Wuthering Heights
“It’s against the wall, as it always is,” she replied. “It _does_
appear odd—I see a face in it!”
“There’s no press in the room, and never was,” said I, resuming my
seat, and looping up the curtain that I might watch her.
“Don’t _you_ see that face?” she inquired, gazing earnestly at the
mirror.
And say what I could, I was incapable of making her comprehend it to be
her own; so I rose and covered it with a shawl.
“It’s behind there still!” she pursued, anxiously. “And it stirred. Who
is it? I hope it will not come out when you are gone! Oh! Nelly, the
room is haunted! I’m afraid of being alone!”
I took her hand in mine, and bid her be composed; for a succession of
shudders convulsed her frame, and she _would_ keep straining her gaze
towards the glass.
“There’s nobody here!” I insisted. “It was _yourself_, Mrs. Linton: you
knew it a while since.”
“Myself!” she gasped, “and the clock is striking twelve! It’s true,
then! that’s dreadful!”
Her fingers clutched the clothes, and gathered them over her eyes. I
attempted to steal to the door with an intention of calling her
husband; but I was summoned back by a piercing shriek—the shawl had
dropped from the frame.
“Why, what _is_ the matter?” cried I. “Who is coward now? Wake up! That
is the glass—the mirror, Mrs. Linton; and you see yourself in it, and
there am I too by your side.”
Trembling and bewildered, she held me fast, but the horror gradually
passed from her countenance; its paleness gave place to a glow of
shame.
“Oh, dear! I thought I was at home,” she sighed. “I thought I was lying
in my chamber at Wuthering Heights. Because I’m weak, my brain got
confused, and I screamed unconsciously. Don’t say anything; but stay
with me. I dread sleeping: my dreams appal me.”
“A sound sleep would do you good, ma’am,” I answered: “and I hope this
suffering will prevent your trying starving again.”
“Oh, if I were but in my own bed in the old house!” she went on
bitterly, wringing her hands. “And that wind sounding in the firs by
the lattice. Do let me feel it—it comes straight down the moor—do let
me have one breath!”
To pacify her I held the casement ajar a few seconds. A cold blast
rushed through; I closed it, and returned to my post. She lay still
now, her face bathed in tears. Exhaustion of body had entirely subdued
her spirit: our fiery Catherine was no better than a wailing child.
“How long is it since I shut myself in here?” she asked, suddenly
reviving.
“It was Monday evening,” I replied, “and this is Thursday night, or
rather Friday morning, at present.”
“What! of the same week?” she exclaimed. “Only that brief time?”
“Long enough to live on nothing but cold water and ill-temper,”
observed I.
“Well, it seems a weary number of hours,” she muttered doubtfully: “it
must be more. I remember being in the parlour after they had
quarrelled, and Edgar being cruelly provoking, and me running into this
room desperate. As soon as ever I had barred the door, utter blackness
overwhelmed me, and I fell on the floor. I couldn’t explain to Edgar
how certain I felt of having a fit, or going raging mad, if he
persisted in teasing me! I had no command of tongue, or brain, and he
did not guess my agony, perhaps: it barely left me sense to try to
escape from him and his voice. Before I recovered sufficiently to see
and hear, it began to be dawn, and, Nelly, I’ll tell you what I
thought, and what has kept recurring and recurring till I feared for my
reason. I thought as I lay there, with my head against that table leg,
and my eyes dimly discerning the grey square of the window, that I was
enclosed in the oak-panelled bed at home; and my heart ached with some
great grief which, just waking, I could not recollect. I pondered, and
worried myself to discover what it could be, and, most strangely, the
whole last seven years of my life grew a blank! I did not recall that
they had been at all. I was a child; my father was just buried, and my
misery arose from the separation that Hindley had ordered between me
and Heathcliff. I was laid alone, for the first time; and, rousing from
a dismal doze after a night of weeping, I lifted my hand to push the
panels aside: it struck the table-top! I swept it along the carpet, and
then memory burst in: my late anguish was swallowed in a paroxysm of
despair. I cannot say why I felt so wildly wretched: it must have been
temporary derangement; for there is scarcely cause. But, supposing at
twelve years old I had been wrenched from the Heights, and every early
association, and my all in all, as Heathcliff was at that time, and
been converted at a stroke into Mrs. Linton, the lady of Thrushcross
Grange, and the wife of a stranger: an exile, and outcast, thenceforth,
from what had been my world. You may fancy a glimpse of the abyss where
I grovelled! Shake your head as you will, Nelly, _you_ have helped to
unsettle me! You should have spoken to Edgar, indeed you should, and
compelled him to leave me quiet! Oh, I’m burning! I wish I were out of
doors! I wish I were a girl again, half savage and hardy, and free; and
laughing at injuries, not maddening under them! Why am I so changed?
why does my blood rush into a hell of tumult at a few words? I’m sure I
should be myself were I once among the heather on those hills. Open the
window again wide: fasten it open! Quick, why don’t you move?”
“Because I won’t give you your death of cold,” I answered.
“You won’t give me a chance of life, you mean,” she said sullenly.
“However, I’m not helpless yet; I’ll open it myself.”
And sliding from the bed before I could hinder her, she crossed the
room, walking very uncertainly, threw it back, and bent out, careless
of the frosty air that cut about her shoulders as keen as a knife. I
entreated, and finally attempted to force her to retire. But I soon
found her delirious strength much surpassed mine (she _was_ delirious,
I became convinced by her subsequent actions and ravings). There was no
moon, and everything beneath lay in misty darkness: not a light gleamed
from any house, far or near; all had been extinguished long ago: and
those at Wuthering Heights were never visible—still she asserted she
caught their shining.
“Look!” she cried eagerly, “that’s my room with the candle in it, and
the trees swaying before it; and the other candle is in Joseph’s
garret. Joseph sits up late, doesn’t he? He’s waiting till I come home
that he may lock the gate. Well, he’ll wait a while yet. It’s a rough
journey, and a sad heart to travel it; and we must pass by Gimmerton
Kirk to go that journey! We’ve braved its ghosts often together, and
dared each other to stand among the graves and ask them to come. But,
Heathcliff, if I dare you now, will you venture? If you do, I’ll keep
you. I’ll not lie there by myself: they may bury me twelve feet deep,
and throw the church down over me, but I won’t rest till you are with
me. I never will!”
She paused, and resumed with a strange smile. “He’s considering—he’d
rather I’d come to him! Find a way, then! not through that kirkyard.
You are slow! Be content, you always followed me!”
Perceiving it vain to argue against her insanity, I was planning how I
could reach something to wrap about her, without quitting my hold of
herself (for I could not trust her alone by the gaping lattice), when,
to my consternation, I heard the rattle of the door-handle, and Mr.
Linton entered. He had only then come from the library; and, in passing
through the lobby, had noticed our talking and been attracted by
curiosity, or fear, to examine what it signified, at that late hour.
“Oh, sir!” I cried, checking the exclamation risen to his lips at the
sight which met him, and the bleak atmosphere of the chamber. “My poor
mistress is ill, and she quite masters me: I cannot manage her at all;
pray, come and persuade her to go to bed. Forget your anger, for she’s
hard to guide any way but her own.”
“Catherine ill?” he said, hastening to us. “Shut the window, Ellen!
Catherine! why—”
He was silent. The haggardness of Mrs. Linton’s appearance smote him
speechless, and he could only glance from her to me in horrified
astonishment.
“She’s been fretting here,” I continued, “and eating scarcely anything,
and never complaining: she would admit none of us till this evening,
and so we couldn’t inform you of her state, as we were not aware of it
ourselves; but it is nothing.”
I felt I uttered my explanations awkwardly; the master frowned. “It is
nothing, is it, Ellen Dean?” he said sternly. “You shall account more
clearly for keeping me ignorant of this!” And he took his wife in his
arms, and looked at her with anguish.
At first she gave him no glance of recognition: he was invisible to her
abstracted gaze. The delirium was not fixed, however; having weaned her
eyes from contemplating the outer darkness, by degrees she centred her
attention on him, and discovered who it was that held her.
“Ah! you are come, are you, Edgar Linton?” she said, with angry
animation. “You are one of those things that are ever found when least
wanted, and when you are wanted, never! I suppose we shall have plenty
of lamentations now—I see we shall—but they can’t keep me from my
narrow home out yonder: my resting-place, where I’m bound before spring
is over! There it is: not among the Lintons, mind, under the
chapel-roof, but in the open air, with a head-stone; and you may please
yourself whether you go to them or come to me!”
“Catherine, what have you done?” commenced the master. “Am I nothing to
you any more? Do you love that wretch Heath—”
“Hush!” cried Mrs. Linton. “Hush, this moment! You mention that name
and I end the matter instantly by a spring from the window! What you
touch at present you may have; but my soul will be on that hill-top
before you lay hands on me again. I don’t want you, Edgar: I’m past
wanting you. Return to your books. I’m glad you possess a consolation,
for all you had in me is gone.”
“Her mind wanders, sir,” I interposed. “She has been talking nonsense
the whole evening; but let her have quiet, and proper attendance, and
she’ll rally. Hereafter, we must be cautious how we vex her.”
“I desire no further advice from you,” answered Mr. Linton. “You knew
your mistress’s nature, and you encouraged me to harass her. And not to
give me one hint of how she has been these three days! It was
heartless! Months of sickness could not cause such a change!”
I began to defend myself, thinking it too bad to be blamed for
another’s wicked waywardness. “I knew Mrs. Linton’s nature to be
headstrong and domineering,” cried I: “but I didn’t know that you
wished to foster her fierce temper! I didn’t know that, to humour her,
I should wink at Mr. Heathcliff. I performed the duty of a faithful
servant in telling you, and I have got a faithful servant’s wages!
Well, it will teach me to be careful next time. Next time you may
gather intelligence for yourself!”
“The next time you bring a tale to me you shall quit my service, Ellen
Dean,” he replied.
“You’d rather hear nothing about it, I suppose, then, Mr. Linton?” said
I. “Heathcliff has your permission to come a-courting to Miss, and to
drop in at every opportunity your absence offers, on purpose to poison
the mistress against you?”
Confused as Catherine was, her wits were alert at applying our
conversation.
“Ah! Nelly has played traitor,” she exclaimed, passionately. “Nelly is
my hidden enemy. You witch! So you do seek elf-bolts to hurt us! Let me
go, and I’ll make her rue! I’ll make her howl a recantation!”
A maniac’s fury kindled under her brows; she struggled desperately to
disengage herself from Linton’s arms. I felt no inclination to tarry
the event; and, resolving to seek medical aid on my own responsibility,
I quitted the chamber.