Yesterday was bright, calm, and frosty. I headed to the Heights as I had planned, carrying a small note from my housekeeper to her young lady. Nelly had entreated me to deliver it, and since the worthy woman saw nothing unusual in her request, I did not refuse. The front door stood open, but the garden gate was securely fastened. I called out to Hareton Earnshaw from the garden beds; he unchained the gate and allowed me to enter. I noticed this time that he was quite a handsome young man, though he seemed determined to hide his natural advantages behind a rough, neglected appearance.
When I asked if Mr. Heathcliff was at home, Hareton replied that he would return for dinner. It was only eleven o’clock, so I announced my intention to wait. Immediately, he dropped his tools and followed me into the house, acting more like a suspicious watchdog than a welcoming host.
We entered the house together and found Catherine preparing vegetables for the upcoming meal. She looked even more resentful and less spirited than when I had first met her. She barely looked up to acknowledge my presence, ignoring the common rules of politeness and failing to return my greeting.
"She is not as pleasant as Mrs. Dean led me to believe," I thought. "She is a beauty, certainly, but no angel."
Hareton surlily told her to take her things to the kitchen. "Take them yourself," she snapped, pushing them away. She retreated to a stool by the window and began carving shapes out of turnip parings. I approached her, pretending to admire the view, and cleverly dropped Nelly’s note onto her lap. To my annoyance, instead of hiding it, she asked aloud, "What is this?" and brushed it off.
I was irritated that she had exposed my secret favor. "It is a letter from the housekeeper at the Grange," I answered, worried that Hareton might think the message was from me. Catherine immediately tried to recover it, but Hareton was faster. He snatched the note and tucked it into his waistcoat, insisting that Mr. Heathcliff should examine it first. At this, Catherine turned away, stealthily wiping tears from her eyes. After a brief struggle with his own conscience, Hareton finally pulled the letter out and tossed it onto the floor beside her.
Catherine read it eagerly and then asked me several questions about the inhabitants of her former home. Looking toward the hills, she murmured to herself, "I wish I were riding my pony down there! I’m tired—I’m exhausted, Hareton!" She leaned her head against the window sill with a sigh, lost in a state of deep sadness.
"Mrs. Heathcliff," I said after a long silence, "you seem unaware that I am a close friend of yours. My housekeeper speaks of you constantly, and she will be disappointed if I return with no news of you."
She looked at me with surprise. "Does Ellen like you?"
"Yes, quite well," I replied.
"Then tell her," she continued, "that I would answer her letter, but I have nothing to write with. I don’t even have a book I could tear a page from."
"No books!" I exclaimed. "How do you manage to live without them? If my library were taken away, I should be desperate."
"I read constantly when I had them," Catherine said. "But Mr. Heathcliff never reads, so he chose to destroy my collection. I haven’t seen a book for weeks. Once, I searched through Joseph’s religious texts, and another time, Hareton, I found a secret stash in your room—poetry and tales. I brought them here, but you took them back like a magpie stealing silver spoons! You only kept them so that I couldn’t enjoy them. Perhaps your envy prompted Mr. Heathcliff to rob me of my treasures?"
Hareton turned bright red at this revelation of his private studies and stammered a denial.
"Mr. Hareton is merely trying to increase his knowledge," I said, attempting to defend him. "He is not envious; he is simply striving to reach your level of education."
"And he wants me to become a fool in the meantime," Catherine retorted. "I’ve heard him trying to spell words to himself, making terrible blunders! It was extremely funny to hear him cursing at the dictionary because he couldn't understand the explanations."
The young man was clearly mortified to be mocked for his ignorance, and even more so for his attempts to fix it. I felt for him, remembering how everyone must start somewhere. "But Mrs. Heathcliff," I observed, "we all have to begin at the threshold of learning. If our teachers had mocked us instead of helping us, we would still be struggling."
"I don't mind him learning," she replied, "but he has no right to take what is mine and ruin it with his awful mistakes! Those books are special to me, and I hate to hear them disgraced by his voice."
Hareton’s chest heaved with suppressed rage. I rose and stepped toward the door to give him some space. He left the room but soon returned with a handful of books, which he threw into Catherine’s lap. "Take them!" he shouted. "I never want to see or think of them again!"
"I don’t want them now," she answered coldly. "I will only associate them with you and hate them." She opened one, mocked his beginner's reading style, and laughed.
This was more than Hareton’s pride could endure. He gave her a sharp slap to silence her—a physical argument being his only way to settle the account. Then, he gathered the books and threw them into the fire. I could see the genuine anguish on his face as he watched them burn. I suspected that his desire to learn had been prompted by a hope for Catherine’s approval; instead, his efforts had only brought him further scorn.
"That is all the good a brute like you can get from books!" Catherine cried, clutching her lip and watching the flames.
"You’d better hold your tongue," he answered fiercely. He rushed past me out of the house, nearly colliding with Mr. Heathcliff.
"What's wrong now?" Heathcliff asked, but Hareton broke away to be alone with his grief. Heathcliff watched him go and sighed. "It will be strange if I defeat my own purpose," he muttered, unaware I was listening. "But every day I see more of her in his face. I can hardly bear to look at him."
He walked inside, looking thinner and more restless than before. Catherine immediately escaped to the kitchen.
"I’m pleased to see you out again, Mr. Lockwood," Heathcliff said. "I wondered what had brought you to this isolated place."
"A whim, sir," I answered. "And now another whim is taking me away. I shall leave for London next week, and I must inform you that I do not intend to renew my lease of Thrushcross Grange."
"Oh, I see. You’re tired of being banished from society?" he remarked cynically. "But if you've come to ask for a refund, your journey is useless. I always exact what is owed to me."
"I am asking for nothing of the sort," I replied, irritated. "I can settle my accounts with you right now."
"No, no," he said coolly. "You’ve left enough property at the Grange to cover your debts. Stay and have dinner with us; a guest who isn't coming back is always welcome. Catherine! Bring the food in!"
Catherine reappeared with a tray, but Heathcliff told her to eat in the kitchen with Joseph. She obeyed without a word. Living among such bitter people, she probably no longer appreciated better company when she found it.
The meal was a cheerless affair, with Heathcliff acting grim and Hareton remaining completely silent. I left as soon as I could. As I rode away, I couldn't help but reflect on how dreary life was in that house. What a romantic story it would have been, I thought, if Catherine and I had fallen in love and escaped together to the exciting atmosphere of the city!