Wuthering Heights / Грозовой перевал. Уровень 3

But they did not like the way we behaved, so soon we both were thrown into the back kitchen, where we awaited our punishment.

My companion suggested using the dairywoman's cloak, and have a scamper on the moors, under its shelter. A pleasant suggestion – 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.

'Poor Heathcliff!' she wrote. 'Hindley calls him a vagabond, and won't let him sit with us, nor eat with us any more.

He says, he and I must not play together, and threatens to turn him out of the house if we break his orders. He is blaming our father (how dares 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, so I sank in bed, and fell asleep. I began to dream, 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 somehow we got to the church, then to the forest.

I touched a three-branch – and cold little fingers clutched my 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?'

'Catherine Linton. I've come home: I lost my way on the moor!'

As it spoke, I saw a child's face looking through the window.

'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 have been a waif for twenty years!'

A feeble scratching outside – and the pile of books moved. I tried to jump up; but could not stir; and so cried aloud, out of fright. Suddenly, hasty footsteps approached my door; somebody pushed it open, and a light glimmered through: the intruder appeared to hesitate, and muttered to himself. At last, he said, in a half-whisper, plainly not expecting an answer,

'Is anyone here?'

I considered it best to confess my presence.

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. His agitation was so extreme, that he could hardly pick it up.

'It is only your guest, sir,' I called out.