Behind Wuthering Heights 1

I wrung my hands, and cried out; and Mr. Linton hastened his step at the noise. In the midst of my agitation, I was sincerely glad to observe that Catherine's arms had fallen relaxed, and her head hung down.
“She's fainted, or dead,” I thought: “so much the better. Far better that she should be dead, than lingering a burden and a misery-maker to all about her.” “Edgar sprang to his unbidden guest, blanched with astonishment and rage. What he meant to do I cannot tell; however, the other stopped all demonstrations, at once, by placing the lifeless- looking form in his arms.”
“Look there!' he said. 'Unless you be a fiend, help her first - then you shall speak to me!”
“He walked into the parlour, and sat down. Mr. Linton summoned me, and with great difficulty, and after resorting to many means, we managed to restore her to sensation; but she was all bewildered; she sighed, and moaned, and knew nobody. Edgar, in his anxiety for her, forgot her hated friend. I did not. I went, at the earliest opportunity, and besought him to depart; affirming that Catherine was better, and he should hear from me in the morning how she passed the night.
“I shall not refuse to go out of doors,' he answered; 'but I shall stay in the garden: and, Nelly, mind you keep your word to-morrow. I shall be under those larch-trees. Mind! or I pay another visit, whether Linton be in or not.”
He sent a rapid glance through the half-open door of the chamber, and, ascertaining that what I stated was apparently true, delivered the house of his luckless presence. —Chapter 15

Heathcliff swept past me, disappearing into the gathering darkness of the garden, not even blinking at the presence of someone in blue jeans and a sweater, in his book. I was just happy to have seen him. After all he is one of the most well known (if slightly mental) male characters ever. He’s only overshadowed by Hamlet, but no one ever bothers to compete with Shakespeare, it just isn’t worth it.
I knew Wuthering Heights well enough, to know that I was at Thrushcross Grange and that there was several hour’s space between the confrontation that had just occurred and the next thing in the story, which was the birth of Catherine Linton at twelve that evening. I was about to venture closer to the door, maybe to catch a glimpse of the kitchen and of Mrs. Dean when Heathcliff appeared again.
“Can I be of assistance?” He bowed respectfully. I was shocked. He was supposed to be sulking about in the garden until Mrs. Dean told him that Catherine was dead. I was saved from answering by Mrs. Dean. The book I had read never said anything about her coming out of the house until after the baby was born.
“Heathcliff, would you care for some tea while we wait for The Narrative? I’m making a pot of Early Grey, and I know that’s your favorite.” I knew this wasn’t in the book. “Oh!” she caught sight of me. “Would you care to join us?”
I nodded, so surprised was I that I was actually talking with the people from Wuthering Heights (or at least they with me), that I couldn’t speak.
“Well, come in from the cold, you two. You’ll catch something if you don’t.” Heathcliff offered me his arm like the gentleman he wasn’t supposed to be, and we were soon comfortably ensconced in the warm kitchen with tea and Mrs. Dean’s raisin scones. Edgar Linton came in and whacked Heathcliff on the back in a friendly way what made him choke on his scone.
“How are you, old thing? I always miss you when you leave The Narrative for too long.” Edgar caught sight of me, and hurried to introduce himself. But he soon went back to Heathcliff. “What did you do this time?”
Heathcliff looked at him. “Should I just say ‘the usual’ or shall it be the truth?”
“The truth. Complete and honest.”
“Alright. The usual.” Edgar stole his scone. “No, no! Give that back! That is the honest truth. I went to Liverpool to see if anyone remembered a small, dark child and where he came from.”
“And?” Edgar took a bite of Heathcliff’s scone and then gave it back. “What did you find?”
“Absolutely nothing, there was only the washerwoman, and she just knew that the little boy ran errands for her. But I could have told her that.”
At that moment two young women walked in. The elder of them had blond curls and large blue eyes. It couldn’t be anyone but Catherine Linton. She didn’t look at all like she was dying. Her companion was as dark as she was fair. Isabella Linton had dark ringlets and eyes of chocolate. Mrs. Dean got them tea and we were all soon sitting around the table. The two girls and I were introduced but I was soon forgotten. Catherine was sitting on Edgar’s lap, and, this gave me quite a shock, Isabella and Heathcliff were holding hands!
We all fell silent. Mrs. Dean seemed to be the only one who remembered that I was present. Heathcliff looked up, as if petitioning to a higher being, and then stood up. He dropped, in the most dignified of ways of course, to one knee next to Isabella.
“Heathcliff! It isn’t even The Narrative, and even if it was, you’ve purposed already! For Heaven’s sake I’m married to you!”
“Only for the sake of the plot!” he cried. “Miss Bronte had no intention of marrying us in the plot, I did that all on my own. She asked aloud one day what other horrible, vindictive, manipulative things I could do. If we were true to our characters surly the worst thing I could do in Catherine’s eyes was marry someone else. Please, will you marry me?”
“Yes! Yes I will, if you really mean it. For I never acted being in love with you!” and she clapped her hands and hugged Catherine and her brother and kissed Heathcliff.
Mrs. Dean looked at a time-keeping candle. “Oh! It’s nearly time for The Narrative.” She scooped up the tea and scones (much to Heathcliff’s dismay) and placed them in the dark on the settle. Then, as if she had done it a million times before, she herded Edgar into the library, Heathcliff and I out into the garden, and Isabella into a room off the kitchen that was never mentioned in the book. Catherine rushed up the servant’s stairs to her bedroom where she was to die.
I must say it was the most extraordinary thing that has ever happened. Heathcliff told me that if I walked very purposely towards Wuthering Heights and though about part of the story I would arrive there.