ABOUT twelve o'clock that night
was born the Catherine you saw
at Wuthering Heights: a puny,
seven-months' child; and two
hours after the mother died,
having never recovered sufficient
consciousness to miss Heathcliff,
or know Edgar. The latter's distraction
at his bereavement is a subject
too painful to be dwelt on; its
after-effects showed how deep
the sorrow sunk. A great addition,
in my eyes, was his being left
without an heir. I bemoaned that,
as I gazed on the feeble orphan;
and I mentally abused old Linton
for (what was only natural partiality)
the securing his estate to his
own daughter, instead of his
son's. An unwelcomed infant it
was, poor thing! It might have
wailed out of life, and nobody
cared a morsel, during those
first hours of existence. We
redeemed the neglect afterwards;
but its beginning was as friendless
as its end is likely to be.
Next morning - bright and cheerful
out of doors - stole softened
in through the blinds of the
silent room, and suffused the
couch and its occupant with a
mellow, tender glow. Edgar Linton
had his head laid on the pillow,
and his eyes shut. His young
and fair features were almost
as deathlike as those of the
form beside him, and almost as
fixed: but HIS was the hush of
exhausted anguish, and HERS of
perfect peace. Her brow smooth,
her lids closed, her lips wearing
the expression of a smile; no
angel in heaven could be more
beautiful than she appeared.
And I partook of the infinite
calm in which she lay: my mind
was never in a holier frame than
while I gazed on that untroubled
image of Divine rest. I instinctively
echoed the words she had uttered
a few hours before: 'Incomparably
beyond and above us all! Whether
still on earth or now in heaven,
her spirit is at home with God!'
I don't know if it be a peculiarity
in me, but I am seldom otherwise
than happy while watching in
the chamber of death, should
no frenzied or despairing mourner
share the duty with me. I see
a repose that neither earth nor
hell can break, and I feel an
assurance of the endless and
shadowless hereafter - the Eternity
they have entered - where life
is boundless in its duration,
and love in its sympathy, and
joy in its fulness. I noticed
on that occasion how much selfishness
there is even in a love like
Mr. Linton's, when he so regretted
Catherine's blessed release!
To be sure, one might have doubted,
after the wayward and impatient
existence she had led, whether
she merited a haven of peace
at last. One might doubt in seasons
of cold reflection; but not then,
in the presence of her corpse.
It asserted its own tranquillity,
which seemed a pledge of equal
quiet to its former inhabitant.
Do you believe such people
are happy in the other world,
sir? I'd give a great deal to
know.
I declined answering Mrs. Dean's
question, which struck me as
something heterodox. She proceeded:
Retracing the course of Catherine
Linton, I fear we have no right
to think she is; but we'll leave
her with her Maker.
The master looked asleep, and
I ventured soon after sunrise
to quit the room and steal out
to the pure refreshing air. The
servants thought me gone to shake
off the drowsiness of my protracted
watch; in reality, my chief motive
was seeing Mr. Heathcliff. If
he had remained among the larches
all night, he would have heard
nothing of the stir at the Grange;
unless, perhaps, he might catch
the gallop of the messenger going
to Gimmerton. If he had come
nearer, he would probably be
aware, from the lights flitting
to and fro, and the opening and
shutting of the outer doors,
that all was not right within.
I wished, yet feared, to find
him. I felt the terrible news
must be told, and I longed to
get it over; but how to do it
I did not know. He was there
- at least, a few yards further
in the park; leant against an
old ash-tree, his hat off, and
his hair soaked with the dew
that had gathered on the budded
branches, and fell pattering
round him. He had been standing
a long time in that position,
for I saw a pair of ousels passing
and repassing scarcely three
feet from him, busy in building
their nest, and regarding his
proximity no more than that of
a piece of timber. They flew
off at my approach, and he raised
his eyes and spoke:- 'She's dead!'
he said; 'I've not waited for
you to learn that. Put your handkerchief
away - don't snivel before me.
Damn you all! she wants none
of your tears!'
I was weeping as much for him
as her: we do sometimes pity
creatures that have none of the
feeling either for themselves
or others. When I first looked
into his face, I perceived that
he had got intelligence of the
catastrophe; and a foolish notion
struck me that his heart was
quelled and he prayed, because
his lips moved and his gaze was
bent on the ground.
'Yes, she's dead!' I answered,
checking my sobs and drying my
cheeks. 'Gone to heaven, I hope;
where we may, every one, join
her, if we take due warning and
leave our evil ways to follow
good!'
'Did SHE take due warning,
then?' asked Heathcliff, attempting
a sneer. 'Did she die like a
saint? Come, give me a true history
of the event. How did - ?'
He endeavoured to pronounce
the name, but could not manage
it; and compressing his mouth
he held a silent combat with
his inward agony, defying, meanwhile,
my sympathy with an unflinching,
ferocious stare. 'How did she
die?' he resumed, at last - fain,
notwithstanding his hardihood,
to have a support behind him;
for, after the struggle, he trembled,
in spite of himself, to his very
finger-ends.
'Poor wretch!' I thought; 'you
have a heart and nerves the same
as your brother men! Why should
you be anxious to conceal them?
Your pride cannot blind God!
You tempt him to wring them,
till he forces a cry of humiliation.'
'Quietly as a lamb!' I answered,
aloud. 'She drew a sigh, and
stretched herself, like a child
reviving, and sinking again to
sleep; and five minutes after
I felt one little pulse at her
heart, and nothing more!'
'And - did she ever mention
me?' he asked, hesitating, as
if he dreaded the answer to his
question would introduce details
that he could not bear to hear.
'Her senses never returned:
she recognised nobody from the
time you left her,' I said. 'She
lies with a sweet smile on her
face; and her latest ideas wandered
back to pleasant early days.
Her life closed in a gentle dream
- may she wake as kindly in the
other world!'
'May she wake in torment!'
he cried, with frightful vehemence,
stamping his foot, and groaning
in a sudden paroxysm of ungovernable
passion. 'Why, she's a liar to
the end! Where is she? Not THERE
- not in heaven - not perished
- where? Oh! you said you cared
nothing for my sufferings! And
I pray one prayer - I repeat
it till my tongue stiffens -
Catherine Earnshaw, may you not
rest as long as I am living;
you said I killed you - haunt
me, then! The murdered DO haunt
their murderers, I believe. I
know that ghosts HAVE wandered
on earth. Be with me always -
take any form - drive me mad!
only DO not leave me in this
abyss, where I cannot find you!
Oh, God! it is unutterable! I
CANNOT live without my life!
I CANNOT live without my soul!'
He dashed his head against
the knotted trunk; and, lifting
up his eyes, howled, not like
a man, but like a savage beast
being goaded to death with knives
and spears. I observed several
splashes of blood about the bark
of the tree, and his hand and
forehead were both stained; probably
the scene I witnessed was a repetition
of others acted during the night.
It hardly moved my compassion
- it appalled me: still, I felt
reluctant to quit him so. But
the moment he recollected himself
enough to notice me watching,
he thundered a command for me
to go, and I obeyed. He was beyond
my skill to quiet or console!
Mrs. Linton's funeral was appointed
to take place on the Friday following
her decease; and till then her
coffin remained uncovered, and
strewn with flowers and scented
leaves, in the great drawing-
room. Linton spent his days and
nights there, a sleepless guardian;
and - a circumstance concealed
from all but me - Heathcliff
spent his nights, at least, outside,
equally a stranger to repose.
I held no communication with
him: still, I was conscious of
his design to enter, if he could;
and on the Tuesday, a little
after dark, when my master, from
sheer fatigue, had been compelled
to retire a couple of hours,
I went and opened one of the
windows; moved by his perseverance
to give him a chance of bestowing
on the faded image of his idol
one final adieu. He did not omit
to avail himself of the opportunity,
cautiously and briefly; too cautiously
to betray his presence by the
slightest noise. Indeed, I shouldn't
have discovered that he had been
there, except for the disarrangement
of the drapery about the corpse's
face, and for observing on the
floor a curl of light hair, fastened
with a silver thread; which,
on examination, I ascertained
to have been taken from a locket
hung round Catherine's neck.
Heathcliff had opened the trinket
and cast out its contents, replacing
them by a black lock of his own.
I twisted the two, and enclosed
them together.
Mr. Earnshaw was, of course,
invited to attend the remains
of his sister to the grave; he
sent no excuse, but he never
came; so that, besides her husband,
the mourners were wholly composed
of tenants and servants. Isabella
was not asked.
The place of Catherine's interment,
to the surprise of the villagers,
was neither in the chapel under
the carved monument of the Lintons,
nor yet by the tombs of her own
relations, outside. It was dug
on a green slope in a corner
of the kirk-yard, where the wall
is so low that heath and bilberry-plants
have climbed over it from the
moor; and peat-mould almost buries
it. Her husband lies in the same
spot now; and they have each
a simple headstone above, and
a plain grey block at their feet,
to mark the graves.
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