Грозовой перевал / Wuthering Heights

They met, and the master, irritated at seeing him clean and cheerful, or, perhaps, eager to keep his promise to Mrs. Linton, shoved him back with a sudden thrust, and angrily bade Joseph �keep the fellow out of the room, send him into the garret till dinner is over. He’ll be cramming his fingers in the tarts and stealing the fruit, if left alone with them a minute.’

�Nay, sir,’ I could not avoid answering, �he’ll touch nothing, not he: and I suppose he must have his share of the dainties as well as we.

’

�He shall have his share of my hand, if I catch him downstairs till dark,’ cried Hindley. �Begone, you vagabond! What! you are attempting the coxcomb, are you? Wait till I get hold of those elegant locks – see if I won’t pull them a bit longer!’

�They are long enough already,’ observed Master Linton, peeping from the doorway; �I wonder they don’t make his head ache. It’s like a colt’s mane over his eyes!’

He ventured this remark without any intention to insult; but Heathcliff’s violent nature was not prepared to endure the appearance of impertinence from one whom he seemed to hate, even then, as a rival.

He seized a tureen of hot apple sauce (the first thing that came under his gripe) and dashed it full against the speaker’s face and neck; who instantly commenced a lament that brought Isabella and Catherine hurrying to the place. Mr. Earnshaw snatched up the culprit directly and conveyed him to his chamber; where, doubtless, he administered a rough remedy to cool the fit of passion, for he appeared red and breathless. I got the dishcloth, and rather spitefully scrubbed Edgar’s nose and mouth, affirming it served him right for meddling. His sister began weeping to go home, and Cathy stood by confounded, blushing for all.

�You should not have spoken to him!’ she expostulated with Master Linton. �He was in a bad temper, and now you’ve spoilt your visit; and he’ll be flogged: I hate him to be flogged! I can’t eat my dinner.

Why did you speak to him, Edgar?’

�I didn’t,’ sobbed the youth, escaping from my hands, and finishing the remainder of the purification with his cambric pockethandkerchief. �I promised mamma that I wouldn’t say one word to him, and I didn’t.’

�Well, don’t cry,’ replied Catherine, contemptuously; �you’re not killed.