الفصل الفصل 12 · 第12章

While Miss Linton moped about the park and garden, always silent, and

almost always in tears; and her brother shut himself up among books

that he never opened—wearying, I guessed, with a continual vague

expectation that Catherine, repenting her conduct, would come of her

own accord to ask pardon, and seek a reconciliation—and _she_ fasted

pertinaciously, under the idea, probably, that at every meal Edgar was

ready to choke for her absence, and pride alone held him from running

to cast himself at her feet; I went about my household duties,

convinced that the Grange had but one sensible soul in its walls, and

that lodged in my body. I wasted no condolences on Miss, nor any

expostulations on my mistress; nor did I pay much attention to the

sighs of my master, who yearned to hear his lady’s name, since he might

not hear her voice. I determined they should come about as they pleased

for me; and though it was a tiresomely slow process, I began to rejoice

at length in a faint dawn of its progress: as I thought at first.

Mrs. Linton, on the third day, unbarred her door, and having finished

the water in her pitcher and decanter, desired a renewed supply, and a

basin of gruel, for she believed she was dying. That I set down as a

speech meant for Edgar’s ears; I believed no such thing, so I kept it

to myself and brought her some tea and dry toast. She ate and drank

eagerly, and sank back on her pillow again, clenching her hands and

groaning. “Oh, I will die,” she exclaimed, “since no one cares anything

about me. I wish I had not taken that.” Then a good while after I heard

her murmur, “No, I’ll not die—he’d be glad—he does not love me at

all—he would never miss me!”

“Did you want anything, ma’am?” I inquired, still preserving my

external composure, in spite of her ghastly countenance and strange,

exaggerated manner.

“What is that apathetic being doing?” she demanded, pushing the thick

entangled locks from her wasted face. “Has he fallen into a lethargy,

or is he dead?”

“Neither,” replied I; “if you mean Mr. Linton. He’s tolerably well, I

think, though his studies occupy him rather more than they ought: he is

continually among his books, since he has no other society.”

I should not have spoken so if I had known her true condition, but I

could not get rid of the notion that she acted a part of her disorder.

“Among his books!” she cried, confounded. “And I dying! I on the brink

of the grave! My God! does he know how I’m altered?” continued she,

staring at her reflection in a mirror hanging against the opposite

wall. “Is that Catherine Linton? He imagines me in a pet—in play,

perhaps. Cannot you inform him that it is frightful earnest? Nelly, if

it be not too late, as soon as I learn how he feels, I’ll choose

between these two: either to starve at once—that would be no punishment

unless he had a heart—or to recover, and leave the country. Are you

speaking the truth about him now? Take care. Is he actually so utterly

indifferent for my life?”

“Why, ma’am,” I answered, “the master has no idea of your being

deranged; and of course he does not fear that you will let yourself die

of hunger.”

“You think not? Cannot you tell him I will?” she returned. “Persuade

him! speak of your own mind: say you are certain I will!”

“No, you forget, Mrs. Linton,” I suggested, “that you have eaten some

food with a relish this evening, and to-morrow you will perceive its

good effects.”

“If I were only sure it would kill him,” she interrupted, “I’d kill

myself directly! These three awful nights I’ve never closed my lids—and

oh, I’ve been tormented! I’ve been haunted, Nelly! But I begin to fancy

you don’t like me. How strange! I thought, though everybody hated and

despised each other, they could not avoid loving me. And they have all

turned to enemies in a few hours. _They_ have, I’m positive; the people

_here_. How dreary to meet death, surrounded by their cold faces!

Isabella, terrified and repelled, afraid to enter the room, it would be

so dreadful to watch Catherine go. And Edgar standing solemnly by to

see it over; then offering prayers of thanks to God for restoring peace

to his house, and going back to his _books_! What in the name of all

that feels has he to do with _books_, when I am dying?”

She could not bear the notion which I had put into her head of Mr.

Linton’s philosophical resignation. Tossing about, she increased her

feverish bewilderment to madness, and tore the pillow with her teeth;

then raising herself up all burning, desired that I would open the

window. We were in the middle of winter, the wind blew strong from the

north-east, and I objected. Both the expressions flitting over her

face, and the changes of her moods, began to alarm me terribly; and

brought to my recollection her former illness, and the doctor’s

injunction that she should not be crossed. A minute previously she was

violent; now, supported on one arm, and not noticing my refusal to obey

her, she seemed to find childish diversion in pulling the feathers from

the rents she had just made, and ranging them on the sheet according to

their different species: her mind had strayed to other associations.

“That’s a turkey’s,” she murmured to herself; “and this is a wild

duck’s; and this is a pigeon’s. Ah, they put pigeons’ feathers in the

pillows—no wonder I couldn’t die! Let me take care to throw it on the

floor when I lie down. And here is a moor-cock’s; and this—I should

know it among a thousand—it’s a lapwing’s. Bonny bird; wheeling over

our heads in the middle of the moor. It wanted to get to its nest, for

the clouds had touched the swells, and it felt rain coming. This

feather was picked up from the heath, the bird was not shot: we saw its

nest in the winter, full of little skeletons. Heathcliff set a trap

over it, and the old ones dared not come. I made him promise he’d never

shoot a lapwing after that, and he didn’t. Yes, here are more! Did he

shoot my lapwings, Nelly? Are they red, any of them? Let me look.”

“Give over with that baby-work!” I interrupted, dragging the pillow

away, and turning the holes towards the mattress, for she was removing

its contents by handfuls. “Lie down and shut your eyes: you’re

wandering. There’s a mess! The down is flying about like snow.”

I went here and there collecting it.

“I see in you, Nelly,” she continued dreamily, “an aged woman: you have

grey hair and bent shoulders. This bed is the fairy cave under

Penistone Crags, and you are gathering elf-bolts to hurt our heifers;

pretending, while I am near, that they are only locks of wool. That’s

what you’ll come to fifty years hence: I know you are not so now. I’m

not wandering: you’re mistaken, or else I should believe you really

_were_ that withered hag, and I should think I _was_ under Penistone

Crags; and I’m conscious it’s night, and there are two candles on the

table making the black press shine like jet.”

“The black press? where is that?” I asked. “You are talking in your

sleep!”

“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