The rainy night gave way to a misty morning—a miserable mix of frost and drizzle. Small streams, born from the recent downpours, rushed down from the hills and crossed our path, soaking my feet thoroughly. I was in a foul mood, which made every discomfort feel worse. We entered the farmhouse through the kitchen to confirm whether Mr. Heathcliff was truly absent, as I placed little trust in his word.
We found Joseph sitting alone in a state of quiet bliss beside a roaring fire, a large mug of ale and a plate of toasted oatcakes on the table beside him. Catherine ran to the hearth to warm herself while I asked if the master was in. The old man ignored me for so long that I thought he had grown deaf. When I repeated my question more loudly, he finally snapped at us in his harsh, nearly unintelligible accent, telling us to go back where we had come from.
Suddenly, a peevish voice called out from the inner room. "Joseph! How many times must I call you? The fire is almost out. Come this moment!"
Joseph responded only with vigorous puffs of his pipe and a steady stare into the grate. Since the housekeeper and Hareton were nowhere to be seen, we recognized Linton’s voice and decided to enter.
"Oh, I hope you die of hunger in a cold attic!" the boy cried out, mistaking our footsteps for those of his careless servant. He stopped abruptly when he realized his mistake, and Catherine flew to his side.
"Is that you, Miss Linton?" he asked, leaning back in his great chair. "No—don’t kiss me; it takes my breath away. Papa said you would call." He paused to recover from Catherine’s enthusiastic embrace, while she stood by looking quite guilty. "Will you shut the door? You left it open, and those detestable servants refuse to bring me any coal. It’s freezing!"
I stirred the dying embers and fetched a bucket of coal myself. Though the boy complained about the dust, he had a deep, tired cough and looked feverish, so I chose not to rebuke him for his rudeness.
"Well, Linton," Catherine whispered when his expression finally relaxed, "are you glad to see me? Can I help you in any way?"
"Why didn't you come sooner?" he asked fretfully. "Writing those long letters exhausted me. I would much rather have spoken to you. Now, I feel too weak even to talk. I wonder where the maid is! Will you go and check the kitchen?"
I had received no thanks for my earlier help and was unwilling to be at his beck and call. "Nobody is out there but Joseph," I replied shortly.
"I want a drink!" he exclaimed, turning away. "Since Papa left, everyone ignores me. I am forced to come downstairs because they refuse to hear me when I am in my room."
"Is your father attentive to you, Master Heathcliff?" I asked, noticing that Catherine seemed hurt by his coldness.
"Attentive? He makes the servants behave, at least," he cried. "But they are all wretches! Do you know, Miss Linton, that brute Hareton actually laughs at me? I hate them all; they are truly odious beings."
Catherine eventually found a pitcher of water, filled a glass, and brought it to him. After adding a spoonful of wine and taking a sip, Linton appeared more tranquil. He even managed a faint smile, which encouraged Catherine.
"I have been upset because you stayed away," Linton continued. "Papa swore it was because you despised me. He said that if he were in my place, he would have been the master of your home, the Grange, by now. But you don't despise me, do you?"
"Despise you? No!" Catherine interrupted. "I love you better than anyone, except for Papa and Ellen. However, I don't love Mr. Heathcliff, and I dare not come here when he is at home."
Linton explained that his father was often out on the moors during the shooting season and urged her to visit him then. "I wouldn't be so irritable with you," he promised. "You wouldn't provoke me, and you'd always be ready to help, wouldn't you?"
Catherine stroked his soft hair affectionately. "If only Papa would consent, I’d spend half my time with you. I wish you were my brother."
"Papa says you would love me even more if you were my wife," Linton remarked more cheerfully.
"No, I should never love anyone more than Papa," she returned gravely. "Besides, people sometimes hate their wives, but they never hate their sisters. If you were my brother, you would live with us, and Papa would be as fond of you as he is of me."
This sparked a bitter argument. When Catherine mentioned how much Linton’s father had disliked her Aunt Isabella, Linton became furious, claiming her stories were lies.
"My papa scorns yours!" Linton shouted. "He calls him a sneaking fool."
"Yours is a wicked man," Catherine retorted, "to have made my aunt leave him as she did."
The dispute escalated until Linton, hoping to wound her, claimed that Catherine’s mother had never loved her father, but had loved Heathcliff instead. Enraged, Catherine gave his chair a violent push. The shock triggered a suffocating coughing fit that lasted so long it frightened us both. Catherine wept in terror at the harm she had caused, while I held the boy until the fit finally passed.
Linton used his exhaustion to manipulate her further, moaning and sighing to increase her guilt. "I shall lie awake all night choking because of what you did," he whimpered. "You’ll be comfortably asleep while I’m in agony."
"Since you usually have dreadful nights anyway," I interrupted, "it won't be Miss Catherine’s fault. Perhaps you’ll find some peace once we leave."
Catherine lingered, unwilling to leave him in such a state. Despite my protests, she stayed to comfort him, eventually sitting on a wooden bench and allowing him to rest his head on her lap. She spent the next few hours reciting long ballads and stories to keep him quiet. It was only when the clock struck twelve and we heard Hareton returning for dinner that we finally prepared to depart.
"Will you be here tomorrow, Catherine?" Linton whispered, holding her dress. I answered firmly that she would not, but Catherine whispered something else in his ear that made his face brighten.
As we walked away from the house, I warned her, "You aren't dreaming of returning, are you? I’ll make sure the gates are locked."
"I can climb the wall," she laughed. "The Grange is not a prison, Ellen, and I am nearly seventeen—I am a woman. Linton would recover quickly if I looked after him. He’s a darling when he’s good."
"He’s the worst-tempered, sickliest child I’ve ever seen," I countered. "It’s a blessing his father took him. The kinder you are to him, the more selfish he becomes."
Catherine grew serious. "He’s younger than I am; he must live. It is only a cold, like the one Papa has. If Papa will get better, why shouldn't he?"
I remained firm. "If you attempt to go to Wuthering Heights again, I shall inform your father immediately."
We reached home before dinner, and since my master assumed we had been in the park, he asked for no explanation. However, the long hours I had spent in damp clothes at the Heights took their toll. The following morning, I fell ill and remained confined to my bed for three weeks.
During my recovery, Catherine was a perfect nurse. She divided her day between her father’s room and my bedside, neglecting her own studies and meals to care for us. However, as the master retired early and I rarely needed anything after six o’clock, her evenings were her own. I never questioned what she did with that time. Frequently, when she came to bid me goodnight, I noticed a fresh color in her cheeks and a glow about her, but I foolishly assumed it was simply the heat from the library fire, rather than the result of a cold ride across the moors.