Now, Mr Earnshaw did not understand jokes from his children: he had always been strict and grave with them; and Catherine, on her part, had no idea why her father should be crosser and less patient in his ailing condition, than he was in his prime.His peevish reproofs wakened in her a naughty delight to provoke him: she was never so happy as when we were all scolding her at once, and she defying us with her bold, saucy look, and her ready words turning Joseph's religious curses into ridicule, baiting me, and doing just what her father hated most--showing how her pretended insolence, which he thought real, had more power over Heathcliff than his kindness: how the boy would do her bidding in anything, and his only when it suited his own inclination.After behaving as badly as possible all day, she sometimes came fondling to make it up at night.`Nay, Cathy,'
the old man would say, `I cannot love thee; thou'rt worse than thy brother.
Go, say thy prayers, child, and ask God's pardon.I doubt thy mother and I must rue that we ever reared thee!' That made her cry, at first: and then being repulsed continually hardened her, and she laughed if I told her to say she was sorry for her faults, and beg to be forgiven.
But the hour came, at last, that ended Mr Earnshaw's troubles on earth.He died quietly in his chair one October evening, seated by the fireside.A high wind blustered round the house, and roared in the chimney:
it sounded wild and stormy, yet it was not cold, and we were all together--I, a little removed from the hearth, busy at my knitting, and Joseph reading his Bible near the table (for the servants generally sat in the house then, after their work was done).Miss Cathy had been sick, and that made her still; she leant against her father's knee, and Heathcliff was lying on the floor with his head in her lap.I remember the master, before he fell into a doze, stroking her bonny hair it pleased him rarely to see her gentle--and saying--`Why canst thou not always be a good lass, Cathy?' And she turned her face up to his, and laughed, and answered, `Why cannot you always be a good man, father?' But as soon as she saw him vexed again, she kissed his hand, and said she would sing him to sleep.She began singing very low, till his fingers dropped from hers, and his head sank on his breast.
Then I told her to hush, and not stir, for fear she should wake him.We all kept as mute as mice a full half-hour, and should have done longer, only Joseph, having finished his chapter, got up and said that he must rouse the master for prayers and bed.He stepped forward, and called him by name, and touched his shoulder; but he would not move, so he took the candle and looked at him.I thought there was something wrong as he set down the light; and seizing the children each by an arm, whispered them to `frame upstairs, and make little din--they might pray alone that evening--he had summut to do'.
`I shall bid father good night first,' said Catherine, putting her arms round his neck, before we could hinder her.The poor thing discovered her loss directly--she screamed out--`Oh, he's dead, Heathcliff! he's dead!'
And they both set up a heart-breaking cry.
I joined my wail to theirs, loud and bitter; but Joseph asked what we could be thinking of to roar in that way over a saint in heaven.
He told me to put on my cloak and run to Gimmerton for the doctor and the parson.I could not guess the use that either would be of, then.However, I went, through wind and rain, and brought one, the doctor, back with me;the other said he would come in the morning.leaving Joseph to explain matters, I ran to the children's room: their door was ajar, I saw they had never laid down, though it was past midnight; but they were calmer, and did not need me to console them.The little souls were comforting each other with better thoughts than I could have hit on: no parson in the world ever pictured heaven so beautifully as they did, in their innocent talk:
and, while I sobbed and listened, I could not help wishing we were all there safe together.
