Wuthering Heights / Грозовой перевал. Уровень 3

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.