Mr. Lockwood, a new tenant at Thrushcross Grange, uncovers the turbulent history of his neighbors, the Earnshaws and Lintons, through the housekeeper Nelly Dean. Her tale recounts the orphan Heathcliff’s degradation and his fierce bond with Catherine Earnshaw, a connection severed by her marriage to Edgar Linton. Heathcliff returns years later to exact a brutal revenge on the families, corrupting the next generation and claiming the estates. Only after his death does the cycle of violence break, allowing the young Catherine and Hareton to heal the wounds of the past.
The following evening was stormy. In the morning, Nelly saw the master’s window swinging open, the rain driving straight in. She entered the room to find him laid on his back. His eyes met hers with a keen, fierce gaze, and he seemed to smile, but he was perfectly still. When she touched his cold hand, grazed by the flapping lattice, she knew he was dead. Nelly attempted to close his eyes to extinguish the frightful, life-like gaze of exultation, but they would not shut; they seemed to sneer at her attempts.
Joseph refused to touch the body, crying that the devil had harried off Heathcliff’s soul, yet hypocritically gave thanks that the lawful master was restored. Hareton was deeply affected, sitting by the corpse all night, weeping and kissing the savage face that others shrank from. Heathcliff was buried according to his wishes, scandalizing the neighborhood. Hareton dug green sods and laid them over the brown mould himself until the grave was smooth. Yet the country folks swore he walked, and Joseph affirmed he had seen two figures looking out of the chamber window on rainy nights. Nelly recounted an encounter with a frightened shepherd boy who refused to pass a spot on the moor because he saw Heathcliff and a woman there. Though Nelly dismissed these as idle tales, she admitted she would be glad when the young couple left for the Grange.
Catherine and Hareton were destined to marry on New Year’s Day and take up residence at the Grange, leaving Joseph to guard the empty Heights. As they returned from a walk, stepping into the moonlight, Lockwood felt an irresistible impulse to escape their happiness. He walked toward the kirk and found the three headstones on the slope next the moor: Edgar Linton’s harmonized by the turf, Catherine’s grey and half-buried in heath, and Heathcliff’s still bare. Under the benign sky, watching the moths fluttering among the heath and listening to the soft wind, Lockwood wondered how anyone could ever imagine unquiet slumbers for the sleepers in that quiet earth.
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