer, unless you restore him!\u201d\r\n\r\n\u201cHow can you lie so glaringly to the poor child?\u201d I called from the inside. \u201cPray ride on! How can you deliberately get up such paltry falsehoods? Miss Cathy, I\u2019ll knock the lock off with a stone: you won\u2019t believe that vile nonsense. You can feel in yourself it is impossible that a person should die for love of a stranger.\u201d\r\n\r\n\u201cI was not aware there were eavesdroppers,\u201d muttered the detected villain. \u201cWorthy Mrs. Dean, I like you, but I don\u2019t like your double-dealing,\u201d he added aloud. \u201cHow could you<\/i> lie so glaringly as to affirm I hated the \u2018poor child\u2019? and invent bugbear stories to terrify her from my door-stones? Catherine Linton (the very name warms me), my bonny lass, I shall be from home all this week; go and see if I have not spoken truth: do, there\u2019s a darling! Just imagine your father in my place, and Linton in yours; then think how you would value your careless lover if he refused to stir a step to comfort you, when your father himself entreated him; and don\u2019t, from pure stupidity, fall into the same error. I swear, on my salvation, he\u2019s going to his grave, and none but you can save him!\u201d\r\n\r\nThe lock gave way and I issued out.\r\n\r\n\u201cI swear Linton is dying,\u201d repeated Heathcliff, looking hard at me. \u201cAnd grief and disappointment are hastening his death. Nelly, if you won\u2019t let her go, you can walk over yourself. But I shall not return till this time next week; and I think your master himself would scarcely object to her visiting her cousin.\u201d\r\n\r\n\u201cCome in,\u201d said I, taking Cathy by the arm and half forcing her to re-enter; for she lingered, viewing with troubled eyes the features of the speaker, too stern to express his inward deceit.\r\n\r\nHe pushed his horse close, and, bending down, observed\u2014\u201cMiss Catherine, I\u2019ll own to you that I have little patience with Linton; and Hareton and Joseph have less. I\u2019ll own that he\u2019s with a harsh set. He pines for kindness, as well as love; and a kind word from you would be his best medicine. Don\u2019t mind Mrs. Dean\u2019s cruel cautions; but be generous, and contrive to see him. He dreams of you day and night, and cannot be persuaded that you don\u2019t hate him, since you neither write nor call.\u201d\r\n\r\nI closed the door, and rolled a stone to assist the loosened lock in holding it; and spreading my umbrella, I drew my charge underneath: for the rain began to drive through the moaning branches of the trees, and warned us to avoid delay. Our hurry prevented any comment on the encounter with Heathcliff, as we stretched towards home; but I divined instinctively that Catherine\u2019s 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.\r\n\r\nThe 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\u2019s assertions about his son, as if I were certain she would coincide. Alas! I hadn\u2019t skill to counteract the effect his account had produced: it was just what he intended.\r\n\r\n\u201cYou may be right, Ellen,\u201d she answered; \u201cbut I shall never feel at ease till I know. And I must tell Linton it is not my fault that I don\u2019t write, and convince him that I shall not change.\u201d\r\n\r\nWhat use were anger and protestations against her silly credulity? We parted that night\u2014hostile; but next day beheld me on the road to Wuthering Heights, by the side of my wilful young mistress\u2019s pony. I couldn\u2019t 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.","rendered":"

Summer drew to an end, and early autumn: it was past Michaelmas, but the harvest was late that year, and a few of our fields were still uncleared. Mr. Linton and his daughter would frequently walk out among the reapers; at the carrying of the last sheaves they stayed till dusk, and the evening happening to be chill and damp, my master caught a bad cold, that settled obstinately on his lungs, and confined him indoors throughout the whole of the winter, nearly without intermission.<\/p>\n

Poor Cathy, frightened from her little romance, had been considerably sadder and duller since its abandonment; and her father insisted on her reading less, and taking more exercise. She had his companionship no longer; I esteemed it a duty to supply its lack, as much as possible, with mine: an inefficient substitute; for I could only spare two or three hours, from my numerous diurnal occupations, to follow her footsteps, and then my society was obviously less desirable than his.<\/p>\n

On an afternoon in October, or the beginning of November\u2014a fresh watery afternoon, when the turf and paths were rustling with moist, withered leaves, and the cold blue sky was half hidden by clouds\u2014dark grey streamers, rapidly mounting from the west, and boding abundant rain\u2014I requested my young lady to forego her ramble, because I was certain of showers. She refused; and I unwillingly donned a cloak, and took my umbrella to accompany her on a stroll to the bottom of the park: a formal walk which she generally affected if low-spirited\u2014and that she invariably was when Mr. Edgar had been worse than ordinary, a thing never known from his confession, but guessed both by her and me from his increased silence and the melancholy of his countenance. She went sadly on: there was no running or bounding now, though the chill wind might well have tempted her to race. And often, from the side of my eye, I could detect her raising a hand, and brushing something off her cheek. I gazed round for a means of diverting her thoughts. On one side of the road rose a high, rough bank, where hazels and stunted oaks, with their roots half exposed, held uncertain tenure: the soil was too loose for the latter; and strong winds had blown some nearly horizontal. In summer Miss Catherine delighted to climb along these trunks, and sit in the branches, swinging twenty feet above the ground; and I, pleased with her agility and her light, childish heart, still considered it proper to scold every time I caught her at such an elevation, but so that she knew there was no necessity for descending. From dinner to tea she would lie in her breeze-rocked cradle, doing nothing except singing old songs\u2014my nursery lore\u2014to herself, or watching the birds, joint tenants, feed and entice their young ones to fly: or nestling with closed lids, half thinking, half dreaming, happier than words can express.<\/p>\n

\u201cLook, Miss!\u201d I exclaimed, pointing to a nook under the roots of one twisted tree. \u201cWinter is not here yet. There\u2019s a little flower up yonder, the last bud from the multitude of bluebells that clouded those turf steps in July with a lilac mist. Will you clamber up, and pluck it to show to papa?\u201d Cathy stared a long time at the lonely blossom trembling in its earthy shelter, and replied, at length\u2014\u201cNo, I\u2019ll not touch it: but it looks melancholy, does it not, Ellen?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYes,\u201d I observed, \u201cabout as starved and suckless as you: your cheeks are bloodless; let us take hold of hands and run. You\u2019re so low, I daresay I shall keep up with you.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cNo,\u201d she repeated, and continued sauntering on, pausing at intervals to muse over a bit of moss, or a tuft of blanched grass, or a fungus spreading its bright orange among the heaps of brown foliage; and, ever and anon, her hand was lifted to her averted face.<\/p>\n

\u201cCatherine, why are you crying, love?\u201d I asked, approaching and putting my arm over her shoulder. \u201cYou mustn\u2019t cry because papa has a cold; be thankful it is nothing worse.\u201d<\/p>\n

She now put no further restraint on her tears; her breath was stifled by sobs.<\/p>\n

\u201cOh, it will be something worse,\u201d she said. \u201cAnd what shall I do when papa and you leave me, and I am by myself? I can\u2019t forget your words, Ellen; they are always in my ear. How life will be changed, how dreary the world will be, when papa and you are dead.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cNone can tell whether you won\u2019t die before us,\u201d I replied. \u201cIt\u2019s wrong to anticipate evil. We\u2019ll hope there are years and years to come before any of us go: master is young, and I am strong, and hardly forty-five. My mother lived till eighty, a canty dame to the last. And suppose Mr. Linton were spared till he saw sixty, that would be more years than you have counted, Miss. And would it not be foolish to mourn a calamity above twenty years beforehand?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cBut Aunt Isabella was younger than papa,\u201d she remarked, gazing up with timid hope to seek further consolation.<\/p>\n

\u201cAunt Isabella had not you and me to nurse her,\u201d I replied. \u201cShe wasn\u2019t as happy as Master: she hadn\u2019t as much to live for. All you need do, is to wait well on your father, and cheer him by letting him see you cheerful; and avoid giving him anxiety on any subject: mind that, Cathy! I\u2019ll not disguise but you might kill him if you were wild and reckless, and cherished a foolish, fanciful affection for the son of a person who would be glad to have him in his grave; and allowed him to discover that you fretted over the separation he has judged it expedient to make.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI fret about nothing on earth except papa\u2019s illness,\u201d answered my companion. \u201cI care for nothing in comparison with papa. And I\u2019ll never\u2014never\u2014oh, never, while I have my senses, do an act or say a word to vex him. I love him better than myself, Ellen; and I know it by this: I pray every night that I may live after him; because I would rather be miserable than that he should be: that proves I love him better than myself.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cGood words,\u201d I replied. \u201cBut deeds must prove it also; and after he is well, remember you don\u2019t forget resolutions formed in the hour of fear.\u201d<\/p>\n

As we talked, we neared a door that opened on the road; and my young lady, lightening into sunshine again, climbed up and seated herself on the top of the wall, reaching over to gather some hips that bloomed scarlet on the summit branches of the wild-rose trees shadowing the highway side: the lower fruit had disappeared, but only birds could touch the upper, except from Cathy\u2019s present station. In stretching to pull them, her hat fell off; and as the door was locked, she proposed scrambling down to recover it. I bid her be cautious lest she got a fall, and she nimbly disappeared. But the return was no such easy matter: the stones were smooth and neatly cemented, and the rose-bushes and black-berry stragglers could yield no assistance in re-ascending. I, like a fool, didn\u2019t recollect that, till I heard her laughing and exclaiming\u2014\u201cEllen! you\u2019ll have to fetch the key, or else I must run round to the porter\u2019s lodge. I can\u2019t scale the ramparts on this side!\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cStay where you are,\u201d I answered; \u201cI have my bundle of keys in my pocket: perhaps I may manage to open it; if not, I\u2019ll go.\u201d<\/p>\n

Catherine amused herself with dancing to and fro before the door, while I tried all the large keys in succession. I had applied the last, and found that none would do; so, repeating my desire that she would remain there, I was about to hurry home as fast as I could, when an approaching sound arrested me. It was the trot of a horse; Cathy\u2019s dance stopped also.<\/p>\n

\u201cWho is that?\u201d I whispered.<\/p>\n

\u201cEllen, I wish you could open the door,\u201d whispered back my companion, anxiously.<\/p>\n

\u201cHo, Miss Linton!\u201d cried a deep voice (the rider\u2019s), \u201cI\u2019m glad to meet you. Don\u2019t be in haste to enter, for I have an explanation to ask and obtain.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI sha\u2019n\u2019t speak to you, Mr. Heathcliff,\u201d answered Catherine. \u201cPapa says you are a wicked man, and you hate both him and me; and Ellen says the same.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThat is nothing to the purpose,\u201d said Heathcliff. (He it was.) \u201cI don\u2019t hate my son, I suppose; and it is concerning him that I demand your attention. Yes; you have cause to blush. Two or three months since, were you not in the habit of writing to Linton? making love in play, eh? You deserved, both of you, flogging for that! You especially, the elder; and less sensitive, as it turns out. I\u2019ve got your letters, and if you give me any pertness I\u2019ll send them to your father. I presume you grew weary of the amusement and dropped it, didn\u2019t you? Well, you dropped Linton with it into a Slough of Despond. He was in earnest: in love, really. As true as I live, he\u2019s dying for you; breaking his heart at your fickleness: not figuratively, but actually. Though Hareton has made him a standing jest for six weeks, and I have used more serious measures, and attempted to frighten him out of his idiocy, he gets worse daily; and he\u2019ll be under the sod before summer, unless you restore him!\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cHow can you lie so glaringly to the poor child?\u201d I called from the inside. \u201cPray ride on! How can you deliberately get up such paltry falsehoods? Miss Cathy, I\u2019ll knock the lock off with a stone: you won\u2019t believe that vile nonsense. You can feel in yourself it is impossible that a person should die for love of a stranger.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI was not aware there were eavesdroppers,\u201d muttered the detected villain. \u201cWorthy Mrs. Dean, I like you, but I don\u2019t like your double-dealing,\u201d he added aloud. \u201cHow could you<\/i> lie so glaringly as to affirm I hated the \u2018poor child\u2019? and invent bugbear stories to terrify her from my door-stones? Catherine Linton (the very name warms me), my bonny lass, I shall be from home all this week; go and see if I have not spoken truth: do, there\u2019s a darling! Just imagine your father in my place, and Linton in yours; then think how you would value your careless lover if he refused to stir a step to comfort you, when your father himself entreated him; and don\u2019t, from pure stupidity, fall into the same error. I swear, on my salvation, he\u2019s going to his grave, and none but you can save him!\u201d<\/p>\n

The lock gave way and I issued out.<\/p>\n

\u201cI swear Linton is dying,\u201d repeated Heathcliff, looking hard at me. \u201cAnd grief and disappointment are hastening his death. Nelly, if you won\u2019t let her go, you can walk over yourself. But I shall not return till this time next week; and I think your master himself would scarcely object to her visiting her cousin.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cCome in,\u201d said I, taking Cathy by the arm and half forcing her to re-enter; for she lingered, viewing with troubled eyes the features of the speaker, too stern to express his inward deceit.<\/p>\n

He pushed his horse close, and, bending down, observed\u2014\u201cMiss Catherine, I\u2019ll own to you that I have little patience with Linton; and Hareton and Joseph have less. I\u2019ll own that he\u2019s with a harsh set. He pines for kindness, as well as love; and a kind word from you would be his best medicine. Don\u2019t mind Mrs. Dean\u2019s cruel cautions; but be generous, and contrive to see him. He dreams of you day and night, and cannot be persuaded that you don\u2019t hate him, since you neither write nor call.\u201d<\/p>\n

I closed the door, and rolled a stone to assist the loosened lock in holding it; and spreading my umbrella, I drew my charge underneath: for the rain began to drive through the moaning branches of the trees, and warned us to avoid delay. Our hurry prevented any comment on the encounter with Heathcliff, as we stretched towards home; but I divined instinctively that Catherine\u2019s 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.<\/p>\n

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\u2019s assertions about his son, as if I were certain she would coincide. Alas! I hadn\u2019t skill to counteract the effect his account had produced: it was just what he intended.<\/p>\n

\u201cYou may be right, Ellen,\u201d she answered; \u201cbut I shall never feel at ease till I know. And I must tell Linton it is not my fault that I don\u2019t write, and convince him that I shall not change.\u201d<\/p>\n

What use were anger and protestations against her silly credulity? We parted that night\u2014hostile; but next day beheld me on the road to Wuthering Heights, by the side of my wilful young mistress\u2019s pony. I couldn\u2019t 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.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":299,"menu_order":22,"template":"","meta":{"pb_show_title":"on","pb_short_title":"","pb_subtitle":"","pb_authors":[],"pb_section_license":""},"chapter-type":[48],"contributor":[],"license":[],"class_list":["post-45","chapter","type-chapter","status-publish","hentry","chapter-type-numberless"],"part":3,"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/pressbooks.library.torontomu.ca\/wutheringheights\/wp-json\/pressbooks\/v2\/chapters\/45","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/pressbooks.library.torontomu.ca\/wutheringheights\/wp-json\/pressbooks\/v2\/chapters"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/pressbooks.library.torontomu.ca\/wutheringheights\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/chapter"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/pressbooks.library.torontomu.ca\/wutheringheights\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/299"}],"version-history":[{"count":3,"href":"https:\/\/pressbooks.library.torontomu.ca\/wutheringheights\/wp-json\/pressbooks\/v2\/chapters\/45\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":172,"href":"https:\/\/pressbooks.library.torontomu.ca\/wutheringheights\/wp-json\/pressbooks\/v2\/chapters\/45\/revisions\/172"}],"part":[{"href":"https:\/\/pressbooks.library.torontomu.ca\/wutheringheights\/wp-json\/pressbooks\/v2\/parts\/3"}],"metadata":[{"href":"https:\/\/pressbooks.library.torontomu.ca\/wutheringheights\/wp-json\/pressbooks\/v2\/chapters\/45\/metadata\/"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/pressbooks.library.torontomu.ca\/wutheringheights\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=45"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"chapter-type","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/pressbooks.library.torontomu.ca\/wutheringheights\/wp-json\/pressbooks\/v2\/chapter-type?post=45"},{"taxonomy":"contributor","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/pressbooks.library.torontomu.ca\/wutheringheights\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/contributor?post=45"},{"taxonomy":"license","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/pressbooks.library.torontomu.ca\/wutheringheights\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/license?post=45"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}