Summer faded into early autumn. The harvest was late that year, and as the last sheaves were gathered under a damp, chilling sky, Mr. Linton caught a severe cold. It settled stubbornly in his lungs, confining him to the house throughout the entire winter.
Poor Catherine, deprived of her secret romance, grew increasingly sad and listless. Since her father was too ill to accompany her, it fell to me to join her on her daily walks—an inefficient substitute, as I could only spare a few hours from my household duties.
One fresh, watery afternoon in late October, beneath a sky filled with dark grey clouds, we set out. Cathy walked sadly, frequently brushing tears from her cheeks. To distract her, I pointed out a lonely bluebell tucked under the roots of a twisted tree—the very last of the season.
“Will you climb up and pluck it for your father?” I asked.
Cathy stared at the trembling blossom for a long time. “No, I won’t touch it,” she replied eventually. “It looks so melancholy, doesn’t it, Ellen?”
She soon broke into sobs, confessing her deep fear of being left alone in the world if her father and I were to pass away. I tried to reassure her, reminding her that Mr. Linton was still young and I was strong.
“Don’t anticipate trouble,” I urged. “The best thing you can do is stay cheerful for his sake. You would only hasten his end if you were reckless or if you cherished a foolish affection for the son of a man who wishes him ill.”
“I care for nothing in comparison with Papa,” she insisted. “I would rather be miserable myself than have him suffer.”
As we talked, we neared a locked door that opened onto the highway. Cathy climbed the wall to gather some scarlet rosehips that grew on the upper branches. In her struggle to reach them, her hat fell onto the road. She nimbly jumped down to retrieve it, but we soon realized the wall was too smooth to climb back up. I tried every key in my pocket, but none would turn the lock. I was about to head back for the gatekeeper when the sound of a horse’s hooves stopped us both.
It was Mr. Heathcliff.
“I’m glad to meet you, Miss Linton,” he said in his deep, stern voice. “I have an explanation to ask of you.”
“I won’t speak to you,” Catherine replied boldly. “Papa and Ellen both say you are a wicked man.”
“That is beside the point,” Heathcliff retorted. “I want to talk to you about my son. You were in the habit of writing to him, weren’t you? You probably grew tired of the game and dropped it, but you dropped Linton into a deep depression along with it. He is truly in love with you, and he is breaking his heart over your fickleness. He’ll be in his grave before summer unless you go to him.”
“How can you tell such blatant lies?” I shouted from behind the door. “Miss Cathy, don’t believe this nonsense. It is impossible for a person to die for love of a stranger!”
Heathcliff ignored me. “I shall be away from home all week,” he continued, addressing Cathy. “Go and see for yourself if I am lying. Imagine if your father were in my place and Linton in yours; how would you feel if your lover refused to visit you when you were dying of grief? I swear, he is going to his grave, and only you can save him!”
I finally managed to force the door open and hurried Cathy back into the park, shielding her with my umbrella as the rain began to fall. The encounter left Catherine deeply troubled; she clearly believed every word Heathcliff had uttered.
That evening, Cathy sat in the library, lost in silent weeping. My attempts to ridicule Heathcliff’s claims failed completely.
“You may be right, Ellen,” she answered, “but I shall never feel at ease until I know the truth. I must tell Linton it isn't my fault that I stopped writing.”
I realized that further protests were useless against her stubborn belief. The next day, I found myself walking alongside my wilful young mistress’s pony on the road to Wuthering Heights. I yielded to her wishes, fueled by a faint hope that seeing Linton’s actual condition would finally expose his father’s lies.