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Wuthering Heights

Chapter 16
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 inhabitants.
 
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