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`Lively? no--he has shown the greatest distress,' I answered. `To see him, I should say, that instead of rambling with his sweetheart on the hills, he ought to be in bed, under the hands of a doctor.'
`He shall be in a day or two,' muttered Heathcliff. `But first--get up, Linton! Get up!' he shouted. `Don't grovel on the ground there: up, this moment!'
Linton had sunk prostrate again in another paroxysm of helpless fear, caused by his father's glance towards him, I suppose: there was nothing else to produce such humiliation. He made several efforts to obey, but his little strength was annihilated for the time, and he fell back again with a moan. Mr Heathcliff advanced, and lifted him to lean against a ridge of turf.
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`Now,' said he, with curbed ferocity, `I'm getting angry; and if you don't command that paltry spirit of yours--Damn you! get up directly!'
`I will, Father,' he panted. `Only, let me alone, or I shall faint. I've done as you wished, I'm sure. Catherine will tell you that I--that I--have been cheerful. Ah! keep by me, Catherine: give me your hand.'
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