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 downstairs 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.