“Here, and here!” replied Catherine, striking one hand on her forehead, and the other on her breast.  “In my soul and in my heart I’m convinced I’m wrong!  I’ve no more business to marry Edgar Linton than I have to be in heaven; and if the wicked man in there, my brother, had not brought Heathcliff so low I shouldn’t have thought of it.  It would degrade me to marry Heathcliff now; so he shall never know how I love him, and that not because he’s handsome, Nelly, but because he’s more myself than I am.  Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same, and Linton’s is as different as a moonbeam from lightning, or frost from fire.  Nelly, I dreamed I was in heaven, but heaven did not seem to be my home, and I broke my heart with weeping to come back to earth; and the angels were so angry that they flung me out into the middle of the heath on the top of Wuthering Heights, where I woke sobbing for joy.”

Ere this speech was ended, Heathcliff, who had been lying out of sight on a bench by the kitchen wall, stole out.  He had heard Catherine say it would degrade her to marry him, and he had heard no further.

That night, while a storm rattled over the heights in full fury, Heathcliff disappeared.  Catherine suffered uncontrollable grief, and became dangerously ill.  When she was convalescent she went to Thrushcross Grange.  But Edgar Linton, when he married her, three years subsequent to his father’s death, and brought her here to the Grange, was the happiest man alive.  I accompanied her, leaving little Hareton, who was now nearly five years old, and had just begun to learn his letters.

On a mellow evening in September, I was coming from the garden with a basket of apples I had been gathering, when, as I approached the kitchen door, I heard a voice say, “Nelly, is that you?”

Something stirred in the porch, and, moving nearer, I saw a tall man, dressed in dark clothes, with dark hair and face.

“What,” I cried, “you come back?”

“Yes, Nelly.  You needn’t be so disturbed.  I want one word with your mistress.”

I went in, and explained to Mr. Edgar and Catherine who was waiting below.

“Oh, Edgar darling,” she panted, flinging her arms round his neck, “Heathcliff’s come back—­he is!”

“Well, well,” he said, “don’t strangle me for that.  There’s no need to be frantic.  Try to be glad without being absurd!”

When Heathcliff came in, she seized his hands and laughed like one beside herself.

It seemed that he was staying at Wuthering Heights, invited by Mr. Earnshaw!  When I heard this I had a presentiment that he had better have remained away.

Later, we learned from Joseph that Heathcliff had called on Earnshaw, whom he found sitting at cards, had joined in the play, and, seeming plentifully supplied with money, had been asked by his ancient persecutor to come again in the evening.  He then offered liberal payment for permission to lodge at the Heights, which Earnshaw’s covetousness made him accept.