Wuthering Heights / Грозовой перевал. Уровень 3. Эмили БронтеЧитать онлайн книгу.
Hareton or Joseph, if you want.'
'I can sleep on a chair in this room,' I replied.
'No, no! A stranger is a stranger. I don't care whether you are rich or poor. It will not suit me to permit anyone to stay here while I am off!' said the unmannerly wretch.
It was an end. I uttered an expression of disgust, and pushed past him into the yard. And I ran against Earnshaw in my haste. It was so dark that I could not see the means of exit. As I wandered round, I heard another specimen of their civil behaviour amongst each other. At first the young man appeared about to befriend me.
'I'll go with him to the park,' he said.
'You'll go with him to hell!' exclaimed his master. 'And who will look after the horses, eh?'
'A man's life is of more importance: somebody must go,' murmured Mrs. Heathcliff, more kindly than I expected.
'Not at your command!' retorted Hareton.
'Then I hope his ghost will haunt you. And I hope Mr. Heathcliff will never get another tenant till the Grange is a ruin,' she answered, sharply.
'Hearken, hearken, she's cursing them!' muttered Joseph.
The old man was sitting nearby. He was milking the cows by the light of a lantern, which I seized unceremoniously. I promised to send it back in the morning, and rushed to the nearest postern.
'Master, master, he has stolen my lantern!' shouted the old man. 'Hey, Gnasher! Hey, dog! Hey Wolf, hold him, hold him!'
I opened the little door, and two hairy monsters flew at my throat, bearing me down, and extinguishing the light. A mingled guffaw from Heathcliff and Hareton made me furious. I was angry and humiliated. Fortunately, the beasts were stretching their paws, and yawning, and flourishing their tails. They were not going to devour me alive. But I was forced to lie till their malignant masters delivered me. Then, hatless and trembling with wrath, I ordered the miscreants to let me out – with several incoherent threats of retaliation.
The vehemence of my agitation brought on a copious bleeding at the nose, and still Heathcliff laughed, and still I scolded. I don't know what could happen next. But there appeared one person rather more rational than myself, and more benevolent than my entertainer. This was Zillah, the stout housewife; who at length issued forth to inquire into the nature of the uproar. She did not dare to attack her master, and turned her vocal artillery against the younger scoundrel.
'Well, Mr. Earnshaw,' she cried, 'I wonder what you'll start next? Are we going to murder people on our doors? I see this house will never be good – look at the poor lad! Sir, you must not go on so. Come in, and I'll cure that: there now.'
With these words she suddenly splashed a pint of icy water down my neck, and pulled me into the kitchen. Mr. Heathcliff followed. His accidental merriment expired quickly in his habitual moroseness.
I was sick exceedingly, and dizzy, and faint. So I was compelled to accept lodgings under his roof. He told Zillah to give me a glass of brandy, and then passed on to the inner room. She condoled with me on my sorry predicament, and ushered me to bed.
Chapter III
She led me upstairs and recommended to hide the candle and not make noise. Her master has odd ideas about the room she will put me in. I asked the reason. She did not know, she answered: she had only lived there a year or two; and they had many strange things here.
So I fastened my door and glanced round for the bed. The whole furniture consisted of a chair, a clothes-press, and a large oak case, with squares windows near the top. I put my candle on the shelf and felt secure against the vigilance of Heathcliff, and everyone else.
The shelf had books on it; and it was covered with writing scratched on the paint. This writing, however, was nothing but a name repeated in all kinds of characters, large and small – Catherine Earnshaw, here and there varied to Catherine Heathcliff, and then again to Catherine Linton.
Catherine's library was select, though not altogether for a legitimate purpose: scarcely one chapter had escaped a pen-and-ink commentary. Some were detached sentences; other parts took the form of a regular diary, scrawled in an unformed, childish hand. At the top of an extra page I was greatly amused to behold an excellent caricature of my friend Joseph, – rudely, yet powerfully sketched. An immediate interest aroused in me, and I began to decipher her faded hieroglyphics.
'An awful Sunday. I wish my father were back again. Hindley is a detestable creature – his conduct to Heathcliff is horrible – H. and I are going to rebel – we took our initiatory step this evening.
'All day was flooding with rain; we could not go to church, so we prayed in the barn! On Sunday evenings we played, and did not make much noise; now a mere titter is sufficient to send us into corners.
'“You forget you have a master here,” says the tyrant. “I'll crash the first who puts me out of temper! I insist on perfect sobriety and silence. Oh, boy! was that you? Frances darling, pull his hair as you go by: I heard him snap his fingers.”
Frances pulled his hair heartily, and then went and seated herself on her husband's knee, and there they were, like two babies, kissing and talking nonsense – foolish behaviour. But they did not like the way we behaved, so soon we both were thrown into the back kitchen, where we awaited our punishment.
My companion suggested using the dairywoman's cloak, and have a scamper on the moors, under its shelter. A pleasant suggestion – we cannot be damper, or colder, in the rain than we are here.'
I suppose Catherine fulfilled her project, for the next sentence took up another subject: she waxed lachrymose.
'Poor Heathcliff!' she wrote. 'Hindley calls him a vagabond, and won't let him sit with us, nor eat with us any more. He says, he and I must not play together, and threatens to turn him out of the house if we break his orders. He is blaming our father (how dares he?) for treating H. too liberally; and swears he will reduce him to his right place,'
I began to nod drowsily over the dim page, so I sank in bed, and fell asleep. I began to dream, I thought it was morning; and I had set out on my way home, with Joseph for a guide. The snow lay yards deep in our road; and somehow we got to the church, then to the forest. I touched a three-branch – and cold little fingers clutched my hand! The intense horror of nightmare came over me: I tried to draw back my arm, but the hand clung to it, and a most melancholy voice sobbed,
'Let me in – let me in!'
'Who are you?'
'Catherine Linton. I've come home: I lost my way on the moor!'
As it spoke, I saw a child's face looking through the window.
'Begone!' I shouted. 'I'll never let you in, not if you beg for twenty years.'
'It is twenty years,' mourned the voice: 'twenty years. I have been a waif for twenty years!'
A feeble scratching outside – and the pile of books moved. I tried to jump up; but could not stir; and so cried aloud, out of fright. Suddenly, hasty footsteps approached my door; somebody pushed it open, and a light glimmered through: the intruder appeared to hesitate, and muttered to himself. At last, he said, in a half-whisper, plainly not expecting an answer,
'Is anyone here?'
I considered it best to confess my presence.
Heathcliff stood near the entrance, in his shirt and trousers; with a candle dripping over his fingers, and his face as white as the wall behind him. The first creak of the oak startled him like an electric shock: the light leaped from his hold to a distance of some feet. His agitation was so extreme, that he could hardly pick it up.
'It is only your guest, sir,' I called out. 'I had the misfortune to scream in my sleep. It was a frightful nightmare. I'm sorry I disturbed you.'
'Oh, God confound you, Mr. Lockwood! Go to…' commenced my host, setting the candle on a chair, because he found it impossible to hold it steady. 'And who showed you up into this room?' he continued, crushing his nails into his palms, and grinding his teeth. 'Who was it? I'll turn them out of the house this moment!'
'It