In September 1802, I was traveling north to visit a friend when I unexpectedly found myself within fifteen miles of Gimmerton. The sight of a local harvest cart brought back dim, dreamy memories of my time there, and a sudden impulse seized me to visit Thrushcross Grange. It was not yet noon, and I decided I would rather spend the night under my own roof than in a roadside inn. After a tiring three-hour ride over the rough hills, we finally reached the valley.
The Grange looked much as I remembered, though perhaps even more peaceful in the golden afternoon light. However, when I arrived, I found that Nelly Dean was no longer there. A temporary housekeeper, a blunt and startled woman, informed me that Nelly had moved back to Wuthering Heights. I left the woman to prepare a room for me and decided to walk over to the Heights myself.
As I climbed the familiar stony road, I noticed a remarkable change. The gate, once so jealously locked, yielded easily to my hand. The garden, which had been a desolate patch of weeds, was now fragrant with the scent of flowers. Both the doors and windows were open, and the house felt strangely welcoming.
As I approached, I heard a voice as sweet as a silver bell coming from the window. "No! That’s the third time you’ve got it wrong, you dunce! I won’t tell you again. Remember it, or I’ll pull your hair!"
"‘Contrary,’ then," a deep, softened voice replied. "Now, give me a kiss for remembering."
"No, read the whole sentence correctly first."
I looked through the window and saw a young man, respectably dressed, sitting at a table with a book. His handsome face glowed with pleasure as he studied, though his eyes constantly wandered toward the small white hand resting on his shoulder. Catherine stood behind him, her light ringlets blending with his brown hair as she supervised his lesson. Whenever he became distracted, she gave his cheek a playful slap. I bit my lip with a pang of envy, realizing I had missed my chance with such a striking beauty.
Feeling like an intruder, I walked around to the kitchen. There I found my old friend Nelly Dean, sewing and singing a cheerful tune. She was interrupted only by the grumbling of old Joseph, who sat in the corner complaining that her songs were "sinful."
When Nelly saw me, she jumped up in surprise. "Bless you, Mr. Lockwood! We didn't expect you back so soon. All is shut up at the Grange!"
"I’ve managed to find a corner to sleep in there," I replied. "But tell me, Nelly, why are you here? And where is your master? I’ve come to settle the rent."
Nelly looked at me with a strange expression. "Ah, you haven't heard. Mr. Heathcliff has been dead these three months."
"Dead!" I exclaimed, utterly shocked.
"Yes," she said, pulling out a chair for me. "Sit down, and I’ll tell you the whole story. The young people are out on a walk, and they won't be back for a while."
She fetched me a glass of ale and began the final chapter of Heathcliff’s history. She told me she had been called back to the Heights shortly after I left for London. At first, the atmosphere had been tense. Catherine was restless and lonely, forbidden from leaving the garden, while Hareton remained sullen and silent.
Catherine, however, eventually grew tired of the silence. She began to tease Hareton, mocking his idleness and his failed attempts to teach himself to read. "He’s like a cart-horse, Ellen," she had remarked. "He works, eats, and sleeps. Does he have a mind at all?"
But beneath her mockery lay a growing sense of guilt. She knew she had discouraged his education by laughing at him, and she felt a secret desire for his company. She began leaving books around the kitchen, hoping he would pick them up, but Hareton was as obstinate as a mule and ignored them.
The turning point came on Easter Monday. Joseph was away at the fair, and the kitchen was quiet. Catherine was drawing on the window-panes, occasionally glancing impatiently at Hareton, who sat smoking by the fire.
"Hareton," she said at last, her voice softer. "I’ve realized that I’d like us to be friends. I’d like you to be my cousin—if only you weren't so cross."
Hareton didn't answer, but his jaw tightened.
"I’m serious," she persisted. "When I called you stupid, I didn't mean that I despised you. You are my cousin, and you must acknowledge me."
"I’ll have nothing to do with your pride and your mocking tricks!" he growled. "I’d rather go to hell than be looked down on by you again."
Catherine retreated to the window, her lip trembling as she tried not to cry. "It’s not I who hate you," she sobbed. "It’s you who hate me. You hate me as much as Mr. Heathcliff did."
"That's a lie!" Hareton shouted, standing up. "I’ve defended you against him a hundred times, even when you were sneering at me!"
"I didn't know," Catherine whispered, drying her eyes. "I was bitter and miserable. Please, forgive me."
She walked over to him and offered her hand. When he refused to take it, his face a mask of stubborn pride, she did something unexpected: she leaned forward and gave him a gentle kiss on the cheek.
Nelly told me she had watched as Catherine then wrapped a handsome book in white paper and tied it with a ribbon. She addressed it to "Mr. Hareton Earnshaw" and asked Nelly to deliver it. "Tell him if he takes it, I’ll teach him to read it," Catherine said. "And if he refuses, I’ll never tease him again."
Hareton didn't strike the book from his knee. After a moment of hesitation, he opened it. Catherine stole over and sat beside him. All his rough harshness seemed to vanish in an instant.
"Say you forgive me, Hareton," she murmured. "You can make me so happy with just that one word."
"You’ll be ashamed of me every day," he muttered, his voice thick with emotion. "The more you know me, the more you’ll see how ignorant I am."
"I won't," she promised, smiling sweetly as she moved closer.
From that moment on, the two enemies became the closest of allies. Despite Joseph’s horrified sighs and Heathcliff’s dark presence, their intimacy grew rapidly. They spent their evenings bent over their books, their faces radiant with a shared purpose.
"You see, Mr. Lockwood," Nelly concluded with a satisfied smile, "it was easy enough to win her heart in the end. I am glad you didn't try to interfere. The greatest joy of my life will be the day those two are joined in marriage. There won't be a happier woman in England than me on their wedding day!"