Wuthering Heights

by: Emily Brontë

Chapter XXVII–XXX

1

‘My father is very ill,’ she said; ‘and why am I called from his bedside? Why didn’t you send to absolve me from my promise, when you wished I wouldn’t keep it? Come! I desire an explanation: playing and trifling are completely banished out of my mind; and I can’t dance attendance on your affections now!’

2

He approached once more, and made as if he would seize the fragile being; but, shrinking back, Linton clung to his cousin, and implored her to accompany him, with a frantic importunity that admitted no denial . . . We reached the threshold; Catherine walked in, and I stood waiting till she had conducted the invalid to a chair, expecting her out immediately; when Mr. Heathcliff, pushing me forward, exclaimed—‘My house is not stricken with the plague, Nelly; and I have a mind to be hospitable today[.]’

3

All was composed, however: Catherine’s despair was as silent as her father’s joy. She supported him calmly, in appearance; and he fixed on her features his raised eyes that seemed dilating with ecstasy . . . He died blissfully . . . Kissing her cheek, he murmured, --‘I am going to her; and you, darling child, shall come to us!’ and never stirred or spoke again[.]

4

‘But I’m glad I’ve a better, to forgive it; and I know he loves me, and for that reason I love him. Mr. Heathcliff, you have nobody to love you; and, however miserable you make us, we all still have the revenge of thinking that your cruelty arises from your greater misery. You are miserable, are you not? . . . nobody will cry for you when you die!’

5

Heathcliff went up once, to show her Linton’s will. He had bequeathed the whole of his, and what had been her, moveable property, to his father: the poor creature was threatened, or coaxed, into that act during her week’s absence, when his uncle died . . . Catherine, destitute of cash and friends, cannot disturb his possession.