A black-edged letter arrived, announcing the day of my master’s return. Isabella had passed away, and Mr. Linton wrote to request that I prepare mourning clothes for his daughter and arrange a room for his young nephew. Catherine was wild with joy at the prospect of welcoming her father home, and she eagerly anticipated the arrival of her "real" cousin, imagining him to possess every possible virtue.
On the evening they were expected, Catherine was a whirlwind of activity. Dressed in her new black frock—though her aunt’s death brought her no real sorrow—she grew so impatient that she insisted I walk with her down the grounds to meet them.
“Linton is exactly six months younger than I am,” she chattered as we strolled across the mossy turf under the shade of the trees. “How wonderful it will be to have a playmate! Aunt Isabella sent Papa a lock of his hair; it was lighter than mine and very fine. I keep it in a glass box, and I’ve often dreamed of meeting him. Oh, Ellen, let’s run!”
She dashed ahead and back again several times before I reached the gate. Eventually, she sat on a grassy bank, trying to wait patiently, though she couldn’t remain still for a moment. Suddenly, she spotted a cloud of dust on the road.
“They’re coming!” she cried. “Can’t we go just a little further, Ellen? Only to those birches at the turn?”
I firmly refused. At last, the carriage rolled into sight. Cathy shrieked with delight as she saw her father’s face at the window. Mr. Linton descended, appearing as eager as his daughter, and for several minutes, they were entirely absorbed in their reunion. While they embraced, I peered into the carriage to see Linton.
He was fast asleep in the corner, wrapped in a fur-lined cloak as if it were the middle of winter. He was a pale, delicate, and rather sickly-looking boy. Although he bore a striking resemblance to my master, there was a peevish, fragile quality to his expression that Edgar Linton never possessed. My master noticed my observation and, after a brief greeting, advised me to leave the boy undisturbed, as the long journey had exhausted him.
“Now, darling,” Mr. Linton said to Catherine as they reached the front steps. “Your cousin is not as strong or as lively as you are. He has just lost his mother, so you mustn’t expect him to play immediately. Do not overwhelm him with questions; let him have a quiet evening.”
When the carriage stopped, the boy was woken and lifted to the ground.
“Linton, this is your cousin Cathy,” his uncle said, joining their hands. “She is already fond of you. Try to be cheerful; the journey is over, and now you can rest.”
“Let me go to bed, then,” the boy replied, shrinking away from Catherine’s greeting and rubbing his eyes to hide his tears.
“Come, now,” I whispered, leading him inside. “Don’t cry, or you’ll make her sad, too.”
Catherine looked as miserable as he did as they entered the library for tea. I removed Linton’s coat and placed him in a chair, but he immediately began to sob. When my master inquired what was wrong, the boy whimpered that he couldn't sit on a hard chair.
“Go to the sofa, then,” his uncle sighed, clearly exhausted by the child's fretful nature.
Linton lay down, and Catherine immediately brought a footstool to his side. Though she started in silence, she soon began to mother him—stroking his curls and offering him tea from her saucer. This attention seemed to please him, and he eventually managed a faint smile.
“He’ll do well enough,” the master remarked to me. “The company of another child will soon improve his spirits.”
“If we can keep him,” I thought privately. I felt a deep sense of unease, wondering how such a weak creature would survive at Wuthering Heights. Between Heathcliff and the rough Hareton, what kind of life would he have?
My doubts were confirmed sooner than expected. After tea, I had just seen Linton to sleep when a maid informed me that Joseph, Heathcliff’s servant, was at the door. I went to the hall in a state of trepidation, wondering why anyone would call at such an unreasonable hour. Joseph had already pushed his way into the kitchen, looking as sour and self-righteous as ever.
“I must speak to Master Linton,” he insisted, waving me aside.
“Mr. Linton is going to bed,” I replied coldly. “Unless it’s urgent, he won't see you. Give your message to me.”
Ignoring me, Joseph began searching the hall for the right door. Realizing he would not be dismissed, I reluctantly went to the library to announce him. Joseph followed closely at my heels and marched into the room.
“Heathcliff has sent me for his lad,” he announced loudly, “and I’m not to go back without him.”
A look of profound sorrow crossed Edgar Linton’s face. He pitied the child and remembered Isabella’s desperate wish that her son remain under his care. However, he knew that any hesitation would only make Heathcliff more determined.
“Tell Mr. Heathcliff,” Edgar answered calmly, “that his son will come to Wuthering Heights tomorrow. He is currently asleep and far too exhausted to travel further tonight. Furthermore, his mother wished him to remain with me, and his health is very fragile.”
“No!” Joseph shouted, striking his stick against the floor. “That means nothing. Heathcliff doesn't care about the mother, nor about you. He will have his lad, and I must take him now!”
“Not tonight!” Linton responded decisively. “Go back and repeat my words to your master. Ellen, show him out.”
With a firm hand, Mr. Linton forced the indignant old man out of the room.
“Very well!” Joseph shouted from the stairs. “Tomorrow he’ll come himself—and let’s see if you dare to stop him then!”