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II . The Face at the Window Zillah led me up the stairs with a candle . She told me to hide the light and make no noise , because her master did not like anyone to sleep in that room . When I asked why , she said that she did not know . She had only lived there for a year or two . There were so many strange things in the house that she had stopped asking questions . The room was small and almost empty . In one corner stood a large wooden bed with sliding panels , like a little room inside the room . I climbed in , pulled the panels shut and put my candle on the wide window ledge , feeling safe at last from Heathcliff and his dogs . On the ledge there were a few old books , and the paint of the wall was covered with writing . It was only a name , scratched again and again in large and small letters : Catherine Earnshaw , then Catherine Heathcliff , then Catherine Linton . When I closed my eyes , the three names seemed to float in the dark before me , until the smell of burnt leather made me open them again . The candle had fallen against one of the books . I picked up the book . It was a Bible , and on the first page someone had written “ Catherine Earnshaw , her book ” , with a date about twenty - five years old . Every empty space in the margins was covered with a child’s untidy writing . It was a kind of diary . One page described a wet Sunday when the children of the house had been made to sit for three hours while old Joseph read to them about their sins . Catherine had written that her brother Hindley was cruel to “ poor Heathcliff ” . Hindley had said that Heathcliff must not play with her , or eat with the family , and that he must work outside with the servants . At the end of the page she wrote that she and Heathcliff were going to run out on the moors together in the rain . I fell asleep at last over the old pages , and I had two terrible dreams . In the second one I heard a branch knocking against the window , on and on , and in my dream I got up to stop it . The glass would not open , so I broke it with my fist and put my arm out to catch the branch . But my fingers closed on a small , ice - cold hand . A voice cried sadly , “ Let me in , let me in ! ” “ Who are you ? ” I asked , trying to pull my hand away . “ Catherine Linton , ” the voice answered . “ I have come home . I lost my way on the moor . ” I saw a child’s face looking in through the window , and terror made me cruel . I pulled the thin wrist against the broken glass until the blood ran down onto the sheets . Still the cold hand would not let me go .
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