Author's Note: For the purposes of this story, I have raised Cathy's age from seventeen (as she was in the original book) to eighteen.
The three of them made a doleful picture as they journeyed back towards Thrushcross Grange.
Edgar seemed short of breath, and Catherine was worried her father's health would deteriorate further simply from the conversation Heathcliff had forced upon him.
For herself, Catherine alternated dizzyingly between fury at Heathcliff for so presuming to press a marriage suit without giving her the chance of even voicing a refusal, and grief for Linton, who even now lay in his hastily dug grave, with the soil freshly heaped upon his lifeless body.
Nellie's brow was furrowed in thought, though Catherine could not guess for a moment what the woman might be thinking of.
Edgar retired to bed directly they arrived home, promising to join her for dinner: Catherine fussed and fretted over him, but her father insisted he had no need of assistance, and enjoined her to amuse herself until then.
So Catherine read alone in the library, and wished there were someone she could talk to.
At last, she could bear her solitude no longer, and sought out Nellie in the kitchens. Her book lay forgotten upon the couch: she could stand no more to read jealously of so many people in books, all of whom had friends and companions they could turn to.
Nellie, it turned out, was sitting in the parlour, and drinking tea with the same far-off look in her eyes that Catherine had spied in the carriage ride back.
"How has my father been?" blurted Catherine, when Nellie offered no sign of having noticed her entrance, and Nellie jumped in surprise at her appearance; almost, though not quite, spilling tea from the cup.
"Why, girl, you gave me quite a start!" she snapped reprovingly. "Can you not approach with some thoughtfulness when you haven't been noticed?"
Cathy bowed her head, abashed. "Sorry, Nellie," she said. "I'm just worried for him. 'Tis not healthy to take to bed at two o' clock, and not to rise until supper: I fear he is worse than he appears."
Nellie smiled fondly, and placed her cup on the table, the better to address her. "He'll be fine, girl, don't you worry your head about that. He's been tired, lately: that's all. No doubt he shall be right as rain once he gets over himself. And you shall help him with that, now, shan't you, with a cheery smile and a good bedside manner? Here," she continued, getting up to bustle about with the tea set, "I shall make him a pot of tea, and you can bring it to him: that'll bring a smile to his face, no doubt."
Catherine had little time to respond: Nellie would listen to nothing she said when she tried to start any conversation, and before she could insist upon talking, Nellie had pressed the tray upon her and hurried her away upstairs.
Edgar Linton lay in his bed, looking no less pale for his last hour's rest, and his face was lined with worry. But a smile came to his face, as Nellie had predicted, to see his daughter approach.
"How are you feeling, father?" asked Catherine, as gently as she could, as she set down the tray upon the bedside table like an offering to some sickly god.
"Cathy…" her father replied, apparently caring nothing for her query. "Cathy… What has that man asked of you?"
Catherine was perturbed, and she did not know whether to be more concerned at his words, or at the weakness of the voice which spoke them. "He has said nothing to me, father," she replied. "I knew nothing of his intentions before he spoke to you today."
Edgar's frown deepened. "And I know even less of them, for his having said it."
"Father?"
Edgar looked up, his face earnest and pleading. "You must understand me, Cathy. Heathcliff never does a thing without having his reasons, and I have never known them to be anything but wishes of hurt and harm. I cannot think why he should present his suit to us in this way, but I cannot believe he will mean you any more good than he has ever meant me. Be careful, my dear girl, when you are married to that man."
Catherine was indignant. "Father! I have not so much as given my reply yet! Come to that, he has not actually asked me."
Edgar sighed. "And he yet may not. Heathcliff takes what he desires, and the most strenuous exertions cannot unbend his will. I am powerless in this, Cathy; if Heathcliff intends to have your hand, he shall have it, and our manifold objections be damned, for he shall inflict worse sufferings upon us at any refusal, until we are forced to yield."
"Then shall we submit like meek children before him!?" Catherine retorted in vexed horror. "Surely such a thing is to be resisted at all costs, father! Can we not, combined, prevent him?"
"Cathy, my love, we might as well persuade the Devil to pray, as turn that vagrant from his course. If he does not reconsider of his own accord, he shall have us both in church and at the altar beside him, though I tremble to give you to the man who took my –"
He broke off, then, caught in a fit of sobs that turned to violent coughing, as though he might choke himself to death in his torment; and Catherine, much alarmed by this turn of events, resolved then and there not to further question her father's judgement, for fear of doing him some worse harm. Instead, she took the untouched tea tray from the room without a word more, leaving Edgar to his uneasy repose.
In his bare room, Hareton frowned, deep in thought. He knew where his loyalties lay, indeed, for Heathcliff was as near to a father as anything he had ever known, and nothing could shake the love of a son from its course. But he had the uneasy feeling that Heathcliff meant no good for Cathy, and he fancied some bond of friendship had grown between himself and the girl.
No great bond, it was true: she had snatched her hand from his, and his brow still furrowed itself in painful recollection of that. And yet he had stood by her today, and they had eaten together these last few days, and had helped Heathcliff together before that, and she had taken the book he had given her to the funeral, and kept it when she departed with her father: did not all of these things mean something to them both?
And now he would see her marry the man he loved beyond any other. Should he be happy? Or did his heart fill with concern for her, at the thought of what he knew his idol and mentor might visit upon the girl, were she to displease him?
Joseph read the book of Zechariah slowly, one finger following as his eye travelled across the page, caressing each holy word within the Bible as though it were some precious jewel. In truth, he had no need of such care, and with any other book but this, he would read fluently and briskly; but the Bible, he felt, was something special, and it did not do to rush such a thing.
And so, the boy was dead. What mattered that to him? They boy was in the hands of God, now, and would get what all sinners deserved, unless the Almighty forgave his wrongdoings, which must have been many and great (though in truth, Joseph could never have said what sin he might have witnessed, unless it was idleness and sloth when the boy lay dying).
But Heathcliff had expressed his unnatural intentions today, and that… Truly, that was what preyed upon the old man's mind now. Whatever that unnatural heathen's intentions, they could only be diabolically perverse; why else prey upon a girl who, however plain her faults and sins, might yet be saved from damnation, if she only she could be kept from the gypsy devil's influence?
There was only one course of action now: and Joseph resolved, with all his will, to do just that.
He prayed.
Heathcliff sat in his Cathy's old room, memories of their history together pressing down upon him.
If Edgar did not heed his threat, and yet refused him, there was no lawful way to force his hand; save by catching the girl's heart, and he could not be certain that he could achieve such a thing with the man's daughter, as he had long ago with the sister. At least, not before the fever took Edgar: and where was the pleasure in revenge when the object of hate was dead, and at peace, and unable to smart at the offence, or yet weep for the shame?
No, Edgar would give away his daughter, and his foppish, milky face would stain itself with tears at the thought of what might happen to her; and better still, Edgar would know, on his very deathbed, that his own daughter could not profit from his will without his benefitting Heathcliff.
After all, revenge was all the sweeter when it was well within the law.
No-one could stop him, this way.
Now, only one question remained. Which was crueller: to make her hate him… Or love him?