He slept fitfully that night. More than once, Isabella was wakened by his moaning, as though he were tortured by an ache that could never be soothed. She stroked his hair, held him, murmured sweet reassurances in his troubled ear, and indeed sometimes he seemed to recover. But soon he would begin again, thrashing in his sleep, a high keening issuing from his throat, or sometimes low, furious groans that betrayed rages born of years spent in anguish.
Again and again she sought to comfort him, turned her every thought to showing him such gentleness as might relieve his hurt, though her own thoughts became hazy through lack of sleep.
And then, just as the moon emerged from behind the cloaking cover of a heavy cloud, and began to shine brightly onto his sweating, laboured face, she heard him speak.
"Oh, my love…" he murmured desperately.
"I'm here, my love," she whispered back. "I'm here, it's all right, you can trust me, I shall be good to you, you need not fear -"
"Oh, my love," he moaned again. "Are you here? Come here to me, please, come back to me, please come back, Cathy…"
It was a dagger to her heart, a blade of ice that tore at every nerve, threatening her emotional ruin. Tears sprang unbidden to her eyes, and she desperately fanned her face, seeking to keep her despair at bay – or at least, to prevent herself from revealing it openly. She glanced again at her husband, seeking to provide some further solace, if only to distract herself from her own suffering.
But Heathcliff was now sound asleep again, his face calm and peaceful, as though Cathy's mere name had soothed his agonised soul in a way that all her gentleness, and all her charm, and all her reassurances, could not.
The next morning found her alone again, Heathcliff having chosen not to stay with her when he rose. Isabella was exhausted, having had so little sleep, and that so poor. When she raised her eyes to the looking glass, she saw tears dried on her face; her eyes were bloodshot, and her cheeks were red.
Had he seen her when he woke? Had he looked across to her, noticed her tears? She could not decide what would have been worse, for him to have left without even seeing her distress, or for him to have seen it, and done nothing.
A knock on the door signalled the approach of Martha, the innkeeper's plump and jovial wife, who had been paid by Heathcliff to dress her this morning. She was possessed of a remarkably pretty face that positively twinkled with kindness and affection, and despite her relatively poor circumstances seemed the happiest of women. Isabella wished she could take some comfort from the woman's presence, but Heathcliff's words from the night before rang true in her head, and her heart was torn between gratitude and affection for the woman's generosity, and doubtful, bitter speculations on how Martha would feel, were she in Isabella's own painful position.
At last she could no longer stand her own confusion, and just as the kind lady was evening up the laces on her stays, she finally broke down, allowing her tears to flow freely once more.
"Why, my dear, whatever's the matter?" asked Martha. "Has something happened, my dear? And can I be of some assistance to you? for it saddens me to see such a pretty creature as you in pain."
"Oh, Martha," wept Isabella. "I could not tell you, 'twould be wrong of me to tell you…"
The lady's expression changed to one of deepest sympathy. "Oh dear," she said, "I think I may have some understanding. Let me ask you this, child, and I swear I shall take your answer to the grave: Is it he who has hurt you, or another who has affected him?"
Isabella hesitated, but it seemed her eyes must have betrayed her, for the woman continued, "Well, love is a tricky thing, and I'm no poet or preacher as could understand its deepest mysteries, but I will tell you what I can, if you'll pardon my taking the liberty, and you may take or leave my advice as you see fit."
She took a breath as she pulled at Isabella's stays, and went on, "If a man loves a woman, he will pursue her, and no doubt about it. But pursuit, my dear, is only half the game. You know a man's worth when he catches her, and how he is to her then. Now I know little enough of you, and less still of your husband, but I do know this: he requested I aid you with your stays, and that means he pays attention to the things some men might forget. That makes him a man you can trust, in my eyes, and a man worth obeying, as well. Never forget that – we women must obey our husbands. I learned that from my mother, who learned it from hers, and 'tis from t'Bible, too, so you can know it's true. I have obeyed my William, as best I can, for the last twenty-five years, and a happier couple than ourselves we have never seen."
"Now," she went on, "if your husband treats you wrongly, my dear, I cannot well advise you, for my Willie is as good a man as I've ever known, but I do know that if a man seems harsh or cold, a woman's soft words and rightful obedience will set things straight in a few days. And should he seem distracted by another – and make no mistake, my love, it does happen! – should that be the case, then remember this always: he married you, not another. And whatever his reason, whatever his cause, and whatever his present distraction, you, and you alone, are his wife. And that means something, girl, it means more than you or I can comprehend, for 'tis a blessing from God hisself."
"And," asked Isabella, "what if there should be someone, someone he might have married had he been able to? Will I always be a second? Will it always be Cathy before me -?"
She buried her face in her hands, her palms growing wet with tears, her hands filling with the evidence of her pain.
Martha was silent for a long time, but held her in an embrace, as a mother might comfort her crying child. At last, when Isabella's sobs had quieted to a despairing whisper, she murmured gently, "Well now, there you've spelled it out for me, and I shall advise you further."
"Now my William," she continued, "has been my sweetheart for a long time, but do not imagine that I was the first subject of his affections. No, when I met him, he had his heart set on another – I imagine, perhaps, she may have been like this 'Cathy'."
"Her name was Abigail, and she was a beauty, I'll not deny it. Captured his heart, or so she may have thought, and so I thought at the time. Pined over her, he did, and still held a little flame for her even when we first came together. But I'll tell you this for nowt: she's living in Bradford still, and e'en comes into this same pub, and I'll serve her with a smile, fearing no harm from her, nor stirrings in his heart; for after five years of our fine marriage, with my obedience and support to bolster his love, he'd forgotten the lass's very name!"
A mischievous grin came over her face then, and the twinkle in her eye seemed to somehow sharpen in conspiratorial malevolence. "And do you know what else? After twenty-five years… She still comes in alone."