metadata
task_categories:
- summarization
AutoTrain Dataset for project: eerie-eerie-eerie
Dataset Description
This dataset has been automatically processed by AutoTrain for project eerie-eerie-eerie.
Languages
The BCP-47 code for the dataset's language is unk.
Dataset Structure
Data Instances
A sample from this dataset looks as follows:
[
{
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"feat_chapter_path": "all_chapterized_books/543-chapters/31.txt",
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"feat_book_id": "Main Street.chapter 31",
"feat_summary_id": "chapter 31",
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"feat_summary": "{\"name\": \"Chapter 31\", \"url\": \"https://web.archive.org/web/20210115164553/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/main-street/summary/chapter-31\", \"summary\": \"Carol sits on the porch one evening while Will is out on a country house call. Erik comes marching onto the porch and touches her hand, saying that he saw Will drive out of town and decided to come over. Carol doesn't want any neighbors to see them, so she leads Erik into the house. Erik wants to see Carol's son sleeping, and she lets him... but maybe he's just trying to get her upstairs. Erik steps up to her and kisses her face. Eventually, Carol convinces Erik to leave. When he's gone, she feels completely empty. She glances out the window to see if she can see him leaving, but all she finds is her nosy neighbor standing in front of her house and inspecting it. She feels paralyzed by the thought that this neighbor saw Erik leave while Will wasn't at home. When Will gets back home, he accuses Carol of getting too chummy with the wife of his medical rival, Dr. Westlake. He's heard that Carol trash talks her in-laws with this woman, and he doesn't want to hear any more of it. The next day, Vida Sherwin visits to tell Carol that there have been rumors about her being involved with Erik Valbourg. Carol denies it outright, although it's clear that she's rattled. Carol starts to have daydreams about Will dying while she is somewhere with Erik. She awakens from the dream and runs to be in bed with Will, feeling horribly guilty. Carol goes the next two weeks without speaking to Erik. One night, Fern Mullins asks Carol to be a chaperone at a barn dance in the area, but Carol rejects her, and we find out that something bad happened after that.\", \"analysis\": \"\"}",
"text": "CHAPTER XXXI\n\n\nTHEIR night came unheralded.\n\nKennicott was on a country call. It was cool but Carol huddled on the\nporch, rocking, meditating, rocking. The house was lonely and repellent,\nand though she sighed, \"I ought to go in and read--so many things to\nread--ought to go in,\" she remained. Suddenly Erik was coming, turning\nin, swinging open the screen door, touching her hand.\n\n\"Erik!\"\n\n\"Saw your husband driving out of town. Couldn't stand it.\"\n\n\"Well----You mustn't stay more than five minutes.\"\n\n\"Couldn't stand not seeing you. Every day, towards evening, felt I had\nto see you--pictured you so clear. I've been good though, staying away,\nhaven't I!\"\n\n\"And you must go on being good.\"\n\n\"Why must I?\"\n\n\"We better not stay here on the porch. The Howlands across the street\nare such window-peepers, and Mrs. Bogart----\"\n\nShe did not look at him but she could divine his tremulousness as he\nstumbled indoors. A moment ago the night had been coldly empty; now it\nwas incalculable, hot, treacherous. But it is women who are the calm\nrealists once they discard the fetishes of the premarital hunt. Carol\nwas serene as she murmured, \"Hungry? I have some little honey-colored\ncakes. You may have two, and then you must skip home.\"\n\n\"Take me up and let me see Hugh asleep.\"\n\n\"I don't believe----\"\n\n\"Just a glimpse!\"\n\n\"Well----\"\n\nShe doubtfully led the way to the hallroom-nursery. Their heads close,\nErik's curls pleasant as they touched her cheek, they looked in at the\nbaby. Hugh was pink with slumber. He had burrowed into his pillow with\nsuch energy that it was almost smothering him. Beside it was a celluloid\nrhinoceros; tight in his hand a torn picture of Old King Cole.\n\n\"Shhh!\" said Carol, quite automatically. She tiptoed in to pat the\npillow. As she returned to Erik she had a friendly sense of his waiting\nfor her. They smiled at each other. She did not think of Kennicott, the\nbaby's father. What she did think was that some one rather like Erik, an\nolder and surer Erik, ought to be Hugh's father. The three of them would\nplay--incredible imaginative games.\n\n\"Carol! You've told me about your own room. Let me peep in at it.\"\n\n\"But you mustn't stay, not a second. We must go downstairs.\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"Will you be good?\"\n\n\"R-reasonably!\" He was pale, large-eyed, serious.\n\n\"You've got to be more than reasonably good!\" She felt sensible and\nsuperior; she was energetic about pushing open the door.\n\nKennicott had always seemed out of place there but Erik surprisingly\nharmonized with the spirit of the room as he stroked the books, glanced\nat the prints. He held out his hands. He came toward her. She was weak,\nbetrayed to a warm softness. Her head was tilted back. Her eyes were\nclosed. Her thoughts were formless but many-colored. She felt his kiss,\ndiffident and reverent, on her eyelid.\n\nThen she knew that it was impossible.\n\nShe shook herself. She sprang from him. \"Please!\" she said sharply.\n\nHe looked at her unyielding.\n\n\"I am fond of you,\" she said. \"Don't spoil everything. Be my friend.\"\n\n\"How many thousands and millions of women must have said that! And now\nyou! And it doesn't spoil everything. It glorifies everything.\"\n\n\"Dear, I do think there's a tiny streak of fairy in you--whatever you do\nwith it. Perhaps I'd have loved that once. But I won't. It's too late.\nBut I'll keep a fondness for you. Impersonal--I will be impersonal! It\nneedn't be just a thin talky fondness. You do need me, don't you? Only\nyou and my son need me. I've wanted so to be wanted! Once I wanted\nlove to be given to me. Now I'll be content if I can give. . . . Almost\ncontent!\n\n\"We women, we like to do things for men. Poor men! We swoop on you when\nyou're defenseless and fuss over you and insist on reforming you. But\nit's so pitifully deep in us. You'll be the one thing in which I haven't\nfailed. Do something definite! Even if it's just selling cottons. Sell\nbeautiful cottons--caravans from China----\"\n\n\"Carol! Stop! You do love me!\"\n\n\"I do not! It's just----Can't you understand? Everything crushes in on\nme so, all the gaping dull people, and I look for a way out----Please\ngo. I can't stand any more. Please!\"\n\nHe was gone. And she was not relieved by the quiet of the house. She was\nempty and the house was empty and she needed him. She wanted to go\non talking, to get this threshed out, to build a sane friendship. She\nwavered down to the living-room, looked out of the bay-window. He was\nnot to be seen. But Mrs. Westlake was. She was walking past, and in\nthe light from the corner arc-lamp she quickly inspected the porch, the\nwindows. Carol dropped the curtain, stood with movement and reflection\nparalyzed. Automatically, without reasoning, she mumbled, \"I will see\nhim again soon and make him understand we must be friends. But----The\nhouse is so empty. It echoes so.\"\n\n\nII\n\n\nKennicott had seemed nervous and absent-minded through that supper-hour,\ntwo evenings after. He prowled about the living-room, then growled:\n\n\"What the dickens have you been saying to Ma Westlake?\"\n\nCarol's book rattled. \"What do you mean?\"\n\n\"I told you that Westlake and his wife were jealous of us, and here you\nbeen chumming up to them and----From what Dave tells me, Ma Westlake has\nbeen going around town saying you told her that you hate Aunt Bessie,\nand that you fixed up your own room because I snore, and you said\nBjornstam was too good for Bea, and then, just recent, that you were\nsore on the town because we don't all go down on our knees and beg this\nValborg fellow to come take supper with us. God only knows what else she\nsays you said.\"\n\n\"It's not true, any of it! I did like Mrs. Westlake, and I've called on\nher, and apparently she's gone and twisted everything I've said----\"\n\n\"Sure. Of course she would. Didn't I tell you she would? She's an old\ncat, like her pussyfooting, hand-holding husband. Lord, if I was sick,\nI'd rather have a faith-healer than Westlake, and she's another slice\noff the same bacon. What I can't understand though----\"\n\nShe waited, taut.\n\n\"----is whatever possessed you to let her pump you, bright a girl as\nyou are. I don't care what you told her--we all get peeved sometimes\nand want to blow off steam, that's natural--but if you wanted to keep it\ndark, why didn't you advertise it in the Dauntless, or get a megaphone\nand stand on top of the hotel and holler, or do anything besides spill\nit to her!\"\n\n\"I know. You told me. But she was so motherly. And I didn't have any\nwoman----Vida 's become so married and proprietary.\"\n\n\"Well, next time you'll have better sense.\"\n\nHe patted her head, flumped down behind his newspaper, said nothing\nmore.\n\nEnemies leered through the windows, stole on her from the hall. She had\nno one save Erik. This kind good man Kennicott--he was an elder\nbrother. It was Erik, her fellow outcast, to whom she wanted to run for\nsanctuary. Through her storm she was, to the eye, sitting quietly with\nher fingers between the pages of a baby-blue book on home-dressmaking.\nBut her dismay at Mrs. Westlake's treachery had risen to active dread.\nWhat had the woman said of her and Erik? What did she know? What had she\nseen? Who else would join in the baying hunt? Who else had seen her\nwith Erik? What had she to fear from the Dyers, Cy Bogart, Juanita, Aunt\nBessie? What precisely had she answered to Mrs. Bogart's questioning?\n\nAll next day she was too restless to stay home, yet as she walked the\nstreets on fictitious errands she was afraid of every person she met.\nShe waited for them to speak; waited with foreboding. She repeated, \"I\nmustn't ever see Erik again.\" But the words did not register. She had no\necstatic indulgence in the sense of guilt which is, to the women of Main\nStreet, the surest escape from blank tediousness.\n\nAt five, crumpled in a chair in the living-room, she started at the\nsound of the bell. Some one opened the door. She waited, uneasy. Vida\nSherwin charged into the room. \"Here's the one person I can trust!\"\nCarol rejoiced.\n\nVida was serious but affectionate. She bustled at Carol with, \"Oh, there\nyou are, dearie, so glad t' find you in, sit down, want to talk to you.\"\n\nCarol sat, obedient.\n\nVida fussily tugged over a large chair and launched out:\n\n\"I've been hearing vague rumors you were interested in this Erik\nValborg. I knew you couldn't be guilty, and I'm surer than ever of it\nnow. Here we are, as blooming as a daisy.\"\n\n\"How does a respectable matron look when she feels guilty?\"\n\nCarol sounded resentful.\n\n\"Why----Oh, it would show! Besides! I know that you, of all people, are\nthe one that can appreciate Dr. Will.\"\n\n\"What have you been hearing?\"\n\n\"Nothing, really. I just heard Mrs. Bogart say she'd seen you and\nValborg walking together a lot.\" Vida's chirping slackened. She looked\nat her nails. \"But----I suspect you do like Valborg. Oh, I don't mean in\nany wrong way. But you're young; you don't know what an innocent liking\nmight drift into. You always pretend to be so sophisticated and all,\nbut you're a baby. Just because you are so innocent, you don't know what\nevil thoughts may lurk in that fellow's brain.\"\n\n\"You don't suppose Valborg could actually think about making love to\nme?\"\n\nHer rather cheap sport ended abruptly as Vida cried, with contorted\nface, \"What do you know about the thoughts in hearts? You just play at\nreforming the world. You don't know what it means to suffer.\"\n\nThere are two insults which no human being will endure: the assertion\nthat he hasn't a sense of humor, and the doubly impertinent assertion\nthat he has never known trouble. Carol said furiously, \"You think I\ndon't suffer? You think I've always had an easy----\"\n\n\"No, you don't. I'm going to tell you something I've never told a living\nsoul, not even Ray.\" The dam of repressed imagination which Vida had\nbuilded for years, which now, with Raymie off at the wars, she was\nbuilding again, gave way.\n\n\"I was--I liked Will terribly well. One time at a party--oh, before\nhe met you, of course--but we held hands, and we were so happy. But I\ndidn't feel I was really suited to him. I let him go. Please don't think\nI still love him! I see now that Ray was predestined to be my mate. But\nbecause I liked him, I know how sincere and pure and noble Will is, and\nhis thoughts never straying from the path of rectitude, and----If I gave\nhim up to you, at least you've got to appreciate him! We danced together\nand laughed so, and I gave him up, but----This IS my affair! I'm NOT\nintruding! I see the whole thing as he does, because of all I've told\nyou. Maybe it's shameless to bare my heart this way, but I do it for\nhim--for him and you!\"\n\nCarol understood that Vida believed herself to have recited minutely and\nbrazenly a story of intimate love; understood that, in alarm, she was\ntrying to cover her shame as she struggled on, \"Liked him in the most\nhonorable way--simply can't help it if I still see things through\nhis eyes----If I gave him up, I certainly am not beyond my rights\nin demanding that you take care to avoid even the appearance of evil\nand----\" She was weeping; an insignificant, flushed, ungracefully\nweeping woman.\n\nCarol could not endure it. She ran to Vida, kissed her forehead,\ncomforted her with a murmur of dove-like sounds, sought to reassure her\nwith worn and hastily assembled gifts of words: \"Oh, I appreciate it so\nmuch,\" and \"You are so fine and splendid,\" and \"Let me assure you there\nisn't a thing to what you've heard,\" and \"Oh, indeed, I do know how\nsincere Will is, and as you say, so--so sincere.\"\n\nVida believed that she had explained many deep and devious matters. She\ncame out of her hysteria like a sparrow shaking off rain-drops. She sat\nup, and took advantage of her victory:\n\n\"I don't want to rub it in, but you can see for yourself now, this is\nall a result of your being so discontented and not appreciating the dear\ngood people here. And another thing: People like you and me, who want to\nreform things, have to be particularly careful about appearances. Think\nhow much better you can criticize conventional customs if you yourself\nlive up to them, scrupulously. Then people can't say you're attacking\nthem to excuse your own infractions.\"\n\nTo Carol was given a sudden great philosophical understanding, an\nexplanation of half the cautious reforms in history. \"Yes. I've heard\nthat plea. It's a good one. It sets revolts aside to cool. It keeps\nstrays in the flock. To word it differently: 'You must live up to the\npopular code if you believe in it; but if you don't believe in it, then\nyou MUST live up to it!'\"\n\n\"I don't think so at all,\" said Vida vaguely. She began to look hurt,\nand Carol let her be oracular.\n\n\nIII\n\n\nVida had done her a service; had made all agonizing seem so fatuous that\nshe ceased writhing and saw that her whole problem was simple as mutton:\nshe was interested in Erik's aspiration; interest gave her a hesitating\nfondness for him; and the future would take care of the event. . . .\nBut at night, thinking in bed, she protested, \"I'm not a falsely\naccused innocent, though! If it were some one more resolute than Erik, a\nfighter, an artist with bearded surly lips----They're only in books.\nIs that the real tragedy, that I never shall know tragedy, never find\nanything but blustery complications that turn out to be a farce?\n\n\"No one big enough or pitiful enough to sacrifice for. Tragedy in\nneat blouses; the eternal flame all nice and safe in a kerosene stove.\nNeither heroic faith nor heroic guilt. Peeping at love from behind lace\ncurtains--on Main Street!\"\n\nAunt Bessie crept in next day, tried to pump her, tried to prime the\npump by again hinting that Kennicott might have his own affairs. Carol\nsnapped, \"Whatever I may do, I'll have you to understand that Will is\nonly too safe!\" She wished afterward that she had not been so lofty. How\nmuch would Aunt Bessie make of \"Whatever I may do?\"\n\nWhen Kennicott came home he poked at things, and hemmed, and brought\nout, \"Saw aunty, this afternoon. She said you weren't very polite to\nher.\"\n\nCarol laughed. He looked at her in a puzzled way and fled to his\nnewspaper.\n\n\nIV\n\n\nShe lay sleepless. She alternately considered ways of leaving Kennicott,\nand remembered his virtues, pitied his bewilderment in face of the\nsubtle corroding sicknesses which he could not dose nor cut out. Didn't\nhe perhaps need her more than did the book-solaced Erik? Suppose Will\nwere to die, suddenly. Suppose she never again saw him at breakfast,\nsilent but amiable, listening to her chatter. Suppose he never again\nplayed elephant for Hugh. Suppose----A country call, a slippery road,\nhis motor skidding, the edge of the road crumbling, the car turning\nturtle, Will pinned beneath, suffering, brought home maimed, looking at\nher with spaniel eyes--or waiting for her, calling for her, while she\nwas in Chicago, knowing nothing of it. Suppose he were sued by some\nvicious shrieking woman for malpractice. He tried to get witnesses;\nWestlake spread lies; his friends doubted him; his self-confidence was\nso broken that it was horrible to see the indecision of the decisive\nman; he was convicted, handcuffed, taken on a train----\n\nShe ran to his room. At her nervous push the door swung sharply in,\nstruck a chair. He awoke, gasped, then in a steady voice: \"What is it,\ndear? Anything wrong?\" She darted to him, fumbled for the familiar harsh\nbristly cheek. How well she knew it, every seam, and hardness of bone,\nand roll of fat! Yet when he sighed, \"This is a nice visit,\" and dropped\nhis hand on her thin-covered shoulder, she said, too cheerily, \"I\nthought I heard you moaning. So silly of me. Good night, dear.\"\n\n\nV\n\n\nShe did not see Erik for a fortnight, save once at church and once when\nshe went to the tailor shop to talk over the plans, contingencies, and\nstrategy of Kennicott's annual campaign for getting a new suit. Nat\nHicks was there, and he was not so deferential as he had been. With\nunnecessary jauntiness he chuckled, \"Some nice flannels, them\nsamples, heh?\" Needlessly he touched her arm to call attention to the\nfashion-plates, and humorously he glanced from her to Erik. At home she\nwondered if the little beast might not be suggesting himself as a rival\nto Erik, but that abysmal bedragglement she would not consider.\n\nShe saw Juanita Haydock slowly walking past the house--as Mrs. Westlake\nhad once walked past.\n\nShe met Mrs. Westlake in Uncle Whittier's store, and before that alert\nstare forgot her determination to be rude, and was shakily cordial.\n\nShe was sure that all the men on the street, even Guy Pollock and Sam\nClark, leered at her in an interested hopeful way, as though she were\na notorious divorcee. She felt as insecure as a shadowed criminal. She\nwished to see Erik, and wished that she had never seen him. She fancied\nthat Kennicott was the only person in town who did not know all--know\nincomparably more than there was to know--about herself and Erik. She\ncrouched in her chair as she imagined men talking of her, thick-voiced,\nobscene, in barber shops and the tobacco-stinking pool parlor.\n\nThrough early autumn Fern Mullins was the only person who broke the\nsuspense. The frivolous teacher had come to accept Carol as of her\nown youth, and though school had begun she rushed in daily to suggest\ndances, welsh-rabbit parties.\n\nFern begged her to go as chaperon to a barn-dance in the country, on a\nSaturday evening. Carol could not go. The next day, the storm crashed.\n\n\n\n\n",
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"target": "Carol sits on the porch one evening while Will is out on a country house call. Erik comes marching onto the porch and touches her hand, saying that he saw Will drive out of town and decided to come over. Carol doesn't want any neighbors to see them, so she leads Erik into the house. Erik wants to see Carol's son sleeping, and she lets him... but maybe he's just trying to get her upstairs. Erik steps up to her and kisses her face. Eventually, Carol convinces Erik to leave. When he's gone, she feels completely empty. She glances out the window to see if she can see him leaving, but all she finds is her nosy neighbor standing in front of her house and inspecting it. She feels paralyzed by the thought that this neighbor saw Erik leave while Will wasn't at home. When Will gets back home, he accuses Carol of getting too chummy with the wife of his medical rival, Dr. Westlake. He's heard that Carol trash talks her in-laws with this woman, and he doesn't want to hear any more of it. The next day, Vida Sherwin visits to tell Carol that there have been rumors about her being involved with Erik Valbourg. Carol denies it outright, although it's clear that she's rattled. Carol starts to have daydreams about Will dying while she is somewhere with Erik. She awakens from the dream and runs to be in bed with Will, feeling horribly guilty. Carol goes the next two weeks without speaking to Erik. One night, Fern Mullins asks Carol to be a chaperone at a barn dance in the area, but Carol rejects her, and we find out that something bad happened after that.",
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"feat_book_id": "Wuthering Heights.chapter 13",
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"feat_summary": "{\"name\": \"Chapter 13\", \"url\": \"https://web.archive.org/web/20201101054152/https://www.cliffsnotes.com/literature/w/wuthering-heights/summary-and-analysis/chapter-13\", \"summary\": \"Edgar nurses Catherine for the next two months. During this time, it is revealed that Catherine is pregnant. Edgar longs for a male heir, to prevent Heathcliff and Isabella from inheriting the Grange. Six weeks after she runs away, Isabella sends a letter to Edgar, announcing her marriage and begging forgiveness. He does not reply. After that, a distraught Isabella sends a letter to Nelly, questioning the humanity of Heathcliff. She tells Nelly that they are living at Wuthering Heights and begs for a visit. The letter goes on to tell of her experiences at Wuthering Heights. Isabella encounters Hareton, Joseph, and Hindley: All are rude and uncaring. She realizes her mistake but also knows that it is too late. She cannot even find a place to sleep that is her own. When Heathcliff returns, he tells her that Catherine is sick, that he blames Edgar, and that he plans on making her suffer in place of Edgar.\", \"analysis\": \"Nearing death, Catherine knows the next time she goes to the moors will be her last. She does not allow Edgar to comfort either her or himself with a false sense of hope or security. Edgar nurses Catherine tenderly and attentively as best he can, but is he doing this out of love for his wife or the child she is bearing? Without an heir, Isabella would inherit Thrushcross Grange in the event of Edgar's death. Because Isabella is married to Heathcliff, that means Edgar's rival would essentially inherit Edgar's property. Edgar does not want this to happen. While Edgar is nursing Catherine, readers get a view of Heathcliff from Isabella's perspective. Her letter to Nelly narrates the events that have transpired from the time she eloped. Isabella questions if Heathcliff is really a man and suggests that he may be incarnate evil. She realizes marrying him was a mistake but also realizes she cannot atone for her error. Isabella reveals that Heathcliff blames Edgar for Catherine's suffering, and he will take this out on Isabella, too. Heathcliff may or may not be the devil, but he is making Isabella's life a living hell. Glossary frame off be gone. soliloquy an act or instance of talking aloud to oneself. thible a smooth stick for stirring broth or porridge. vouchsafed was gracious enough, or condescended, to give or grant. adjuration an earnest entreaty or request. abhorrence loathing, detestation.\"}",
"text": "\n\nFor two months the fugitives remained absent; in those two months, Mrs.\nLinton encountered and conquered the worst shock of what was denominated\na brain fever. No mother could have nursed an only child more devotedly\nthan Edgar tended her. Day and night he was watching, and patiently\nenduring all the annoyances that irritable nerves and a shaken reason\ncould inflict; and, though Kenneth remarked that what he saved from the\ngrave would only recompense his care by forming the source of constant\nfuture anxiety--in fact, that his health and strength were being\nsacrificed to preserve a mere ruin of humanity--he knew no limits in\ngratitude and joy when Catherine's life was declared out of danger; and\nhour after hour he would sit beside her, tracing the gradual return to\nbodily health, and flattering his too sanguine hopes with the illusion\nthat her mind would settle back to its right balance also, and she would\nsoon be entirely her former self.\n\nThe first time she left her chamber was at the commencement of the\nfollowing March. Mr. Linton had put on her pillow, in the morning, a\nhandful of golden crocuses; her eye, long stranger to any gleam of\npleasure, caught them in waking, and shone delighted as she gathered them\neagerly together.\n\n'These are the earliest flowers at the Heights,' she exclaimed. 'They\nremind me of soft thaw winds, and warm sunshine, and nearly melted snow.\nEdgar, is there not a south wind, and is not the snow almost gone?'\n\n'The snow is quite gone down here, darling,' replied her husband; 'and I\nonly see two white spots on the whole range of moors: the sky is blue,\nand the larks are singing, and the becks and brooks are all brim full.\nCatherine, last spring at this time, I was longing to have you under this\nroof; now, I wish you were a mile or two up those hills: the air blows so\nsweetly, I feel that it would cure you.'\n\n'I shall never be there but once more,' said the invalid; 'and then\nyou'll leave me, and I shall remain for ever. Next spring you'll long\nagain to have me under this roof, and you'll look back and think you were\nhappy to-day.'\n\nLinton lavished on her the kindest caresses, and tried to cheer her by\nthe fondest words; but, vaguely regarding the flowers, she let the tears\ncollect on her lashes and stream down her cheeks unheeding. We knew she\nwas really better, and, therefore, decided that long confinement to a\nsingle place produced much of this despondency, and it might be partially\nremoved by a change of scene. The master told me to light a fire in the\nmany-weeks' deserted parlour, and to set an easy-chair in the sunshine by\nthe window; and then he brought her down, and she sat a long while\nenjoying the genial heat, and, as we expected, revived by the objects\nround her: which, though familiar, were free from the dreary associations\ninvesting her hated sick chamber. By evening she seemed greatly\nexhausted; yet no arguments could persuade her to return to that\napartment, and I had to arrange the parlour sofa for her bed, till\nanother room could be prepared. To obviate the fatigue of mounting and\ndescending the stairs, we fitted up this, where you lie at present--on\nthe same floor with the parlour; and she was soon strong enough to move\nfrom one to the other, leaning on Edgar's arm. Ah, I thought myself, she\nmight recover, so waited on as she was. And there was double cause to\ndesire it, for on her existence depended that of another: we cherished\nthe hope that in a little while Mr. Linton's heart would be gladdened,\nand his lands secured from a stranger's grip, by the birth of an heir.\n\nI should mention that Isabella sent to her brother, some six weeks from\nher departure, a short note, announcing her marriage with Heathcliff. It\nappeared dry and cold; but at the bottom was dotted in with pencil an\nobscure apology, and an entreaty for kind remembrance and reconciliation,\nif her proceeding had offended him: asserting that she could not help it\nthen, and being done, she had now no power to repeal it. Linton did not\nreply to this, I believe; and, in a fortnight more, I got a long letter,\nwhich I considered odd, coming from the pen of a bride just out of the\nhoneymoon. I'll read it: for I keep it yet. Any relic of the dead is\nprecious, if they were valued living.\n\n* * * * *\n\nDEAR ELLEN, it begins,--I came last night to Wuthering Heights, and\nheard, for the first time, that Catherine has been, and is yet, very ill.\nI must not write to her, I suppose, and my brother is either too angry or\ntoo distressed to answer what I sent him. Still, I must write to\nsomebody, and the only choice left me is you.\n\nInform Edgar that I'd give the world to see his face again--that my heart\nreturned to Thrushcross Grange in twenty-four hours after I left it, and\nis there at this moment, full of warm feelings for him, and Catherine! _I\ncan't follow it though_--(these words are underlined)--they need not\nexpect me, and they may draw what conclusions they please; taking care,\nhowever, to lay nothing at the door of my weak will or deficient\naffection.\n\nThe remainder of the letter is for yourself alone. I want to ask you two\nquestions: the first is,--How did you contrive to preserve the common\nsympathies of human nature when you resided here? I cannot recognise any\nsentiment which those around share with me.\n\nThe second question I have great interest in; it is this--Is Mr.\nHeathcliff a man? If so, is he mad? And if not, is he a devil? I\nsha'n't tell my reasons for making this inquiry; but I beseech you to\nexplain, if you can, what I have married: that is, when you call to see\nme; and you must call, Ellen, very soon. Don't write, but come, and\nbring me something from Edgar.\n\nNow, you shall hear how I have been received in my new home, as I am led\nto imagine the Heights will be. It is to amuse myself that I dwell on\nsuch subjects as the lack of external comforts: they never occupy my\nthoughts, except at the moment when I miss them. I should laugh and\ndance for joy, if I found their absence was the total of my miseries, and\nthe rest was an unnatural dream!\n\nThe sun set behind the Grange as we turned on to the moors; by that, I\njudged it to be six o'clock; and my companion halted half an hour, to\ninspect the park, and the gardens, and, probably, the place itself, as\nwell as he could; so it was dark when we dismounted in the paved yard of\nthe farm-house, and your old fellow-servant, Joseph, issued out to\nreceive us by the light of a dip candle. He did it with a courtesy that\nredounded to his credit. His first act was to elevate his torch to a\nlevel with my face, squint malignantly, project his under-lip, and turn\naway. Then he took the two horses, and led them into the stables;\nreappearing for the purpose of locking the outer gate, as if we lived in\nan ancient castle.\n\nHeathcliff stayed to speak to him, and I entered the kitchen--a dingy,\nuntidy hole; I daresay you would not know it, it is so changed since it\nwas in your charge. By the fire stood a ruffianly child, strong in limb\nand dirty in garb, with a look of Catherine in his eyes and about his\nmouth.\n\n'This is Edgar's legal nephew,' I reflected--'mine in a manner; I must\nshake hands, and--yes--I must kiss him. It is right to establish a good\nunderstanding at the beginning.'\n\nI approached, and, attempting to take his chubby fist, said--'How do you\ndo, my dear?'\n\nHe replied in a jargon I did not comprehend.\n\n'Shall you and I be friends, Hareton?' was my next essay at conversation.\n\nAn oath, and a threat to set Throttler on me if I did not 'frame off'\nrewarded my perseverance.\n\n'Hey, Throttler, lad!' whispered the little wretch, rousing a half-bred\nbull-dog from its lair in a corner. 'Now, wilt thou be ganging?' he\nasked authoritatively.\n\nLove for my life urged a compliance; I stepped over the threshold to wait\ntill the others should enter. Mr. Heathcliff was nowhere visible; and\nJoseph, whom I followed to the stables, and requested to accompany me in,\nafter staring and muttering to himself, screwed up his nose and\nreplied--'Mim! mim! mim! Did iver Christian body hear aught like it?\nMincing un' munching! How can I tell whet ye say?'\n\n'I say, I wish you to come with me into the house!' I cried, thinking him\ndeaf, yet highly disgusted at his rudeness.\n\n'None o' me! I getten summut else to do,' he answered, and continued his\nwork; moving his lantern jaws meanwhile, and surveying my dress and\ncountenance (the former a great deal too fine, but the latter, I'm sure,\nas sad as he could desire) with sovereign contempt.\n\nI walked round the yard, and through a wicket, to another door, at which\nI took the liberty of knocking, in hopes some more civil servant might\nshow himself. After a short suspense, it was opened by a tall, gaunt\nman, without neckerchief, and otherwise extremely slovenly; his features\nwere lost in masses of shaggy hair that hung on his shoulders; and _his_\neyes, too, were like a ghostly Catherine's with all their beauty\nannihilated.\n\n'What's your business here?' he demanded, grimly. 'Who are you?'\n\n'My name was Isabella Linton,' I replied. 'You've seen me before, sir.\nI'm lately married to Mr. Heathcliff, and he has brought me here--I\nsuppose, by your permission.'\n\n'Is he come back, then?' asked the hermit, glaring like a hungry wolf.\n\n'Yes--we came just now,' I said; 'but he left me by the kitchen door; and\nwhen I would have gone in, your little boy played sentinel over the\nplace, and frightened me off by the help of a bull-dog.'\n\n'It's well the hellish villain has kept his word!' growled my future\nhost, searching the darkness beyond me in expectation of discovering\nHeathcliff; and then he indulged in a soliloquy of execrations, and\nthreats of what he would have done had the 'fiend' deceived him.\n\nI repented having tried this second entrance, and was almost inclined to\nslip away before he finished cursing, but ere I could execute that\nintention, he ordered me in, and shut and re-fastened the door. There\nwas a great fire, and that was all the light in the huge apartment, whose\nfloor had grown a uniform grey; and the once brilliant pewter-dishes,\nwhich used to attract my gaze when I was a girl, partook of a similar\nobscurity, created by tarnish and dust. I inquired whether I might call\nthe maid, and be conducted to a bedroom! Mr. Earnshaw vouchsafed no\nanswer. He walked up and down, with his hands in his pockets, apparently\nquite forgetting my presence; and his abstraction was evidently so deep,\nand his whole aspect so misanthropical, that I shrank from disturbing him\nagain.\n\nYou'll not be surprised, Ellen, at my feeling particularly cheerless,\nseated in worse than solitude on that inhospitable hearth, and\nremembering that four miles distant lay my delightful home, containing\nthe only people I loved on earth; and there might as well be the\nAtlantic to part us, instead of those four miles: I could not overpass\nthem! I questioned with myself--where must I turn for comfort? and--mind\nyou don't tell Edgar, or Catherine--above every sorrow beside, this rose\npre-eminent: despair at finding nobody who could or would be my ally\nagainst Heathcliff! I had sought shelter at Wuthering Heights, almost\ngladly, because I was secured by that arrangement from living alone with\nhim; but he knew the people we were coming amongst, and he did not fear\ntheir intermeddling.\n\nI sat and thought a doleful time: the clock struck eight, and nine, and\nstill my companion paced to and fro, his head bent on his breast, and\nperfectly silent, unless a groan or a bitter ejaculation forced itself\nout at intervals. I listened to detect a woman's voice in the house, and\nfilled the interim with wild regrets and dismal anticipations, which, at\nlast, spoke audibly in irrepressible sighing and weeping. I was not\naware how openly I grieved, till Earnshaw halted opposite, in his\nmeasured walk, and gave me a stare of newly-awakened surprise. Taking\nadvantage of his recovered attention, I exclaimed--'I'm tired with my\njourney, and I want to go to bed! Where is the maid-servant? Direct me\nto her, as she won't come to me!'\n\n'We have none,' he answered; 'you must wait on yourself!'\n\n'Where must I sleep, then?' I sobbed; I was beyond regarding\nself-respect, weighed down by fatigue and wretchedness.\n\n'Joseph will show you Heathcliff's chamber,' said he; 'open that\ndoor--he's in there.'\n\nI was going to obey, but he suddenly arrested me, and added in the\nstrangest tone--'Be so good as to turn your lock, and draw your\nbolt--don't omit it!'\n\n'Well!' I said. 'But why, Mr. Earnshaw?' I did not relish the notion of\ndeliberately fastening myself in with Heathcliff.\n\n'Look here!' he replied, pulling from his waistcoat a\ncuriously-constructed pistol, having a double-edged spring knife attached\nto the barrel. 'That's a great tempter to a desperate man, is it not? I\ncannot resist going up with this every night, and trying his door. If\nonce I find it open he's done for; I do it invariably, even though the\nminute before I have been recalling a hundred reasons that should make me\nrefrain: it is some devil that urges me to thwart my own schemes by\nkilling him. You fight against that devil for love as long as you may;\nwhen the time comes, not all the angels in heaven shall save him!'\n\nI surveyed the weapon inquisitively. A hideous notion struck me: how\npowerful I should be possessing such an instrument! I took it from his\nhand, and touched the blade. He looked astonished at the expression my\nface assumed during a brief second: it was not horror, it was\ncovetousness. He snatched the pistol back, jealously; shut the knife,\nand returned it to its concealment.\n\n'I don't care if you tell him,' said he. 'Put him on his guard, and\nwatch for him. You know the terms we are on, I see: his danger does not\nshock you.'\n\n'What has Heathcliff done to you?' I asked. 'In what has he wronged you,\nto warrant this appalling hatred? Wouldn't it be wiser to bid him quit\nthe house?'\n\n'No!' thundered Earnshaw; 'should he offer to leave me, he's a dead man:\npersuade him to attempt it, and you are a murderess! Am I to lose _all_,\nwithout a chance of retrieval? Is Hareton to be a beggar? Oh,\ndamnation! I _will_ have it back; and I'll have _his_ gold too; and then\nhis blood; and hell shall have his soul! It will be ten times blacker\nwith that guest than ever it was before!'\n\nYou've acquainted me, Ellen, with your old master's habits. He is\nclearly on the verge of madness: he was so last night at least. I\nshuddered to be near him, and thought on the servant's ill-bred\nmoroseness as comparatively agreeable. He now recommenced his moody\nwalk, and I raised the latch, and escaped into the kitchen. Joseph was\nbending over the fire, peering into a large pan that swung above it; and\na wooden bowl of oatmeal stood on the settle close by. The contents of\nthe pan began to boil, and he turned to plunge his hand into the bowl; I\nconjectured that this preparation was probably for our supper, and, being\nhungry, I resolved it should be eatable; so, crying out sharply, '_I'll_\nmake the porridge!' I removed the vessel out of his reach, and proceeded\nto take off my hat and riding-habit. 'Mr. Earnshaw,' I continued,\n'directs me to wait on myself: I will. I'm not going to act the lady\namong you, for fear I should starve.'\n\n'Gooid Lord!' he muttered, sitting down, and stroking his ribbed\nstockings from the knee to the ankle. 'If there's to be fresh\northerings--just when I getten used to two maisters, if I mun hev' a\n_mistress_ set o'er my heead, it's like time to be flitting. I niver\n_did_ think to see t' day that I mud lave th' owld place--but I doubt\nit's nigh at hand!'\n\nThis lamentation drew no notice from me: I went briskly to work, sighing\nto remember a period when it would have been all merry fun; but compelled\nspeedily to drive off the remembrance. It racked me to recall past\nhappiness and the greater peril there was of conjuring up its apparition,\nthe quicker the thible ran round, and the faster the handfuls of meal\nfell into the water. Joseph beheld my style of cookery with growing\nindignation.\n\n'Thear!' he ejaculated. 'Hareton, thou willn't sup thy porridge\nto-neeght; they'll be naught but lumps as big as my neive. Thear, agean!\nI'd fling in bowl un' all, if I wer ye! There, pale t' guilp off, un'\nthen ye'll hae done wi' 't. Bang, bang. It's a mercy t' bothom isn't\ndeaved out!'\n\nIt _was_ rather a rough mess, I own, when poured into the basins; four\nhad been provided, and a gallon pitcher of new milk was brought from the\ndairy, which Hareton seized and commenced drinking and spilling from the\nexpansive lip. I expostulated, and desired that he should have his in a\nmug; affirming that I could not taste the liquid treated so dirtily. The\nold cynic chose to be vastly offended at this nicety; assuring me,\nrepeatedly, that 'the barn was every bit as good' as I, 'and every bit as\nwollsome,' and wondering how I could fashion to be so conceited.\nMeanwhile, the infant ruffian continued sucking; and glowered up at me\ndefyingly, as he slavered into the jug.\n\n'I shall have my supper in another room,' I said. 'Have you no place you\ncall a parlour?'\n\n'_Parlour_!' he echoed, sneeringly, '_parlour_! Nay, we've noa\n_parlours_. If yah dunnut loike wer company, there's maister's; un' if\nyah dunnut loike maister, there's us.'\n\n'Then I shall go up-stairs,' I answered; 'show me a chamber.'\n\nI put my basin on a tray, and went myself to fetch some more milk. With\ngreat grumblings, the fellow rose, and preceded me in my ascent: we\nmounted to the garrets; he opened a door, now and then, to look into the\napartments we passed.\n\n'Here's a rahm,' he said, at last, flinging back a cranky board on\nhinges. 'It's weel eneugh to ate a few porridge in. There's a pack o'\ncorn i' t' corner, thear, meeterly clane; if ye're feared o' muckying yer\ngrand silk cloes, spread yer hankerchir o' t' top on't.'\n\nThe 'rahm' was a kind of lumber-hole smelling strong of malt and grain;\nvarious sacks of which articles were piled around, leaving a wide, bare\nspace in the middle.\n\n'Why, man,' I exclaimed, facing him angrily, 'this is not a place to\nsleep in. I wish to see my bed-room.'\n\n'_Bed-rume_!' he repeated, in a tone of mockery. 'Yah's see all t'\n_bed-rumes_ thear is--yon's mine.'\n\nHe pointed into the second garret, only differing from the first in being\nmore naked about the walls, and having a large, low, curtainless bed,\nwith an indigo-coloured quilt, at one end.\n\n'What do I want with yours?' I retorted. 'I suppose Mr. Heathcliff does\nnot lodge at the top of the house, does he?'\n\n'Oh! it's Maister _Hathecliff's_ ye're wanting?' cried he, as if making a\nnew discovery. 'Couldn't ye ha' said soa, at onst? un' then, I mud ha'\ntelled ye, baht all this wark, that that's just one ye cannut see--he\nallas keeps it locked, un' nob'dy iver mells on't but hisseln.'\n\n'You've a nice house, Joseph,' I could not refrain from observing, 'and\npleasant inmates; and I think the concentrated essence of all the madness\nin the world took up its abode in my brain the day I linked my fate with\ntheirs! However, that is not to the present purpose--there are other\nrooms. For heaven's sake be quick, and let me settle somewhere!'\n\nHe made no reply to this adjuration; only plodding doggedly down the\nwooden steps, and halting, before an apartment which, from that halt and\nthe superior quality of its furniture, I conjectured to be the best one.\nThere was a carpet--a good one, but the pattern was obliterated by dust;\na fireplace hung with cut-paper, dropping to pieces; a handsome\noak-bedstead with ample crimson curtains of rather expensive material and\nmodern make; but they had evidently experienced rough usage: the\nvallances hung in festoons, wrenched from their rings, and the iron rod\nsupporting them was bent in an arc on one side, causing the drapery to\ntrail upon the floor. The chairs were also damaged, many of them\nseverely; and deep indentations deformed the panels of the walls. I was\nendeavouring to gather resolution for entering and taking possession,\nwhen my fool of a guide announced,--'This here is t' maister's.' My\nsupper by this time was cold, my appetite gone, and my patience\nexhausted. I insisted on being provided instantly with a place of\nrefuge, and means of repose.\n\n'Whear the divil?' began the religious elder. 'The Lord bless us! The\nLord forgie us! Whear the _hell_ wold ye gang? ye marred, wearisome\nnowt! Ye've seen all but Hareton's bit of a cham'er. There's not\nanother hoile to lig down in i' th' hahse!'\n\nI was so vexed, I flung my tray and its contents on the ground; and then\nseated myself at the stairs'-head, hid my face in my hands, and cried.\n\n'Ech! ech!' exclaimed Joseph. 'Weel done, Miss Cathy! weel done, Miss\nCathy! Howsiver, t' maister sall just tum'le o'er them brooken pots; un'\nthen we's hear summut; we's hear how it's to be. Gooid-for-naught\nmadling! ye desarve pining fro' this to Chrustmas, flinging t' precious\ngifts o'God under fooit i' yer flaysome rages! But I'm mista'en if ye\nshew yer sperrit lang. Will Hathecliff bide sich bonny ways, think ye? I\nnobbut wish he may catch ye i' that plisky. I nobbut wish he may.'\n\nAnd so he went on scolding to his den beneath, taking the candle with\nhim; and I remained in the dark. The period of reflection succeeding\nthis silly action compelled me to admit the necessity of smothering my\npride and choking my wrath, and bestirring myself to remove its effects.\nAn unexpected aid presently appeared in the shape of Throttler, whom I\nnow recognised as a son of our old Skulker: it had spent its whelphood\nat the Grange, and was given by my father to Mr. Hindley. I fancy it\nknew me: it pushed its nose against mine by way of salute, and then\nhastened to devour the porridge; while I groped from step to step,\ncollecting the shattered earthenware, and drying the spatters of milk\nfrom the banister with my pocket-handkerchief. Our labours were scarcely\nover when I heard Earnshaw's tread in the passage; my assistant tucked\nin his tail, and pressed to the wall; I stole into the nearest doorway.\nThe dog's endeavour to avoid him was unsuccessful; as I guessed by a\nscutter down-stairs, and a prolonged, piteous yelping. I had better\nluck: he passed on, entered his chamber, and shut the door. Directly\nafter Joseph came up with Hareton, to put him to bed. I had found\nshelter in Hareton's room, and the old man, on seeing me, said,--'They's\nrahm for boath ye un' yer pride, now, I sud think i' the hahse. It's\nempty; ye may hev' it all to yerseln, un' Him as allus maks a third, i'\nsich ill company!'\n\nGladly did I take advantage of this intimation; and the minute I flung\nmyself into a chair, by the fire, I nodded, and slept. My slumber was\ndeep and sweet, though over far too soon. Mr. Heathcliff awoke me; he\nhad just come in, and demanded, in his loving manner, what I was doing\nthere? I told him the cause of my staying up so late--that he had the\nkey of our room in his pocket. The adjective _our_ gave mortal offence.\nHe swore it was not, nor ever should be, mine; and he'd--but I'll not\nrepeat his language, nor describe his habitual conduct: he is ingenious\nand unresting in seeking to gain my abhorrence! I sometimes wonder at\nhim with an intensity that deadens my fear: yet, I assure you, a tiger or\na venomous serpent could not rouse terror in me equal to that which he\nwakens. He told me of Catherine's illness, and accused my brother of\ncausing it promising that I should be Edgar's proxy in suffering, till he\ncould get hold of him.\n\nI do hate him--I am wretched--I have been a fool! Beware of uttering one\nbreath of this to any one at the Grange. I shall expect you every\nday--don't disappoint me!--ISABELLA.\n\n\n\n",
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"feat_summary_name": "Chapter 13",
"feat_summary_url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201101054152/https://www.cliffsnotes.com/literature/w/wuthering-heights/summary-and-analysis/chapter-13",
"target": "Edgar nurses Catherine for the next two months. During this time, it is revealed that Catherine is pregnant. Edgar longs for a male heir, to prevent Heathcliff and Isabella from inheriting the Grange. Six weeks after she runs away, Isabella sends a letter to Edgar, announcing her marriage and begging forgiveness. He does not reply. After that, a distraught Isabella sends a letter to Nelly, questioning the humanity of Heathcliff. She tells Nelly that they are living at Wuthering Heights and begs for a visit. The letter goes on to tell of her experiences at Wuthering Heights. Isabella encounters Hareton, Joseph, and Hindley: All are rude and uncaring. She realizes her mistake but also knows that it is too late. She cannot even find a place to sleep that is her own. When Heathcliff returns, he tells her that Catherine is sick, that he blames Edgar, and that he plans on making her suffer in place of Edgar.",
"feat_summary_analysis": "Nearing death, Catherine knows the next time she goes to the moors will be her last. She does not allow Edgar to comfort either her or himself with a false sense of hope or security. Edgar nurses Catherine tenderly and attentively as best he can, but is he doing this out of love for his wife or the child she is bearing? Without an heir, Isabella would inherit Thrushcross Grange in the event of Edgar's death. Because Isabella is married to Heathcliff, that means Edgar's rival would essentially inherit Edgar's property. Edgar does not want this to happen. While Edgar is nursing Catherine, readers get a view of Heathcliff from Isabella's perspective. Her letter to Nelly narrates the events that have transpired from the time she eloped. Isabella questions if Heathcliff is really a man and suggests that he may be incarnate evil. She realizes marrying him was a mistake but also realizes she cannot atone for her error. Isabella reveals that Heathcliff blames Edgar for Catherine's suffering, and he will take this out on Isabella, too. Heathcliff may or may not be the devil, but he is making Isabella's life a living hell. Glossary frame off be gone. soliloquy an act or instance of talking aloud to oneself. thible a smooth stick for stirring broth or porridge. vouchsafed was gracious enough, or condescended, to give or grant. adjuration an earnest entreaty or request. abhorrence loathing, detestation.",
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Dataset Splits
This dataset is split into a train and validation split. The split sizes are as follow:
| Split name | Num samples |
|---|---|
| train | 7680 |
| valid | 1920 |