At midnight, the younger Catherine—the girl you met at Wuthering Heights—was born. She was a fragile, seven-month-old infant. Two hours later, her mother passed away. Catherine never regained enough consciousness to ask for Heathcliff or to recognize her husband. Edgar’s profound grief at this loss was a subject too painful to dwell upon, though its lasting effects revealed just how deeply his sorrow ran. To me, it was an additional tragedy that he was left without a male heir. I looked at the weak orphan and felt a surge of bitterness, mourning that the estate was now legally secured for Edgar’s daughter rather than a son. During those first hours of her life, the poor infant was entirely unwelcome; she might have slipped out of existence unnoticed, had we not eventually redeemed our neglect. Her beginning was as friendless as her end is likely to be.
The following morning was bright and cheerful. The sunlight filtered through the blinds of the silent room, bathing Catherine’s body in a mellow, tender glow. Edgar Linton sat with his head on her pillow, his eyes closed. His young, handsome features were almost as pale and fixed as hers, but while his was the silence of exhausted anguish, hers was a silence of perfect peace. With her brow smooth and her lips wearing the faint shadow of a smile, she looked more beautiful than an angel. Gazing at her, I felt a sense of infinite calm. I instinctively echoed the words she had spoken a few hours earlier: "Incomparably beyond and above us all! Her spirit is finally at home."
I have always found a strange sense of happiness when watching over the dead, provided I am not disturbed by a despairing mourner. In the presence of death, I see a repose that neither earth nor hell can break. It offers a quiet assurance of an endless hereafter—an eternity where life is boundless and joy is full. On that morning, I couldn't help but notice the unintended selfishness in a love like Edgar’s, which so deeply regretted Catherine’s release from her suffering. Looking at her peaceful form, all my previous doubts about her wayward character vanished; her tranquility seemed a pledge of the peace her soul had finally found.
Shortly after sunrise, I ventured out of the house to breathe the fresh air. In reality, my primary motive was to find Mr. Heathcliff. I knew that if he had stayed among the trees all night, he would be unaware of what had happened, unless he had noticed the lights flickering in the windows or the arrival of the doctor. I both wished and feared to find him. I knew the terrible news had to be shared, and I wanted to get the task over with.
I found him a few yards into the park, leaning against an old ash tree. His hat was off, and his hair was soaked with the dew that dripped from the branches. He had clearly been standing there for a long time; a pair of birds were busy building a nest just a few feet away, treating him as if he were nothing more than a piece of timber. As I approached, he looked up and spoke.
"She’s dead," he said. "I didn’t wait for you to tell me that. Put your handkerchief away—don’t sob in front of me. She doesn't want your tears!"
I was weeping for him as much as for her. When I looked into his face, I realized he had already sensed the catastrophe. His lips moved silently, and for a moment, I foolishly thought he was praying.
"Yes, she’s dead," I answered, drying my cheeks. "She has gone to heaven, I hope. We should all take warning and leave our evil ways behind."
"Did she die like a saint?" Heathcliff asked with a sneer. He tried to say her name but could not manage it. He struggled with his internal agony, his eyes fixed on me in a ferocious stare. Finally, despite his pride, he began to tremble. "How did she die?"
"Quietly, like a lamb," I replied. "She sighed and stretched like a child falling into a deeper sleep. Five minutes later, her heart stopped."
"And... did she ever mention me?" he asked, his voice hesitating as if he dreaded the answer.
"She never regained her senses. She recognized nobody," I said. "She lies there now with a sweet smile on her face, as if her last thoughts had wandered back to her happy childhood. Her life ended in a gentle dream."
"May she wake in torment!" he cried with terrifying vehemence, stamping his foot in a sudden outburst of passion. "She was a liar to the end! You said you cared nothing for my sufferings! Catherine Earnshaw, may you not rest as long as I am living. You said I killed you—haunt me, then! I believe that ghosts do wander the earth. Be with me always—take any form—drive me mad! Only do not leave me in this abyss where I cannot find you! I cannot live without my life! I cannot live without my soul!"
He dashed his head against the knotted trunk of the tree, howling like a wild beast. I saw splashes of blood on the bark; his forehead and hands were already stained, suggesting he had repeated this scene throughout the night. It was a sight that appalled me more than it moved me to pity. When he realized I was watching, he thundered a command for me to leave, and I obeyed. He was beyond any comfort I could offer.
Catherine’s funeral was set for the following Friday. Until then, her coffin remained in the great drawing-room, covered in flowers. Edgar stayed there constantly, a sleepless guardian. Heathcliff, meanwhile, spent his nights outside in the garden, equally restless. On Tuesday evening, when Edgar was forced by exhaustion to rest for a few hours, I felt moved by Heathcliff’s persistence. I opened one of the windows to give him a chance to say a final goodbye to the woman he idolized.
He was so cautious that I wouldn't have known he had entered, were it not for a slight change in the drapery around the body. I also noticed a curl of light hair on the floor, tied with a silver thread. It had come from the locket around Catherine’s neck. Heathcliff had opened the trinket, thrown out the lock of Edgar’s hair, and replaced it with a black curl of his own. I took both curls, twisted them together, and enclosed them both in the locket.
Hindley was invited to the funeral but did not attend. Consequently, aside from Edgar, the mourners consisted only of the local tenants and servants. Isabella was not invited.
To the surprise of the villagers, Catherine was not buried in the Linton family vault or with her own relatives. Instead, a grave was dug on a green slope in a corner of the churchyard. The wall there is so low that the heather and wild plants from the moor have climbed over it, nearly burying the stone. Her husband lies in that same spot now, and both are marked by simple headstones.