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Edgar lay in his bed for the next few days. Cathy played nursemaid as best she could, and took him tea, and read to him, and served him what little food he could eat.
(Nellie insisted the gruel she made would be nourishing, but Cathy worried nonetheless at how little of it actually passed his lips.)
But it was not in her nature to be indoors; she could feel herself growing restless, for having now been outside, and explored the world just a little, she found herself itching for the wind in her face, the rain on her back, and the stones beneath her feet.
Nellie called her a 'wild girl', and while it was surely meant as an insult, Cathy could not imagine herself any other way, nor understand how anyone could wish to be so tame as to stay indoors night and day.
By the end of the fourth day, books lay strewn across the floor of Edgar's room where Cathy had left them, half-read; too bored with them to go on. What was a poet's description of nature, compared with the wild, harsh elegance that was the earth, and the wind, and the rain? What could a pianoforte's barren melody stir in her heart that would not be kindled, a thousand times more brightly, by the song of a single wild bird? What excitement was there to be found in some story of human intrigue or war, when eagles soared high, and lightning struck, and even mere ants fought vicious battles between themselves that left the bravest of her fellow men seeming lily-livered and meek by contrast?
And what threat was Heathcliff to her, or her father; as compared to the hawk's threat to the fieldmouse?
"Why is Father so afraid, Nellie?" she finally asked, as Nellie sat drinking tea with her at the kitchen table. "What threat is Heathcliff to us? I cannot see why I must marry him; no, I cannot! I am the woman here, and I will have my say: why does Father wish to deny me a voice in this?"
"Hush, now!" snapped Nellie. "Your father knows more of that man than do you, and he will listen to you in time, I have no doubt, provided you don't go upsetting him with your pestering. You shall have to keep your wits about you, though," she added sternly, "when you marry him. You may not fear the man, but you must be watchful, my girl: I should hate to see you come to harm."
And so touched was Cathy by Nellie's concern, that she ceased her protesting and went out of her way to help, as Nellie directed her about the making of the tea, the while giving her sage advice on calming Heathcliff's inevitable rages; which, Nellie added, were both frequent and violent. And so the afternoon passed peacefully, if uneasily, for them both.
…
The next visit of the Linton family to the church, where young Linton Heathcliff had been laid to rest, was an affair that weighed still more heavily upon the heart of Mr. Edgar Linton, for it was to attend his daughter's wedding, and the event struck at his very soul, the very thought of it enough to leave him gasping with rage, desperate to scream his denial in that gypsy's face and to turn the blackguard out onto the moors.
And yet what could he do? If Heathcliff were to make good on his threats – and past experience with the fiend showed there was indeed no end to his dedication to revenge and cruelty – then they were all damned, himself and his sweet Cathy included, and he could not truly believe himself a pious enough Christian man to overcome such dreadful influence. He should have prayed more. Perhaps he would take up the habit. Perhaps he would ask that foul-tempered old lunatic, that yet tended the house at Wuthering Heights, for guidance – he felt sure that Joseph would know his Bible better even than the bishop did, and Heathcliff's damnable presence somehow made Joseph seem suddenly a great deal more sane than any Sundays-only Christian like himself (or indeed, he sometimes suspected, the priest). Who could doubt the existence of devils, and of hell, when that man dwelt upon the earth?
Such were the dark thoughts that plagued Edgar's mind as he rode beside his daughter, looking radiant and yet strangely fragile in her best Sunday dress, blue as the forget-me-nots that bloomed within the gardens of Thrushcross Grange.
Nellie, meanwhile, sat opposite them, looking as neat as ever she did, a look of sympathy on her face as she fixed her gaze on the girl. Whatever Nellie had said to her, Edgar found himself glad of it, for his daughter had voiced no protest at his fulfilment of Heathcliff's wishes in over a week; though she did seem oddly quiet and unlike herself of late.
He only hoped she might realise he acted with her own interests at heart – and that she might never have to discover the threat he was saving her from…
…
Hareton Earnshaw, unknowing possessor of the house he worked so hard to preserve, had scrubbed his skin raw and chosen the very finest of his meagre clothing, in preparation for this day. Feelings blossomed in his head, doing battle with one another like a snake fighting a falcon.
His friend – his only friend, if he did not count Heathcliff, or the horses – was to join the household, to be wedded to the man he loved and respected above all others. Joy at the thought of having her constant company was at war with the raging jealousy he felt towards Heathcliff, which in turn dragged feelings of shame at begrudging anything to the man to whom he owed his very life, and who had made such a gesture of friendship as to request his own service as best man.
And what, then, of Hareton's own desires concerning young Catherine Linton? He had never voiced them – no, scarce even acknowledged them: for so much about her was ignorant of his way of life, and so much of her life was similarly closed to him; and what match could they be for one another, when they had so little in common?
And yet, and yet. If anything, Heathcliff had still less in common with the girl (who was besides his niece, by law and blood even if they shared no relation save at second hand): what greater right did the man have to her than did he?
And how could he ever voice such a thought, now that Heathcliff was claiming her for his own, and forever denying Hareton the chance…?
…
Father Watt was used to dealing with family feuds: as far as he was concerned, that was the entire reason a church had two separate sets of pews. He thought nothing of the look of rage that crossed Mr. Linton's face when he looked upon the new groom, though he understood the former's concern when he looked closely at the man's face. Skin darkened like some common farm worker, black eyes and hair: he might have taken such a man for a common gypsy, and refused him entry to the church, were it not for the cut of his clothes, and his obvious fortune.
And to look at the young bride, he supposed that fortune must be the sole reason for this union; it could scarcely be love that brought these two together, to judge from her sullen disposition. Of this, he could only approve: there was far too much misguided nonsense about love these days, in his opinion.
Society had rather got things backwards. First came marriage: the binding arrangement between God and man as to whom the girl now belonged. Love, if indeed it came at all, was to be second, a state to be worked at after the wedding. There would be a good deal less sin in the world, he was sure, if people would hold off on thoughts of love and romance until well after they were wed.
Still, he had to admit, he had never seen a more miserable assembly at a wedding: he recognised each and every attendee from the funeral he had most recently conducted, and he could not help but think some of them had seemed less sorrowful on that sad occasion than they did today.
…
Edgar Linton stood beside his daughter, his one remaining link in the world to his wife, the woman he had cherished and adored; and braced himself to give her away. He was determined he should not betray his grief: he would not give that monster the satisfaction of seeing it on his face. Where once he had wept and gasped before Heathcliff, with no result save cruel mockery from the man, bitter experience had toughened him to the point that his face betrayed only a grim stoicism. If his lips tightened as the ceremony continued on, he gave no other sign of his anguish.
His hands were held behind his back, though, where Heathcliff could not see them, and he permitted himself to clench them hard into fists each time the man opened his mouth to utter another vow, doubtless insincere, that bound young Cathy to him for as long as they both should live.
"If anyone here assembled, knows of any just reason why this man, and this woman, may not be joined together in holy matrimony…" the old priest droned on.
Speak, someone! Say something! Let there be something! Oh, God, do not let this be so! Edgar silently raged. But no answer came to his prayer: Nellie stood silent beside him, one hand ready to support him should his fever beset him and he grow faint once again; Joseph had spoken not a word, save the obligatory 'Amen' where the sermon required it; the new maid at the Heights – Edgar did not know her name – was surely no candidate for his daughter's salvation, for she too remained all too quiet; and as for Hareton Earnshaw, who stood at Heathcliff's side…
"…speak now, or forever hold your peace." The priest paused, looked sideways at Heathcliff's dark features, and looked around at the assembly, apparently almost as keen as was Edgar that someone should prevent this marriage of a good English girl to some unknown vagrant.
But they were both disappointed. A full minute passed, and then another, and none spoke. Edgar would have done so, were it not for Heathcliff's threats, of which he had to constantly remind himself to keep from crying out his objections, and he bit his tongue painfully to keep from so doing.
"Then, by the power vested in me, I pronounce you man and wife," finished the priest uncertainly. Then, his voice even more doubtful, he added, "You may kiss the bride."
No! Edgar's traitorous thoughts screamed again, and as Heathcliff bent his head to young Cathy, he could no longer keep his composure. Blinded by rage, he made to move forward: only a step or two and he would be in reach of the knave!
But Nellie came forward, faster than Edgar could move in his weakened state, and grabbed hold of him, making a pretence of giving him aid, as though his fever had indeed returned; though she held his arm in an iron grip. "That was, 'or forever hold yer peace,' the priest said, Edgar Linton: don't you go causing a scene now!" she hissed in his ear.
Helpless and impotent, Edgar Linton watched his daughter taken away.