Chapter: While leading the way upstairs, she recommended that I should hide the
candle, and not make a noise; for her master had an odd notion about the
chamber she would put me in, and never let anybody lodge there willingly.
I asked the reason.  She did not know, she answered: she had only lived
there a year or two; and they had so many queer goings on, she could not
begin to be curious.

Too stupefied to be curious myself, I fastened my door and glanced round
for the bed.  The whole furniture consisted of a chair, a clothes-press,
and a large oak case, with squares cut out near the top resembling coach
windows.  Having approached this structure, I looked inside, and
perceived it to be a singular sort of old-fashioned couch, very
conveniently designed to obviate the necessity for every member of the
family having a room to himself.  In fact, it formed a little closet, and
the ledge of a window, which it enclosed, served as a table.  I slid back
the panelled sides, got in with my light, pulled them together again, and
felt secure against the vigilance of Heathcliff, and every one else.

The ledge, where I placed my candle, had a few mildewed books piled up in
one corner; and it was covered with writing scratched on the paint.  This
writing, however, was nothing but a name repeated in all kinds of
characters, large and small--_Catherine Earnshaw_, here and there varied
to _Catherine Heathcliff_, and then again to _Catherine Linton_.

In vapid listlessness I leant my head against the window, and continued
spelling over Catherine Earnshaw--Heathcliff--Linton, till my eyes
closed; but they had not rested five minutes when a glare of white
letters started from the dark, as vivid as spectres--the air swarmed with
Catherines; and rousing myself to dispel the obtrusive name, I discovered
my candle-wick reclining on one of the antique volumes, and perfuming the
place with an odour of roasted calf-skin.  I snuffed it off, and, very
ill at ease under the influence of cold and lingering nausea, sat up and
spread open the injured tome on my knee.  It was a Testament, in lean
type, and smelling dreadfully musty: a fly-leaf bore the
inscription--'Catherine Earnshaw, her book,' and a date some quarter of a
century back.  I shut it, and took up another and another, till I had
examined all.  Catherine's library was select, and its state of
dilapidation proved it to have been well used, though not altogether for
a legitimate purpose: scarcely one chapter had escaped, a pen-and-ink
commentary--at least the appearance of one--covering every morsel of
blank that the printer had left.  Some were detached sentences; other
parts took the form of a regular diary, scrawled in an unformed, childish
hand.  At the top of an extra page (quite a treasure, probably, when
first lighted on) I was greatly amused to behold an excellent caricature
of my friend Joseph,--rudely, yet powerfully sketched.  An immediate
interest kindled within me for the unknown Catherine, and I began
forthwith to decipher her faded hieroglyphics.

'An awful Sunday,' commenced the paragraph beneath.  'I wish my father
were back again.  Hindley is a detestable substitute--his conduct to
Heathcliff is atrocious--H. and I are going to rebel--we took our
initiatory step this evening.

'All day had been flooding with rain; we could not go to church, so
Joseph must needs get up a congregation in the garret; and, while Hindley
and his wife basked downstairs before a comfortable fire--doing anything
but reading their Bibles, I'll answer for it--Heathcliff, myself, and the
unhappy ploughboy were commanded to take our prayer-books, and mount: we
were ranged in a row, on a sack of corn, groaning and shivering, and
hoping that Joseph would shiver too, so that he might give us a short
homily for his own sake.  A vain idea!  The service lasted precisely
three hours; and yet my brother had the face to exclaim, when he saw us
descending, "What, done already?"  On Sunday evenings we used to be
permitted to play, if we did not make much noise; now a mere titter is
sufficient to send us into corners.

'"You forget you have a master here," says the tyrant.  "I'll demolish
the first who puts me out of temper!  I insist on perfect sobriety and
silence.  Oh, boy! was that you?  Frances darling, pull his hair as you
go by: I heard him snap his fingers."  Frances pulled his hair heartily,
and then went and seated herself on her husband's knee, and there they
were, like two babies, kissing and talking nonsense by the hour--foolish
palaver that we should be ashamed of.  We made ourselves as snug as our
means allowed in the arch of the dresser.  I had just fastened our
pinafores together, and hung them up for a curtain, when in comes Joseph,
on an errand from the stables.  He tears down my handiwork, boxes my
ears, and croaks:

'"T' maister nobbut just buried, and Sabbath not o'ered, und t' sound o'
t' gospel still i' yer lugs, and ye darr be laiking!  Shame on ye! sit ye
down, ill childer! there's good books eneugh if ye'll read 'em: sit ye
down, and think o' yer sowls!"

'Saying this, he compelled us so to square our positions that 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 bear the employment.  I took my
dingy volume by the scroop, and hurled it into the dog-kennel, vowing I
hated a good book.  Heathcliff kicked his to the same place.  Then there
was a hubbub!

'"Maister Hindley!" shouted our chaplain.  "Maister, coom hither!  Miss
Cathy's riven th' back off 'Th' Helmet o' Salvation,' un' Heathcliff's
pawsed his fit into t' first part o' 'T' Brooad Way to Destruction!'  It's
fair flaysome that ye let 'em go on this gait.  Ech! th' owd man wad ha'
laced 'em properly--but he's goan!"

'Hindley hurried up from his paradise on the hearth, and seizing one of
us by the collar, and the other by the arm, hurled both into the
back-kitchen; where, Joseph asseverated, "owd Nick" would fetch us as
sure as we were living: and, so comforted, we each sought a separate
nook to await his advent. I reached this 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 with writing for twenty minutes; but my companion is
impatient, and proposes that we should appropriate the dairywoman's
cloak, and have a scamper on the moors, under its shelter. A pleasant
suggestion--and then, if the surly old man come in, he may believe his
prophecy verified--we cannot be damper, or colder, in the rain than we
are here.'

* * * * * *

I suppose Catherine fulfilled her project, for the next sentence took up
another subject: she waxed lachrymose.

'How little did I dream that Hindley would ever make me cry so!' she
wrote.  'My head aches, till I cannot keep it on the pillow; and still I
can't give over.  Poor Heathcliff!  Hindley calls him a vagabond, and
won't let him sit with us, nor eat with us any more; and, he says, he and
I must not play together, and threatens to turn him out of the house if
we break his orders.  He has been blaming our father (how dared he?) for
treating H. too liberally; and swears he will reduce him to his right
place--'

* * * * * *

I began to nod drowsily over the dim page: my eye wandered from
manuscript to print.  I saw a red ornamented title--'Seventy Times Seven,
and the First of the Seventy-First.  A Pious Discourse delivered by the
Reverend Jabez Branderham, in the Chapel of Gimmerden Sough.'  And while
I was, half-consciously, worrying my brain to guess what Jabez Branderham
would make of his subject, I sank back in bed, and fell asleep.  Alas,
for the effects of bad tea and bad temper!  What else could it be that
made me pass such a terrible night?  I don't remember another that I can
at all compare with it since I was capable of suffering.

I began to dream, almost before I ceased to be sensible of my locality.  I
thought it was morning; and I had set out on my way home, with Joseph for
a guide.  The snow lay yards deep in our road; and, as we floundered on,
my companion wearied me with constant reproaches that I had not brought a
pilgrim's staff: telling me that I could never get into the house without
one, and boastfully flourishing a heavy-headed cudgel, which I understood
to be so denominated.  For a moment I considered it absurd that I should
need such a weapon to gain admittance into my own residence.  Then a new
idea flashed across me.  I was not going there: we were journeying to
hear the famous Jabez Branderham preach, from the text--'Seventy Times
Seven;' and either Joseph, the preacher, or I had committed the 'First of
the Seventy-First,' and were to be publicly exposed and excommunicated.

We came to the chapel.  I have passed it really in my walks, twice or
thrice; it lies in a hollow, between two hills: an elevated hollow, near
a swamp, whose peaty moisture is said to answer all the purposes of
embalming on the few corpses deposited there.  The roof has been kept
whole hitherto; but as the clergyman's stipend is only twenty pounds per
annum, and a house with two rooms, threatening speedily to determine into
one, no clergyman will undertake the duties of pastor: especially as it
is currently reported that his flock would rather let him starve than
increase the living by one penny from their own pockets.  However, in my
dream, Jabez had a full and attentive congregation; and he preached--good
God! what a sermon; divided into _four hundred and ninety_ parts, each
fully equal to an ordinary address from the pulpit, and each discussing a
separate sin!  Where he searched for them, I cannot tell.  He had his
private manner of interpreting the phrase, and it seemed necessary the
brother should sin different sins on every occasion.  They were of the
most curious character: odd transgressions that I never imagined
previously.

Oh, how weary I grow.  How I writhed, and yawned, and nodded, and
revived!  How I pinched and pricked myself, and rubbed my eyes, and stood
up, and sat down again, and nudged Joseph to inform me if he would _ever_
have done.  I was condemned to hear all out: finally, he reached the
'_First of the Seventy-First_.'  At that crisis, a sudden inspiration
descended on me; I was moved to rise and denounce Jabez Branderham as the
sinner of the sin that no Christian need pardon.

'Sir,' I exclaimed, 'sitting here within these four walls, at one
stretch, I have endured and forgiven the four hundred and ninety heads of
your discourse.  Seventy times seven times have I plucked up my hat and
been about to depart--Seventy times seven times have you preposterously
forced me to resume my seat.  The four hundred and ninety-first is too
much.  Fellow-martyrs, have at him!  Drag him down, and crush him to
atoms, that the place which knows him may know him no more!'

'_Thou art the Man_!' cried Jabez, after a solemn pause, leaning over his
cushion.  'Seventy times seven times didst thou gapingly contort thy
visage--seventy times seven did I take counsel with my soul--Lo, this is
human weakness: this also may be absolved!  The First of the
Seventy-First is come.  Brethren, execute upon him the judgment written.
Such honour have all His saints!'

With that concluding word, the whole assembly, exalting their pilgrim's
staves, rushed round me in a body; and I, having no weapon to raise in
self-defence, commenced grappling with Joseph, my nearest and most
ferocious assailant, for his.  In the confluence of the multitude,
several clubs crossed; blows, aimed at me, fell on other sconces.
Presently the whole chapel resounded with rappings and counter rappings:
every man's hand was against his neighbour; and Branderham, unwilling to
remain idle, poured forth his zeal in a shower of loud taps on the boards
of the pulpit, which responded so smartly that, at last, to my
unspeakable relief, they woke me.  And what was it that had suggested the
tremendous tumult?  What had played Jabez's part in the row?  Merely the
branch of a fir-tree that touched my lattice as the blast wailed by, and
rattled its dry cones against the panes!  I listened doubtingly an
instant; detected the disturber, then turned and dozed, and dreamt again:
if possible, still more disagreeably than before.

This time, I remembered I was lying in the oak closet, and I heard
distinctly the gusty wind, and the driving of the snow; I heard, also,
the fir bough repeat its teasing sound, and ascribed it to the right
cause: but it annoyed me so much, that I resolved to silence it, if
possible; and, I thought, I rose and endeavoured to unhasp the casement.
The hook was soldered into the staple: a circumstance observed by me when
awake, but forgotten.  'I must stop it, nevertheless!' I muttered,
knocking my knuckles through the glass, and stretching an arm out to
seize the importunate branch; instead of which, my fingers closed on the
fingers of a little, ice-cold hand!  The intense horror of nightmare came
over me: I tried to draw back my arm, but the hand clung to it, and a
most melancholy voice sobbed, 'Let me in--let me in!'  'Who are you?' I
asked, struggling, meanwhile, to disengage myself.  'Catherine Linton,'
it replied, shiveringly (why did I think of _Linton_?  I had read
_Earnshaw_ twenty times for Linton)--'I'm come home: I'd lost my way on
the moor!'  As it spoke, I discerned, obscurely, a child's face looking
through the window.  Terror made me cruel; and, finding it useless to
attempt shaking the creature off, I pulled its wrist on to the broken
pane, and rubbed it to and fro till the blood ran down and soaked the
bedclothes: still it wailed, 'Let me in!' and maintained its tenacious
grip, almost maddening me with fear.  'How can I!' I said at length.
'Let _me_ go, if you want me to let you in!'  The fingers relaxed, I
snatched mine through the hole, hurriedly piled the books up in a pyramid
against it, and stopped my ears to exclude the lamentable prayer.  I
seemed to keep them closed above a quarter of an hour; yet, the instant I
listened again, there was the doleful cry moaning on!  'Begone!' I
shouted.  'I'll never let you in, not if you beg for twenty years.'  'It
is twenty years,' mourned the voice: 'twenty years.  I've been a waif for
twenty years!'  Thereat began a feeble scratching outside, and the pile
of books moved as if thrust forward.  I tried to jump up; but could not
stir a limb; and so yelled aloud, in a frenzy of fright.  To my
confusion, I discovered the yell was not ideal: hasty footsteps
approached my chamber door; somebody pushed it open, with a vigorous
hand, and a light glimmered through the squares at the top of the bed.  I
sat shuddering yet, and wiping the perspiration from my forehead: the
intruder appeared to hesitate, and muttered to himself.  At last, he
said, in a half-whisper, plainly not expecting an answer, 'Is any one
here?'  I considered it best to confess my presence; for I knew
Heathcliff's accents, and feared he might search further, if I kept
quiet.  With this intention, I turned and opened the panels.  I shall not
soon forget the effect my action produced.

Heathcliff stood near the entrance, in his shirt and trousers; with a
candle dripping over his fingers, and his face as white as the wall
behind him.  The first creak of the oak startled him like an electric
shock: the light leaped from his hold to a distance of some feet, and his
agitation was so extreme, that he could hardly pick it up.

'It is only your guest, sir,' I called out, desirous to spare him the
humiliation of exposing his cowardice further.  'I had the misfortune to
scream in my sleep, owing to a frightful nightmare.  I'm sorry I
disturbed you.'

'Oh, God confound you, Mr. Lockwood!  I wish you were at the--' commenced
my host, setting the candle on a chair, because he found it impossible to
hold it steady.  'And who showed you up into this room?' he continued,
crushing his nails into his palms, and grinding his teeth to subdue the
maxillary convulsions.  'Who was it?  I've a good mind to turn them out
of the house this moment?'

'It was your servant Zillah,' I replied, flinging myself on to the floor,
and rapidly resuming my garments.  'I should not care if you did, Mr.
Heathcliff; she richly deserves it.  I suppose that she wanted to get
another proof that the place was haunted, at my expense.  Well, it
is--swarming with ghosts and goblins!  You have reason in shutting it up,
I assure you.  No one will thank you for a doze in such a den!'

'What do you mean?' asked Heathcliff, 'and what are you doing?  Lie down
and finish out the night, since you _are_ here; but, for heaven's sake!
don't repeat that horrid noise: nothing could excuse it, unless you were
having your throat cut!'

'If the little fiend had got in at the window, she probably would have
strangled me!' I returned.  'I'm not going to endure the persecutions of
your hospitable ancestors again.  Was not the Reverend Jabez Branderham
akin to you on the mother's side?  And that minx, Catherine Linton, or
Earnshaw, or however she was called--she must have been a
changeling--wicked little soul!  She told me she had been walking the
earth these twenty years: a just punishment for her mortal
transgressions, I've no doubt!'

Scarcely were these words uttered when I recollected the association of
Heathcliff's with Catherine's name in the book, which had completely
slipped from my memory, till thus awakened.  I blushed at my
inconsideration: but, without showing further consciousness of the
offence, I hastened to add--'The truth is, sir, I passed the first part
of the night in--'  Here I stopped afresh--I was about to say 'perusing
those old volumes,' then it would have revealed my knowledge of their
written, as well as their printed, contents; so, correcting myself, I
went on--'in spelling over the name scratched on that window-ledge.  A
monotonous occupation, calculated to set me asleep, like counting, or--'

'What _can_ you mean by talking in this way to _me_!' thundered
Heathcliff with savage vehemence.  'How--how _dare_ you, under my
roof?--God! he's mad to speak so!'  And he struck his forehead with rage.

I did not know whether to resent this language or pursue my explanation;
but he seemed so powerfully affected that I took pity and proceeded with
my dreams; affirming I had never heard the appellation of 'Catherine
Linton' before, but reading it often over produced an impression which
personified itself when I had no longer my imagination under control.
Heathcliff gradually fell back into the shelter of the bed, as I spoke;
finally sitting down almost concealed behind it.  I guessed, however, by
his irregular and intercepted breathing, that he struggled to vanquish an
excess of violent emotion.  Not liking to show him that I had heard the
conflict, I continued my toilette rather noisily, looked at my watch, and
soliloquised on the length of the night: 'Not three o'clock yet!  I could
have taken oath it had been six.  Time stagnates here: we must surely
have retired to rest at eight!'

'Always at nine in winter, and rise at four,' said my host, suppressing a
groan: and, as I fancied, by the motion of his arm's shadow, dashing a
tear from his eyes.  'Mr. Lockwood,' he added, 'you may go into my room:
you'll only be in the way, coming down-stairs so early: and your childish
outcry has sent sleep to the devil for me.'

'And for me, too,' I replied.  'I'll walk in the yard till daylight, and
then I'll be off; and you need not dread a repetition of my intrusion.
I'm now quite cured of seeking pleasure in society, be it country or
town.  A sensible man ought to find sufficient company in himself.'

'Delightful company!' muttered Heathcliff.  'Take the candle, and go
where you please.  I shall join you directly.  Keep out of the yard,
though, the dogs are unchained; and the house--Juno mounts sentinel
there, and--nay, you can only ramble about the steps and passages.  But,
away with you!  I'll come in two minutes!'

I obeyed, so far as to quit the chamber; when, ignorant where the narrow
lobbies led, I stood still, and was witness, involuntarily, to a piece of
superstition on the part of my landlord which belied, oddly, his apparent
sense.  He got on to the bed, and wrenched open the lattice, bursting, as
he pulled at it, into an uncontrollable passion of tears.  'Come in! come
in!' he sobbed.  'Cathy, do come.  Oh, do--_once_ more!  Oh! my heart's
darling! hear me _this_ time, Catherine, at last!'  The spectre showed a
spectre's ordinary caprice: it gave no sign of being; but the snow and
wind whirled wildly through, even reaching my station, and blowing out
the light.

There was such anguish in the gush of grief that accompanied this raving,
that my compassion made me overlook its folly, and I drew off, half angry
to have listened at all, and vexed at having related my ridiculous
nightmare, since it produced that agony; though _why_ was beyond my
comprehension.  I descended cautiously to the lower regions, and landed
in the back-kitchen, where a gleam of fire, raked compactly together,
enabled me to rekindle my candle.  Nothing was stirring except a
brindled, grey cat, which crept from the ashes, and saluted me with a
querulous mew.

Two benches, shaped in sections of a circle, nearly enclosed the hearth;
on one of these I stretched myself, and Grimalkin mounted the other.  We
were both of us nodding ere any one invaded our retreat, and then it was
Joseph, shuffling down a wooden ladder that vanished in the roof, through
a trap: the ascent to his garret, I suppose.  He cast a sinister look at
the little flame which I had enticed to play between the ribs, swept the
cat from its elevation, and bestowing himself in the vacancy, commenced
the operation of stuffing a three-inch pipe with tobacco.  My presence in
his sanctum was evidently esteemed a piece of impudence too shameful for
remark: he silently applied the tube to his lips, folded his arms, and
puffed away.  I let him enjoy the luxury unannoyed; and after sucking out
his last wreath, and heaving a profound sigh, he got up, and departed as
solemnly as he came.

A more elastic footstep entered next; and now I opened my mouth for a
'good-morning,' but closed it again, the salutation unachieved; for
Hareton Earnshaw was performing his orison _sotto voce_, in a series of
curses directed against every object he touched, while he rummaged a
corner for a spade or shovel to dig through the drifts.  He glanced over
the back of the bench, dilating his nostrils, and thought as little of
exchanging civilities with me as with my companion the cat.  I guessed,
by his preparations, that egress was allowed, and, leaving my hard couch,
made a movement to follow him.  He noticed this, and thrust at an inner
door with the end of his spade, intimating by an inarticulate sound that
there was the place where I must go, if I changed my locality.

It opened into the house, where the females were already astir; Zillah
urging flakes of flame up the chimney with a colossal bellows; and Mrs.
Heathcliff, kneeling on the hearth, reading a book by the aid of the
blaze.  She held her hand interposed between the furnace-heat and her
eyes, and seemed absorbed in her occupation; desisting from it only to
chide the servant for covering her with sparks, or to push away a dog,
now and then, that snoozled its nose overforwardly into her face.  I was
surprised to see Heathcliff there also.  He stood by the fire, his back
towards me, just finishing a stormy scene with poor Zillah; who ever and
anon interrupted her labour to pluck up the corner of her apron, and
heave an indignant groan.

'And you, you worthless--' he broke out as I entered, turning to his
daughter-in-law, and employing an epithet as harmless as duck, or sheep,
but generally represented by a dash--.  'There you are, at your idle
tricks again!  The rest of them do earn their bread--you live on my
charity!  Put your trash away, and find something to do.  You shall pay
me for the plague of having you eternally in my sight--do you hear,
damnable jade?'

'I'll put my trash away, because you can make me if I refuse,' answered
the young lady, closing her book, and throwing it on a chair.  'But I'll
not do anything, though you should swear your tongue out, except what I
please!'

Heathcliff lifted his hand, and the speaker sprang to a safer distance,
obviously acquainted with its weight.  Having no desire to be entertained
by a cat-and-dog combat, I stepped forward briskly, as if eager to
partake the warmth of the hearth, and innocent of any knowledge of the
interrupted dispute.  Each had enough decorum to suspend further
hostilities: Heathcliff placed his fists, out of temptation, in his
pockets; Mrs. Heathcliff curled her lip, and walked to a seat far off,
where she kept her word by playing the part of a statue during the
remainder of my stay.  That was not long.  I declined joining their
breakfast, and, at the first gleam of dawn, took an opportunity of
escaping into the free air, now clear, and still, and cold as impalpable
ice.

My landlord halloed for me to stop ere I reached the bottom of the
garden, and offered to accompany me across the moor.  It was well he did,
for the whole hill-back was one billowy, white ocean; the swells and
falls not indicating corresponding rises and depressions in the ground:
many pits, at least, were filled to a level; and entire ranges of mounds,
the refuse of the quarries, blotted from the chart which my yesterday's
walk left pictured in my mind.  I had remarked on one side of the road,
at intervals of six or seven yards, a line of upright stones, continued
through the whole length of the barren: these were erected and daubed
with lime on purpose to serve as guides in the dark, and also when a
fall, like the present, confounded the deep swamps on either hand with
the firmer path: but, excepting a dirty dot pointing up here and there,
all traces of their existence had vanished: and my companion found it
necessary to warn me frequently to steer to the right or left, when I
imagined I was following, correctly, the windings of the road.

We exchanged little conversation, and he halted at the entrance of
Thrushcross Park, saying, I could make no error there.  Our adieux were
limited to a hasty bow, and then I pushed forward, trusting to my own
resources; for the porter's lodge is untenanted as yet.  The distance
from the gate to the grange is two miles; I believe I managed to make it
four, what with losing myself among the trees, and sinking up to the neck
in snow: a predicament which only those who have experienced it can
appreciate.  At any rate, whatever were my wanderings, the clock chimed
twelve as I entered the house; and that gave exactly an hour for every
mile of the usual way from Wuthering Heights.

My human fixture and her satellites rushed to welcome me; exclaiming,
tumultuously, they had completely given me up: everybody conjectured that
I perished last night; and they were wondering how they must set about
the search for my remains.  I bid them be quiet, now that they saw me
returned, and, benumbed to my very heart, I dragged up-stairs; whence,
after putting on dry clothes, and pacing to and fro thirty or forty
minutes, to restore the animal heat, I adjourned to my study, feeble as a
kitten: almost too much so to enjoy the cheerful fire and smoking coffee
which the servant had prepared for my refreshment.

 Zillah quietly shows Lockwood to a chamber which, she says, Heathcliff does not like to be occupied. She doesn't know why, having only lived there for a few years. Left alone, Lockwood notices the names "Catherine Earnshaw," "Catherine Linton," and "Catherine Heathcliff" scrawled over the window ledge. He leafs through some old books stacked there, and finds that the margins are covered in handwriting--evidently the child Catherine's diary. He reads some entries which evoke a time in which Catherine and Heathcliff were playmates living together as brother and sister, and bullied by Joseph and her older brother Hindley. Apparently Heathcliff was a 'vagabond' taken in by Catherine's father, raised as one of the family, but when the father died Hindley made him a servant and threatened to throw him out, to Catherine's sorrow. Lockwood then falls asleep over a religious book, and has a nightmare about a fanatical preacher leading a violent mob. Lockwood wakes up, hears that a sound in his dream had really been a branch rubbing against the window, and falls asleep again. This time he dreams that he wanted to open the window to get rid of the branch, but when he did, a "little, ice-cold hand" grabbed his arm, and a voice sobbed "let me in. He asked who it was, and was answered: "Catherine Linton. I'm come home, I'd lost my way on the moor. He saw a child's face and, afraid, drew the child's wrist back and forth on the broken glass of the window so that blood soaked the sheets. Finally he gets free, and insists that he won't let the creature in, even if it has been lost for twenty years, as it claims. He wakes up screaming. Heathcliff comes in, evidently disturbed and confused, unaware that Lockwood is there. Lockwood tells him what happened, mentioning the dream and Catherine Linton's name, which distresses and angers Heathcliff. Lockwood goes to the kitchen, but on his way he hears Heathcliff at the window, despairingly begging 'Cathy' to come in "at last". Lockwood is embarrassed by his host's obvious agony. Morning comes: Lockwood witnesses an argument between Heathcliff and the girl, who has been reading. Heathcliff bullies her, and she resists spiritedly. Heathcliff walks Lockwood most of the way home in the snow

