We had a difficult time with young Cathy that day. She had woken in high spirits, eager to join her cousin, and the news of his sudden departure brought on such passionate tears that Mr. Linton was forced to soothe her. He promised her that Linton might return soon, though he added a quiet "if I can get him," knowing full well there was little hope of that. While time eventually eased her grief, Cathy’s memory of her cousin began to fade until his face became a dim blur in her mind.
Whenever I encountered the housekeeper of Wuthering Heights in the village, I inquired after the young master. I gathered from her accounts that he remained a fragile and difficult guest. Mr. Heathcliff, it seemed, disliked the boy more with every passing day, though he tried to hide it. He possessed a natural antipathy toward the sound of his son's voice and could hardly endure being in the same room as him for more than a few minutes.
“I’ve never known such a faint-hearted creature,” the woman told me. “He complains if a window is left open a crack, claiming the night air is killing him. He insists on a fire in the middle of summer and demands sweets and milk, regardless of how the rest of us are struggling. He sits there, wrapped in his fur cloak, sipping tea by the fire. If Hareton tries to amuse him, they always end up fighting—one swearing and the other crying. I believe the master would enjoy seeing Hareton thrash him if he weren't his own son.”
I realized that a total lack of sympathy had made young Linton selfish and disagreeable. While I felt a lingering sadness for his situation, my interest in him began to fade.
Time passed peacefully at the Grange until Cathy reached her sixteenth year. We never celebrated her birthday, as it was also the anniversary of her mother’s death. Her father invariably spent the day alone in the library or visiting the churchyard at Gimmerton, leaving Catherine to find her own amusement.
On this particular morning in March, a beautiful spring day, Cathy came downstairs dressed for a walk. She informed me that her father had given her permission to wander the edge of the moor with me, provided we returned within the hour.
“Make haste, Ellen!” she cried, full of energy. “I want to see if the moor-game have made their nests yet.”
Cathy bounded ahead like a young greyhound, her golden curls flying behind her. She was a radiant, happy creature in those days, her cheeks as bright as wild roses. However, she continually lured me further away, promising the nests were “just a little further.” By the time I insisted we turn back, she had dived into a hollow, and I realized we were two miles closer to Wuthering Heights than to our own home. There, I saw two men approaching her, one of whom was undoubtedly Mr. Heathcliff.
He was rebuking Cathy for trespassing on his land. When I finally reached them, Cathy was explaining that she only wanted to see the eggs. Heathcliff glanced at me with a malevolent smile before turning back to her.
“And who is your father?” he asked sarcastically.
“Mr. Linton of Thrushcross Grange,” she replied, looking at him with curiosity. Then, pointing to the tall, rough-looking young man beside him, she asked, “Is he your son? I’ve seen him before.”
Hareton had grown broad and strong, but he remained as awkward and unrefined as ever.
“No, he is not my son,” Heathcliff answered, pushing me aside when I tried to lead Cathy away. “But I have one, and you’ve met him too. You both look as though you need a rest. Why not walk into my house? You’ll be home sooner if you rest a while first.”
I whispered to Catherine that we must refuse, but she was tired and curious. Before I could stop her, she was already running toward the house.
“Mr. Heathcliff, this is wrong,” I protested as he seized my arm. “You know you mean no good. Her father will be furious.”
“I want her to see Linton,” he replied coolly. “He’s looking better lately. Besides, my design is perfectly honest. I want the two cousins to fall in love and marry. If they do, she will be provided for as Linton’s successor. I want their union, and I am resolved to bring it about.”
We reached the house, where Linton stood by the fire. He had grown tall for his age, and though his features were still handsome, his brightness was merely a temporary glow from the sun and fresh air.
“Now, who is this?” Heathcliff asked Cathy.
“Your son?” she guessed doubtfully.
“Yes,” Heathcliff said. “Linton, don't you remember your cousin?”
“Linton!” Cathy cried in joyful surprise. “Is that little Linton? You’re taller than I am!”
She kissed him affectionately, and they stared at each other, amazed by the changes time had wrought. While Cathy was a picture of vibrant health, Linton’s movements remained languid and his frame slight. Despite this, he possessed a certain grace that made him pleasant to look at.
Cathy turned to Heathcliff, her eyes bright. “And you are my uncle! Why don’t you visit us at the Grange? It’s strange to live so close and never see each other.”
“I visited your home once or twice too often before you were born,” he replied grimly. “If you have kisses to spare, give them to Linton; they are wasted on me.”
He then warned her that her father held a deep prejudice against him due to an old quarrel. “If you mention coming here to him, he will forbid you from ever seeing your cousin again. Therefore, you must keep this visit a secret.”
Cathy was disappointed to hear of the quarrel, but she agreed. Linton, however, was too weak to walk to the Grange, so he insisted she must be the one to visit him. Heathcliff watched his son with a look of bitter contempt, muttering to me that the boy was a "ninny" who would likely ruin his plans by being so pathetic.
He then called Hareton into the room and ordered him to show Cathy around the farm. He mocked Hareton’s lack of education and refinement, deliberately highlighting the contrast between the two boys.
“I’ve a pleasure in him,” Heathcliff told me, watching Hareton and Cathy through the window. “He’s no fool, yet I’ve taught him to scorn everything intellectual as weak. I’ve made him more of a brute than his father ever made me. But the best part is, Hareton is remarkably fond of me! If Hindley could rise from his grave, he’d see his own son fighting to defend his greatest enemy.”
Later, Linton joined them outside. When Cathy asked Hareton to read an inscription over the door, he was forced to admit he couldn't read. Linton giggled maliciously.
“He doesn't even know his letters,” Linton taunted. “He’s a colossal dunce. Have you noticed his frightful accent, Catherine?”
Hareton’s face burned with rage and humiliation. He retreated, insulted and unable to defend himself. I began to feel more dislike than pity for Linton; his spiteful nature made it easy to see why his father held him in such low esteem.
We stayed until the afternoon. On the walk home, I tried to warn Cathy about the characters of the people we had just left, but she insisted I was merely prejudiced. She didn't mention the visit that night, but the truth came out the following morning.
Mr. Linton was deeply troubled. He drew Cathy to him and explained that he had hidden Linton’s whereabouts not out of spite, but to protect her.
“Mr. Heathcliff is a diabolical man,” he told her. “He delights in ruining those he hates. I knew he would use you to get to me. I’m sorry I delayed explaining this to you.”
Cathy was shocked by the stories of Heathcliff’s past cruelty, particularly his treatment of her Aunt Isabella. The idea of such calculated, long-term revenge was entirely foreign to her. For a few days, she was subdued and returned to her usual studies. However, one evening, I found her crying by her bed.
“I’m crying for him, Ellen,” she sobbed. “He’ll be waiting for me tomorrow, and he’ll be so disappointed when I don’t come!”
I forbade her from writing to him, but Cathy was determined. Weeks passed, and I noticed her behavior changing. She became secretive, lingering by the kitchen door in the mornings and spending hours over a small locked drawer in the library.
One night, I used a spare key to open the drawer. Inside, I found a mass of correspondence—almost daily love letters from Linton. They were a strange mix of boyish passion and sophisticated phrases that I suspected had been dictated by Heathcliff. To me, they were worthless trash.
The next morning, I intercepted a young messenger in the garden and snatched a letter from him. It was a simple, affectionate note from Cathy. That rainy afternoon, Cathy went to her drawer and discovered it was empty. Her face transformed into a mask of despair.
“What is the matter, love?” her father asked.
“Nothing, Papa!” she gasped, before pulling me upstairs. “Oh, Ellen, you have them! Please, give them back! I’ll never do it again!”
I was stern with her. “You should be ashamed, Catherine. This is ridiculous trash. What will your father think when I show him?”
She begged me to burn them rather than show her father. I eventually relented, but only after she promised never to write to him again. I made her watch as I threw the bundle into the fire. She even tried to snatch a few fragments from the flames, burning her fingers in the process.
The next day, I sent a brief note to Wuthering Heights stating that Miss Linton would receive no more letters. From then on, the messenger came with empty pockets, and the secret romance was brought to an abrupt end—or so I hoped.