第三章

Chapter 3

While leading the way upstairs, she recommended thatI should hide the candle, and not make a noise; for hermaster had an odd notion about the chamber she wouldput me in, and never let anybody lodge there willingly. Iasked the reason. She did not know, she answered: shehad only lived there a year or two; and they had so manyqueer goings on, she could not begin to be curious.

Too stupefied to be curious myself, I fastened my doorand glanced round for the bed. The whole furnitureconsisted of a chair, a clothes-press, and a large oak case, with squares cut out near the top resembling coachwindows. Having approached this structure I looked inside, and perceived it to be a singular sort of old-fashionedcouch, very conveniently designed to obviate the necessityfor 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 thepanelled sides, got in with my light, pulled them togetheragain, and felt secure against the vigilance of Heathcliff, and everyone else.

The ledge, where I placed my candle, had a fewmildewed books piled up in one corner; and it was coveredwith 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 therevaried to Catherine Heathcliff, and again to CatherineLinton.

In vapid listlessness I leant my head against thewindow, and continued spelling over Catherine Earnshaw--Heathcliff--Linton, till my eyes closed; but they had notrested five minutes when a glare of white letters startedfrom the dark as vivid as spectres--the air swarmed withCatherines; and rousing myself to dispel the obtrusivename, I discovered my candle wick reclining on one of theantique volumes, and perfuming the place with an odourof roasted calfskin. I snuffed it off, and, very ill at easeunder the influence of cold and lingering nausea, sat upand spread open the injured tome on my knee. It was aTestament, in lean type, and smelling dreadfully musty: afly-leaf bore the inscription --`Catherine Earnshaw, herbook', 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 dilapidationproved it to have been well used; though not altogetherfor a legitimate purpose: scarcely one chapter had escapeda pen-and-ink commentary--at least, the appearance ofone--covering every morsel of blank that the printer hadleft. Some were detached sentences; other parts took theform of a regular diary, scrawled in an unformed childishhand. At the top of an extra page (quite a treasure, probably, when first lighted on) I was greatly amused tobehold 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 paragraphbeneath. I wish my father were back again. Hindley is adetestable substitute his conduct to Heathcliff is atrocious--H. and I are going to rebel--we took our initiatory stepthis evening.

`All day had been flooding with rain; we could not goto church, so Joseph must needs get up a congregation inthe garret; and, while Hindley and his wife baskeddownstairs before a comfortable fire--doing anything butreading their Bibles, I'll answer for it--Heathcliff, myself, and the unhappy plough-boy, were commanded to takeour prayer books, and mount: we were ranged in a row, ona sack of corn, groaning and shivering, and hoping thatJoseph would shiver too, so that he might give us a shorthomily for his own sake. A vain idea! The service lastedprecisely three hours; and yet my brother had the face toexclaim, when he saw us descending, What, donealready? " On Sunday evenings we used to be permitted toplay, if we did not make much noise; now a mere titter issufficient to send us into comers!

`" 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 himsnap his fingers." Frances pulled his hair heartily, and thenwent and seated herself on her husband's knee; and therethey were, like two babies, kissing and talking nonsense bythe hour--foolish palaver that we should be ashamed of. We made ourselves as snug as our means allowed in thearch of the dresser. I had just fastened our pinaforestogether, and hung them up for a curtain, when in comesJoseph on an errand from the stables. He tears down myhandiwork, boxes my ears, and croaks--

`" T' maister nobbut just buried, and Sabbath nuto'ered, und t' sahnd uh t' gospel still i' yer lugs, and yahdarr be laiking! Shame on ye! sit ye dahn, ill childer! they'sgood books eneugh if ye'll read 'em! sit ye dahn, and thinkuh yer sowls! "

`Saying this, he compelled us so to square ourpositions that we might receive from the far-off fire a dullray to show us the text of the lumber thrust upon us. Icould not bear the employment. I took my dingy volumeby the scroop, and hurled it into the dog kennel, vowing Ihated a good book. Heathcliff kicked his to the sameplace. Then there was a hubbub!