Wuthering Heights From the story by Emily Bronte

After Cathy’s death, my master was a changed man. He almost never left the Grange except to visit Cathy’s grave. But he did have one great comfort in life – his little daughter Catherine. Hesoon stopped neglecting her and became immensely fond of the child^[70], spending most of his days playing and talking with her.

I sometimes used to compare Edgar with Hindley, and wonder to myself how these two men could have turned out so differently. Both of them had lost a wife they adored and both had a child to care for. But Hindley, who had always seemed the stronger of the two to me, allowed himself to fall apart, while Edgar devoted himself to being a good father.

Poor Hindley died soon after his sister. We never found out exactly what happened to him, but the doctor said he had drunk himself to death^[71]. By the time Hindley died, he had nothing to leave to his son. Heathcliff had won his house and all his money by playing him at cards. And young Hareton, who should have inherited Wuthering Heights, was forced to work as a servant for his father’s enemy. The cuckoo had finally taken over the nest.

Catherine and her Cousins

The next twelve years were the happiest of my life. Young Catherine was such a lively, affectionate little girl that no one close to her could stay sad for long. She was a beautiful child, with the Earnshaws’ dark eyes and the Lintons’ delicate features and golden hair. I have to admit that she had her faults – she had inherited her mother’s temper, and hated being contradicted, but she was so loveable that we almost always allowed her to have her own way

Mr. Edgar and his daughter were very close. He was her only teacher, and she was such a fast learner that her lessons were a pleasure for them both. Until Catherine was thirteen, she had never been beyond the walls of Thrushcross Park, except for short walks with her father, or to go to church. As far as she knew, Mr. Heathcliff and Wuthering Heights simply didn’t exist. She and her father lived like hermits and, for a long while, she seemed perfectly happy with her isolated life.

Then, one evening, I noticed Catherine looking out over the moors.

«Nelly, how long will it be before I can walk to the top of those hills?» she asked. «I wish I knew what lies on the other side of them – is it the sea?»

«No, Miss Catherine. It’s hills again, just like these.»

«And how does it feel to stand under those golden rocks?» she said, pointing up to Peniston Crags^[72].

«They’re not so wonderful as they look from down here, miss,» I said firmly, «and the hill on which they stand is very hard to climb.»

«Oh, so you’ve been up there!» she cried excitedly. «And can I go too, when I’m older? Has papa climbed up to those rocks as well?»

«Your father would tell you that they’re not worth visiting. The fields where you walk with him are much nicer, and Thrushcross Park is the finest place in the world.»

«But I know every bit of the park,» she murmured to herself, «and I would love to see the view from those hills. I’m sure my pony Minny could take me there easily.»

Once she’d started to dream about Peniston Crags, young Catherine wouldn’t let the idea drop^[73]. She begged her father again and again to take her up to the Crags, and every few months she would ask him the same question, «Now, am I old enough to climb to the Crags?»

Edgar dreaded the thought of his precious daughter passing close to Wuthering Heights, so he kept giving the answer, «Not yet, my love, not yet.»

Isabella Heathcliff lived for twelve years after leaving her husband. None of the Lintons were strong, and I believe she died from a kind of fever. Before she died, she wrote to her brother begging him to visit her in London. She wanted to say goodbye, and to hand over her son Linton to him. Even though Edgar hated leaving home, he immediately set off for London and left me in charge of Catherine, repeating his orders that she must not be allowed to leave the park.

Edgar was away for three weeks. For the first few days, Catherine sat in a corner of the library, too sad to play or even to read a book, but she soon became bored and restless. I was much too busy to look after her all day, so I told her to go out for a ride on her pony, never imagining that she would leave the park. Catherine asked me to pack a picnic for her so she could stay out all day. Then she set off on her pony with the dogs running behind her. I told her to ride carefully and be back soon after lunch, but the naughty thing never appeared for her tea.

I set out to find her, but when I reached the park gates, a workman told me he’d seen her jumping the wall and galloping out of sight.