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1While leading the way upstairs, she recommended that I should hide the candle, and not make a noise; for her master had
2an odd notion about the chamber she would put me in, and never let anybody lodge there willingly. I asked the reason.
3She did not know, she answered: she had only lived there a year or two; and they had so many queer goings on, she could
4not begin to be curious. Too stupefied to be curious myself, I fastened my door and glanced round for the bed. The whole
5furniture consisted of a chair, a clothes-press, and a large oak case, with squares cut out near the top resembling
6coach windows. Having approached this structure, I looked inside, and perceived it to be a singular sort of
7old-fashioned couch, very conveniently designed to obviate the necessity for every member of the family having a room to
8himself. In fact, it formed a little closet, and the ledge of a window, which it enclosed, served as a table. I slid
9back the panelled sides, got in with my light, pulled them together again, and felt secure against the vigilance of
10Heathcliff, and every one else. The ledge, where I placed my candle, had a few mildewed books piled up in one corner;
11and it was covered with writing scratched on the paint. This writing, however, was nothing but a name repeated in all
12kinds of characters, large and small--Catherine Earnshaw, here and there varied to Catherine Heathcliff, and then again
13to Catherine Linton. In vapid listlessness I leant my head against the window, and continued spelling over Catherine
14Earnshaw--Heathcliff--Linton, till my eyes closed; but they had not rested five minutes when a glare of white letters
15started from the dark, as vivid as spectres--the air swarmed with Catherines; and rousing myself to dispel the obtrusive
16name, I discovered my candle-wick reclining on one of the antique volumes, and perfuming the place with an odour of
17roasted calf-skin. I snuffed it off, and, very ill at ease under the influence of cold and lingering nausea, sat up and
18spread open the injured tome on my knee. It was a Testament, in lean type, and smelling dreadfully musty: a fly-leaf
19bore the inscription--"Catherine Earnshaw, her book," and a date some quarter of a century back. I shut it, and took up
20another and another, till I had examined all. Catherine's library was select, and its state of dilapidation proved it to
21have been well used, though not altogether for a legitimate purpose: scarcely one chapter had escaped a pen-and-ink
22commentary--at least the appearance of one--covering every morsel of blank that the printer had left. Some were detached
23sentences; other parts took the form of a regular diary, scrawled in an unformed, childish hand. At the top of an extra
24page (quite a treasure, probably, when first lighted on) I was greatly amused to behold an excellent caricature of my
25friend Joseph,--rudely, yet powerfully sketched. An immediate interest kindled within me for the unknown Catherine, and
26I began forthwith to decipher her faded hieroglyphics. "An awful Sunday," commenced the paragraph beneath. "I wish my
27father were back again. Hindley is a detestable substitute--his conduct to Heathcliff is atrocious--H. and I are going
28to rebel--we took our initiatory step this evening. "All day had been flooding with rain; we could not go to church, so
29Joseph must needs get up a congregation in the garret; and, while Hindley and his wife basked downstairs before a
30comfortable fire--doing anything but reading their Bibles, I'll answer for it--Heathcliff, myself, and the unhappy
31ploughboy were commanded to take our prayer-books, and mount: we were ranged in a row, on a sack of corn, groaning and
32shivering, and hoping that Joseph would shiver too, so that he might give us a short homily for his own sake. A vain
33idea! The service lasted precisely three hours; and yet my brother had the face to exclaim, when he saw us descending,
34'What, done already?' On Sunday evenings we used to be permitted to play, if we did not make much noise; now a mere
35titter is sufficient to send us into corners. "'You forget you have a master here,' says the tyrant. 'I'll demolish the
36first who puts me out of temper! I insist on perfect sobriety and silence. Oh, boy! was that you? Frances darling, pull
37his hair as you go by: I heard him snap his fingers.' Frances pulled his hair heartily, and then went and seated herself
38on her husband's knee, and there they were, like two babies, kissing and talking nonsense by the hour--foolish palaver
39that we should be ashamed of. We made ourselves as snug as our means allowed in the arch of the dresser. I had just
40fastened our pinafores together, and hung them up for a curtain, when in comes Joseph, on an errand from the stables. He
41tears down my handiwork, boxes my ears, and croaks: "'T' maister nobbut just buried, and Sabbath not o'ered, und t'
42sound o' t' gospel still i' yer lugs, and ye darr be laiking! Shame on ye! sit ye down, ill childer! there's good books
43eneugh if ye'll read 'em: sit ye down, and think o' yer sowls!' "Saying this, he compelled us so to square our positions
44that we might receive from the far-off fire a dull ray to show us the text of the lumber he thrust upon us. I could not
45bear the employment. I took my dingy volume by the scroop, and hurled it into the dog-kennel, vowing I hated a good
46book. Heathcliff kicked his to the same place. Then there was a hubbub! "'Maister Hindley!' shouted our chaplain.
47'Maister, coom hither! Miss Cathy's riven th' back off "Th' Helmet o' Salvation," un' Heathcliff's pawsed his fit into
48t' first part o' "T' Brooad Way to Destruction!" It's fair flaysome that ye let 'em go on this gait. Ech! th' owd man
49wad ha' laced 'em properly--but he's goan!' "Hindley hurried up from his paradise on the hearth, and seizing one of us
50by the collar, and the other by the arm, hurled both into the back-kitchen; where, Joseph asseverated, 'owd Nick' would
51fetch us as sure as we were living: and, so comforted, we each sought a separate nook to await his advent. I reached
52this book, and a pot of ink from a shelf, and pushed the house-door ajar to give me light, and I have got the time on
53with writing for twenty minutes; but my companion is impatient, and proposes that we should appropriate the dairywoman's
54cloak, and have a scamper on the moors, under its shelter. A pleasant suggestion--and then, if the surly old man come
55in, he may believe his prophecy verified--we cannot be damper, or colder, in the rain than we are here." I suppose
56Catherine fulfilled her project, for the next sentence took up another subject: she waxed lachrymose. "How little did I
57dream that Hindley would ever make me cry so!" she wrote. "My head aches, till I cannot keep it on the pillow; and still
58I can't give over. Poor Heathcliff! Hindley calls him a vagabond, and won't let him sit with us, nor eat with us any
59more; and, he says, he and I must not play together, and threatens to turn him out of the house if we break his orders.
60He has been blaming our father (how dared he?) for treating H. too liberally; and swears he will reduce him to his right
61place--" I began to nod drowsily over the dim page: my eye wandered from manuscript to print. I saw a red ornamented
62title--"Seventy Times Seven, and the First of the Seventy-First. A Pious Discourse delivered by the Reverend Jabez
63Branderham, in the Chapel of Gimmerden Sough." And while I was, half-consciously, worrying my brain to guess what Jabez
64Branderham would make of his subject, I sank back in bed, and fell asleep. Alas, for the effects of bad tea and bad
65temper! What else could it be that made me pass such a terrible night? I don't remember another that I can at all
66compare with it since I was capable of suffering.
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