CHAPTER XVI

About twelve o’clock that night was born the Catherine you saw at Wuthering Heights: a puny¹, seven-months’ child; and two hours after the mother died, having never recovered sufficient consciousness to miss Heathcliff, or know Edgar. The latter’s distraction² at his bereavement³ 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 bemoaned⁴ that, as I gazed on the feeble orphan⁵; and I mentally abused old Linton for (what was only natural partiality) the securing his estate⁶ to his own daughter, instead of his son’s. An unwelcomed infant it was, poor thing! It might have wailed⁷ out of life, and nobody cared a morsel⁸, during those first hours of existence. We redeemed⁹ 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 softened¹⁰ in through the blinds of the silent room, and suffused¹¹ the couch and its occupant with a mellow¹², 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 fixed¹³: but his was the hush¹⁴ of exhausted¹⁵ anguish¹⁶, 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 instinctively¹⁷ 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 peculiarity¹⁸ in me, but I am seldom otherwise than happy while watching in the chamber²⁰ of death, should no frenzied²¹ or despairing mourner share the duty with me. I see a repose²² that neither earth nor hell can break, and I feel an assurance of the endless and shadowless hereafter—the Eternity²³ they have entered—where life is boundless²⁴ 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 haven²⁵ of peace at last. One might doubt in seasons of cold reflection; but not then, in the presence of her corpse²⁶. It asserted its own tranquillity²⁷, 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:

Retracing²⁸ the course of Catherine Linton, I fear we have no right to think she is; but we’ll leave her with her Maker²⁹.

The master looked asleep, and I ventured soon after sunrise to quit the room and steal out to the pure refreshing³⁰ air. The servants thought me gone to shake off the drowsiness³¹ of my protracted³² watch; in reality, my chief motive³³ was seeing Mr. Heathcliff. If he had remained among the larches³⁴ all night, he would have heard nothing of the stir at the Grange; unless, perhaps, he might catch the gallop³⁵ 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 standing³⁶ 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 proximity³⁷ 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 catastrophe³⁸; and a foolish notion struck me that his heart was quelled³⁹ and he prayed, because his lips moved and his gaze was bent⁴⁰ on the ground.

“Yes, she’s dead!” I answered, checking my sobs⁴¹ 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 sneer⁴³. “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, ferocious⁴⁴ 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 wretch⁴⁵!” I thought; “you have a heart and nerves the same as your brother men! Why should you be anxious to conceal⁴⁶ them? Your pride cannot blind God! You tempt⁴² him to wring⁴⁷ them, till he forces a cry of humiliation⁴⁸.”

“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 dreaded⁴⁹ 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 kindly⁵⁰ in the other world!”

“May she wake in torment⁵¹!” he cried, with frightful⁵² vehemence⁵³, stamping his foot, and groaning⁵⁴ in a sudden paroxysm of ungovernable passion. “Why, she’s a liar¹⁹ 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 savage⁵⁵ beast being goaded⁵⁶ 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 appalled⁵⁷ me: still, I felt reluctant to quit him so. But the moment he recollected⁵⁸ 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 coffin⁵⁹ remained uncovered, and strewn with flowers and scented⁶⁰ leaves, in the great drawing-room. Linton spent his days and nights there, a sleepless⁶¹ guardian⁶²; and—a circumstance concealed⁶³ 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 fatigue⁶⁴, had been compelled to retire a couple of hours, I went and opened one of the windows; moved by his perseverance⁶⁵ to give him a chance of bestowing⁶⁶ on the faded image of his idol⁶⁷ one final adieu. He did not omit to avail himself of the opportunity, cautiously and briefly⁶⁸; 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 ascertained⁶⁹ 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 remains⁷⁰ 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 tenants⁷¹ and servants. Isabella was not asked.

The place of Catherine’s interment, to the surprise of the villagers, was neither in the chapel⁷² 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 kirkyard, where the wall is so low that heath and bilberry-plants have climbed over it from the moor⁷³; 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.