Wuthering Heights

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 bed-clothes: still it wailed, »Let me in!« and maintained its tenacious gripe, 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's 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 to 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 dose 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 Jabes 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