Wuthering Heights

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