For two months, the fugitives remained away. During that time, Mrs. Linton fought and eventually overcame the worst stages of what the doctor called "brain fever." No mother could have nursed an only child more devotedly than Edgar tended to her. Day and night he watched over her, patiently enduring the outbursts and confusion caused by her shattered nerves. Dr. Kenneth warned him that he was sacrificing his own health to preserve a "mere ruin of humanity," but Edgar felt only gratitude when Catherine was finally declared out of danger. He sat by her side for hours, watching her physical strength return and optimistically hoping that her mind would soon regain its balance as well.
Catherine finally left her room at the beginning of March. One morning, Edgar placed a handful of golden crocuses on her pillow. Her eyes, which had not shown a spark of pleasure for weeks, brightened as she gathered them.
“These are the earliest flowers from the Heights,” she exclaimed. “They remind me of soft winds and the melting snow. Edgar, is the snow almost gone?”
“It is gone down here, darling,” her husband replied. “The sky is blue, the larks are singing, and the brooks are full. I wish you were a mile or two up those hills; the sweet air would cure you.”
“I shall only be there once more,” she said sadly, “and then you will leave me there forever. Next spring, you will look back and realize how happy you were today.”
Edgar tried to cheer her with affectionate words, but Catherine simply stared at the flowers as tears streamed down her cheeks. We decided that her depression was partly caused by being confined to one room, so Edgar moved her downstairs. He settled her in an armchair by the parlour window, where she could enjoy the sunshine. She seemed revived by her surroundings, which were free from the dreary memories of her sickroom. Eventually, we fitted up a bedroom for her on the same floor to save her the fatigue of the stairs. There was a secondary reason to hope for her recovery: we cherished the hope that Mr. Linton would soon have an heir to secure his lands from Heathcliff’s reach.
Six weeks after her elopement, Isabella sent a short, cold note to her brother announcing her marriage. At the bottom, she had pencilled a brief apology, asking for a reconciliation. Edgar did not reply. Two weeks later, I received a much longer letter from her. I have kept it to this day.
DEAR ELLEN, it began, I arrived at Wuthering Heights last night and heard for the first time that Catherine is dangerously ill. I am forbidden from writing to her, and my brother refuses to answer me. Therefore, I must write to you.
Tell Edgar I would give the world to see his face again. My heart returned to Thrushcross Grange within twenty-four hours of leaving it. I cannot follow it, however, and he may draw whatever conclusions he likes, though he should not blame a lack of affection on my part.
The rest of this letter is for you alone, Ellen. I have two questions. First, how did you manage to remain a normal, sympathetic human being while living here? I feel no connection to anyone around me. Second, is Mr. Heathcliff a man? If so, is he mad? Or is he a devil? I won't tell you why I ask, but I beg you to visit me soon and explain what kind of creature I have married. Bring me something from Edgar.
Now, let me describe my reception at the Heights. We arrived after dark, and Joseph met us at the gate. He held a candle to my face, stared at me with pure malice, and turned away without a word. Heathcliff stayed outside, and I entered the kitchen alone. It was a filthy, untidy hole—you wouldn’t recognize it. By the fire stood a dirty, strong-looking child with Catherine’s eyes. Thinking he was my nephew, I tried to be kind.
“How do you do, my dear?” I said, reaching for his hand.
The boy responded with a string of curses and threatened to set a bulldog on me. Fearing for my life, I retreated outside to the stables to find Joseph. When I asked him to let me into the house, he mocked my refined accent and told me he had better things to do. Eventually, I found another door and knocked. It was opened by a tall, dishevelled man with shaggy hair and wild eyes. It was Hindley Earnshaw.
“What is your business? Who are you?” he demanded.
“I am Isabella Linton—now Mrs. Heathcliff,” I replied. “I assume I am here with your permission.”
“So, the villain has returned!” Hindley growled, looking past me into the darkness. He let out a long string of curses, threatening what he would have done if Heathcliff had deceived him. He ordered me inside and slammed the door. The house was dark and dusty; the pewter dishes that used to shine were now dull and tarnished. Earnshaw ignored me entirely, pacing up and down with an expression of deep hatred.
I sat by the hearth in total despair, realizing that although my home was only four miles away, it might as well have been across the Atlantic. My greatest sorrow was realizing I had no ally here against Heathcliff. When I finally asked Hindley where the maid was so I could go to bed, he told me there were no servants and I must wait on myself. Joseph would show me to Heathcliff’s room.
As I turned to leave, Hindley stopped me. “Make sure you lock your door and bolt it!” he warned. He pulled a pistol from his waistcoat—a terrifying weapon with a double-edged blade attached to the barrel. “I try his door every night,” he whispered. “If I ever find it unlocked, he’s finished. Some devil urges me to kill him, even when I try to resist. One day, even the angels won't be able to save him.”
Ellen, I was so desperate that for a moment, I didn't feel horror—I felt a desire to possess such a weapon myself. Hindley saw the look on my face and snatched it back. He told me he didn't care if I warned Heathcliff. He is clearly on the verge of madness. I hurried back to the kitchen, where Joseph was making porridge. I was so hungry that I pushed him aside and insisted on making it myself, telling him I wasn't going to play the lady if it meant starving.
The meal was a disaster. Hareton was dirty and rude, and the old man, Joseph, mocked me for being "conceited" because I didn't want to share a cup with the child. When I asked to eat in the parlour, they laughed, saying there were no parlours for me. I eventually followed Joseph upstairs to find a place to sleep. He showed me a series of dismal, malt-smelling garrets and locked rooms. Finally, he showed me a "best bedroom," but it was a wreck—the curtains were torn, the furniture was smashed, and the walls were covered in dents.
Exhausted and losing my patience, I threw my tray on the floor and burst into tears. Joseph simply scolded me for wasting "God's gifts" and left me in the dark. I eventually found Hareton’s room and fell asleep in a chair by the fire. I was woken by Heathcliff, who demanded to know what I was doing there. When I called the bedroom "ours," he flew into a rage, swearing it would never be mine. He is ingenious in finding ways to make me hate him. He blamed Edgar for Catherine’s illness and promised that I would suffer as Edgar’s proxy until he could get his hands on my brother.
I hate him—I am wretched—I have been a fool! Do not tell anyone at the Grange how I am living, but please, come and see me soon. —ISABELLA.