The twelve years following that dismal period were the happiest of my life. Our greatest troubles during those years were merely the typical childhood illnesses that our little lady, Cathy, had to face. After the first six months of her life, she grew as tall and graceful as a tree. By the time the heather blossomed a second time over her mother’s grave, she could already walk and talk in her own charming way.
She was the most delightful child to ever bring sunshine into a desolate house. In appearance, she was a true beauty, possessing the Earnshaws’ handsome dark eyes but the Lintons’ fair skin, small features, and curling yellow hair. Her spirit was high, yet she was never rough; her heart was lively and intensely affectionate. This capacity for deep attachment reminded me of her mother, though she did not truly resemble her. Cathy could be as soft and mild as a dove, with a gentle voice and a thoughtful expression. Her anger was never furious, and her love was never fierce; it was deep and tender.
However, she did have faults. She had a propensity to be saucy and a stubborn will, as indulged children often do. If a servant annoyed her, she would immediately threaten to tell her father. Yet, if Edgar even looked at her with disapproval, she acted as if her heart were breaking. I don't believe he ever spoke a single harsh word to her. He took her education entirely upon himself and made a game of it. Fortunately, Cathy’s quick intellect and curiosity made her an eager student who did honour to his teaching.
Until she reached the age of thirteen, she had never been beyond the park walls by herself. Mr. Linton occasionally took her a mile or two outside, but he trusted her to no one else. To her, Gimmerton was just a name, and Wuthering Heights and Mr. Heathcliff did not exist at all. She was a perfect recluse and, apparently, perfectly content. Sometimes, however, she would look out from her nursery window and wonder when she would be allowed to walk to the top of the distant hills. She was particularly attracted to the steep descent of Penistone Crags, especially when the setting sun made them glow with gold.
I tried to discourage her interest, telling her the rocks were bare and not worth the trouble of visiting. But Cathy would murmur to herself, "I know the park, and I don't know those hills. My pony, Minny, shall take me there some time." When a maid mentioned the "Fairy Cave" located there, Cathy became obsessed with the idea. Edgar, unable to pass the Heights without pain, always gave her the same answer: "Not yet, love; not yet."
Mrs. Heathcliff lived for over twelve years after leaving her husband. Like Edgar, she had a delicate constitution. When she realized she was dying of a slow, incurable fever, she wrote to her brother, begging him to come to London. She wished to say goodbye and to leave her son, Linton, in Edgar’s care. She hoped that Heathcliff would have no desire to be burdened with the boy’s education. My master did not hesitate; despite his reluctance to leave home, he departed immediately. He left Catherine under my strict supervision, with repeated orders that she must not leave the park.
He was away for three weeks. At first, Cathy was too sad to play, but she soon grew restless and bored. To keep her entertained, I allowed her to go on "travels" around the grounds on her pony, and I would listen to her stories of adventure when she returned. Because the gates were usually locked, I didn't think she would venture outside alone. Unfortunately, I was mistaken.
One July morning, Cathy announced she was an Arabian merchant crossing the desert. She trotted off on her pony with her dogs acting as "camels." When she didn't appear for tea, I grew worried. One of the dogs returned alone, but Cathy and the pony were nowhere to be found. I eventually found a labourer who told me he had seen her jump her pony over a low part of the fence and gallop away toward the hills.
I was terrified. I realized she must have headed for Penistone Crags, which were several miles away. I walked as fast as I could toward the Heights. As I hurried past the farmhouse, I saw one of our dogs lying under a window with a bloody ear. I ran to the door and knocked. A servant I knew from Gimmerton answered.
"Don't be frightened," she said. "Your mistress is here, safe. I’m just glad Mr. Heathcliff isn’t home."
I entered and found Cathy sitting by the fire, chatting gaily with Hareton—now a strong, handsome lad of eighteen. He was staring at her with curiosity and confusion, barely understanding her rapid-fire questions.
"Very well, Miss!" I cried, hiding my relief behind a mask of anger. "This is your last ride until your father returns. You naughty girl!"
Cathy jumped up, laughing. "I have such a story to tell! Have you ever been here before, Ellen?"
I insisted she put on her hat and come home immediately. I scolded her for being a "cunning little fox" and for breaking her father’s rules. Cathy was shocked; she insisted her father was never cross like me. As we prepared to leave, I grew irritated by her capering around the room.
"If you knew whose house this was, you’d be glad to leave," I snapped.
"It’s your father’s, isn't it?" she asked Hareton.
"No," he replied, blushing. He couldn't meet her eyes, even though they were exactly like his own.
Cathy continued to ask who his master was and why he didn't call her "Miss." Hareton grew angry at her childish arrogance. Finally, Cathy ordered him to get her horse as if he were a stable boy.
"I’ll see you damned before I act as your servant!" Hareton growled.
Cathy was stunned. She had never been spoken to that way. She threatened to tell her father, but Hareton didn't seem to care. The servant then intervened, telling Cathy that while Hareton wasn't the master’s son, he was actually her cousin.
"He, my cousin?" Cathy laughed scornfully. She was horrified by the idea of being related to such a rough, uneducated boy. She burst into tears and threw herself into my arms.
Hareton, seeing her distress, felt bad and tried to offer her a puppy as a peace-offering, but she rejected it with horror. I felt sorry for the fellow. He was an athletic, good-looking youth, but he was dressed like a common farmhand. Heathcliff had intentionally raised him as a brute, denying him an education and never teaching him a single virtue. Joseph had also contributed to his decline, flattery and neglect leading the boy toward ruin.
Cathy eventually got her dogs, and we set out for home. She had reached the Fairy Cave and persuaded Hareton to show her the mysteries of the hills, but the day had ended in disaster. She couldn't understand why a stranger would insult her when everyone at the Grange treated her like a queen.
I managed to make her promise not to tell her father about the visit. I explained that Mr. Linton hated the people at the Heights and would be heartbroken to know she had been there. Most importantly, I told her I would lose my job if he found out I had let her go. Because she loved me and her father, Cathy gave her word and kept the secret. Despite her sauciness, she was a sweet-natured girl at heart.