As time passed, Mr. Earnshaw’s health began to decline. Once active and robust, his strength left him abruptly. Confined to his chair by the fireside, he grew increasingly irritable. The slightest thing would vex him, and any perceived challenge to his authority sent him into a fit of rage. He was especially protective of his favorite, Heathcliff, and became painfully jealous, convinced that because he loved the boy, everyone else must hate him and wish him harm. This partiality was actually a disadvantage for Heathcliff; the kinder members of the household humoured the master to keep the peace, which only fueled the boy’s pride and dark temper. On several occasions, Hindley’s open scorn for Heathcliff drove the old man into such a fury that he would shake with rage, unable to strike his son as he wished.
Eventually, the local curate suggested that Hindley should be sent away to college. Mr. Earnshaw agreed, albeit with a heavy heart, remarking that Hindley was a lost cause who would never thrive at home.
I sincerely hoped this would finally bring us peace. It saddened me to see the master’s final days ruined by family conflict, though the truth was that his bad temper arose as much from his failing body as from his children's behavior. However, two people stood in the way of our harmony: Catherine and Joseph, the servant. Joseph was perhaps the most tiresome, self-righteous hypocrite who ever used the Bible to justify his own bitterness while condemning others. By constantly preaching, he gained a great deal of influence over the weakening Mr. Earnshaw. He relentlessly pressured the old man about his soul and urged him to rule his children with an iron fist. He encouraged him to see Hindley as a disgrace and spent every evening complaining about Catherine and Heathcliff, making sure to place the heaviest blame on the girl.
Admittedly, Catherine was a handful. She tested our patience fifty times a day; from the moment she woke until she went to bed, we never knew what mischief she might get into. Her spirits were always high, and she was constantly singing, laughing, and pestering anyone who wouldn't join in. She was a wild, rebellious girl, yet she had the loveliest eyes and the sweetest smile in the parish. Despite her behavior, I believe she meant no real harm. If she truly made you cry, she would often sit with you and quietly offer comfort. She was also incredibly fond of Heathcliff, and our most effective punishment was to keep them apart.
Mr. Earnshaw, however, had no sense of humor regarding his children. He had always been stern, and Catherine could not understand why her father had become even more impatient in his illness. His constant scolding only provoked her further. She seemed to delight in defying us all, mocking Joseph’s religious threats and showing her father that she had more influence over Heathcliff than he did. Though she would sometimes try to make amends at night, her father would push her away.
"I cannot love you, Cathy," the old man would say. "Go and ask God’s forgiveness. I fear your mother and I will regret the day we raised you." These rejections eventually hardened her heart, and she would merely laugh when I told her to apologize.
The end of Mr. Earnshaw’s troubles arrived on a stormy October evening. He was sitting quietly in his chair by the fireside while a wild wind roared in the chimney. We were all gathered together: I was knitting nearby, and Joseph was reading his Bible. Catherine, who had been unwell and was therefore unusually quiet, rested her head against her father’s knee, while Heathcliff lay on the floor with his head in her lap.
Before he drifted off, I remember the master stroking Catherine's hair—it always pleased him to see her gentle—and asking, "Why can't you always be a good girl, Cathy?"
She looked up at him and playfully replied, "Why can't you always be a good man, father?"
Seeing him look annoyed, she quickly kissed his hand and offered to sing him to sleep. She sang softly until his hand dropped from hers and his head sank onto his chest. I told her to be still so he wouldn't wake. We remained as quiet as mice for half an hour, until Joseph finished his chapter and got up to wake the master for prayers. He touched the old man’s shoulder, but there was no movement. Joseph took a candle to look closer, and I knew something was wrong when he set the light down with a grim expression. He grabbed the children and whispered for them to go upstairs quietly, saying he had work to do.
"I must say good-night to father first," Catherine insisted, throwing her arms around his neck before we could stop her. She realized the truth immediately and screamed, "Oh, he’s dead, Heathcliff! He’s dead!" Their cries were absolutely heart-breaking.
I joined in their weeping, but Joseph scolded us, asking why we were mourning a man who was now a saint in heaven. He sent me through the wind and rain to Gimmerton to fetch the doctor. When I returned and went to the children’s room, I found their door ajar. They had not gone to bed, even though it was past midnight, but they were calmer now. The two of them were comforting each other with such beautiful thoughts of heaven that no clergyman could have expressed them better. As I listened to their innocent talk, I couldn't help but wish we were all there with the master, safe and at peace.