Support the Monkey! Tell All your Friends and Teachers
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’s assertions about his son, as if I were
certain she would coincide. Alas! I hadn’t skill to counteract the
effect his account had produced: it was just what he intended.
“You may be right, Ellen,” she answered; “but I shall never feel
at ease till I know--and I must tell Linton it is not my fault that I
don’t write, and convince him that I shall not change.”
What use were anger and protestations against her silly
credulity? We parted that night hostile--but next day beheld me
on the road to Wuthering Heights, by the side of my wilful young
mistress’s pony. I couldn’t 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.