While Isabella moped about the park in silence, always in tears, her brother shut himself up in the library with books he never actually opened. I suspected he was waiting for Catherine to repent and ask for his forgiveness. Catherine, meanwhile, continued her fast, convinced that Edgar was suffering deeply in her absence and that only his pride kept him from falling at her feet. I went about my household duties, convinced that I was the only sensible soul left in the house.
On the third day, Catherine finally unbarred her door. She had finished all the water in her room and demanded more, along with a bowl of gruel, claiming she was dying. I assumed this was merely a performance intended for Edgar’s ears, so I brought her tea and toast instead. She ate and drank hungrily, but then sank back onto her pillow, groaning that she would die since no one cared for her.
"What is that apathetic man doing?" she demanded, pushing her tangled hair from her wasted face. "Is he in a trance, or is he dead?"
"Neither," I replied calmly. "Mr. Linton is quite well, though he spends more time with his books than he should."
Had I known her true condition, I wouldn't have spoken so coldly, but I still believed she was acting. Catherine was horrified. "Among his books! And I am on the brink of the grave! Does he know how much I’ve changed? Nelly, tell him I am in earnest. I must know how he feels, so I can choose whether to starve or recover and leave this country forever."
"Ma'am," I said, "the master has no idea you are in such a state. He certainly doesn't think you would let yourself die of hunger."
She grew increasingly agitated, tossing about in a feverish delirium. She began to tear at her pillow with her teeth and then, in a sudden shift of mood, started pulling feathers from the holes she had made. She began to sort them on the sheet, her mind wandering back to her childhood.
"That’s a turkey’s feather," she murmured, "and this is a wild duck’s. And this—I’d know it anywhere—is a lapwing’s. Poor bird. Heathcliff once set a trap over a lapwing's nest, and the parents were too afraid to return. We found the skeletons of the babies in the winter. I made him promise never to shoot a lapwing after that."
"Stop this nonsense!" I interrupted, taking the pillow away. "You’re wandering. Look at the mess you’ve made."
Catherine looked at me dreamily. "I see you, Nelly. You’re an old woman with grey hair and bent shoulders. This bed is a fairy cave under Penistone Crags." She then turned her gaze toward the mirror on the wall and shrieked. "There’s a face in there! Don't you see it?"
I tried to explain that it was her own reflection, but she was beyond logic. I eventually covered the mirror with a shawl, but she remained terrified, convinced the room was haunted. When the clock struck midnight, she became even more hysterical, clutching at me for protection.
"I thought I was at home," she sighed, her horror slowly turning into shame. "I thought I was back in my room at Wuthering Heights. Stay with me, Nelly; I am afraid to sleep because my dreams are so appalling."
She begged me to open the window so she could feel the wind from the moors. To satisfy her, I held it open for a few seconds before the cold blast became too much. Catherine was no longer the fiery woman she had been; she was as helpless as a child.
She began to describe a strange memory of the night she first locked herself in. She recalled falling to the floor and losing all sense of the last seven years. In her mind, she was a child again, grieving for her father and the separation from Heathcliff.
"I wish I were a girl again," she cried, "half-savage and free! Why have I changed? My blood boils at a few words. If I were once more among the heather on those hills, I would be myself again. Open the window wide, Nelly! Fasten it open!"
When I refused, she slid out of bed with a burst of delirious strength and threw the window open herself, leaning out into the icy night air. "Look!" she cried. "I can see the lights at Wuthering Heights! Joseph is waiting up to lock the gate. I’m coming home, but I must pass through the churchyard first. Heathcliff, if I dare you now, will you follow me? I won't rest until you are buried with me!"
As I was trying to pull her back, Mr. Linton entered the room. He was horrified by the scene—the freezing room, the open window, and his wife’s haggard appearance.
"Catherine is ill!" I cried. "I cannot manage her. Please, sir, forget your anger."
Edgar took her in his arms with an expression of pure anguish. At first, she didn't recognize him, but slowly her focus returned. "Ah, Edgar," she said bitterly. "I suppose we shall have plenty of complaining now. But you can't keep me from my grave. I won't be buried with the Lintons; I’ll be in the open air."
"Catherine, what have you done?" Edgar asked. "Do you love that wretch Heathcliff so much?"
"Hush!" she screamed. "Mention that name and I’ll jump from this window! I don't want you, Edgar. Go back to your books. Everything you had in me is gone."
Edgar turned his anger on me. "You knew her nature, Ellen, and you didn't give me a single hint of her state these past three days! It was heartless."
I tried to defend myself, arguing that I didn't want to encourage her temper or her interest in Heathcliff, but Edgar was finished with me. "The next time you bring me such gossip, you shall leave my service," he warned.
Catherine, despite her confusion, realized I had told Edgar about her and Heathcliff. "Nelly is a traitor!" she shouted, struggling to get out of Edgar’s arms to attack me. I decided it was time to leave and fetch the doctor.
As I hurried through the garden, I noticed something white hanging from a hook on the wall. To my horror, I discovered it was Isabella’s dog, Fanny, suspended by a handkerchief and nearly dead. I quickly released the poor animal. As I did, I thought I heard the sound of galloping horses in the distance, but I was too distracted to give it much thought.
I found Dr. Kenneth in the village, and he returned with me immediately. He was a blunt man and expressed serious doubts about Catherine’s survival, warning that even if she lived, she might lose her mind permanently. He also dropped a hint of scandal.
"Nelly," he said, "reports say Isabella and Heathcliff were seen walking together for hours last night. He was trying to persuade her to go away with him."
Terrified, I ran back to the house and checked Isabella’s room. It was empty. She had eloped with Heathcliff. I realized that if I had spoken up sooner, Catherine’s illness might have stopped her, but it was too late now. I decided to stay silent for the moment, as Edgar was already overwhelmed by Catherine's condition.
The next morning, the news could no longer be hidden. A servant girl arrived from the village, breathless, announcing that Isabella had been seen riding away with Heathcliff at midnight.
Edgar received the news with a cold, hollow silence. When I asked if we should try to bring her back, he replied, "She went of her own accord. She has the right to go if she pleases. From now on, she is my sister in name only—not because I disown her, but because she has disowned me."
He never mentioned her name again, directing me only to pack her belongings and send them to her whenever we discovered where she had gone. The tragedy of the Grange was complete.