Грозовой перевал / Wuthering Heights

В«Ah, now I see,В» I said, turning to the lad who was busy slurping his tea, В«so you, sir, are the fortunate husband of this good fairy.В»

But this was worse than before. The young man turned crimson and clenched his fist, as though he wanted to punch me in the face.

«Wrong again, sir,» said Heathcliff. «We neither of us have the privilege of owning this �good fairy’ as you call her. Her husband is dead. I said she was my daughter-in-law, so she must have married my son.»

«And this young man is —»

В«Certainly not my son!В»

«My name is Hareton Earnshaw,» he growled angrily, «and you’d better make sure you respect it.

В»

After that, no one said another word and we finished our meal in dismal silence.

The moment supper was over, I went straight to the window to check the weather. While we had been eating, the storm had grown much worse and now the sky was almost black. Thick snowflakes were whirling outside the window and I couldn’t even see as far as the gate.

There was no way I could find my way back to the Grange that night. I would have to spend the night at Wuthering Heights.

No one in that wretched house tried to make me welcome or even offered to find me a place to sleep, but eventually the housemaid, Zillah, took pity on me. She found me a candle and some blankets and led me upstairs, showing me into a small, cold room that was almost completely empty of furniture.

I was just about to thank her, when she whispered to me, В«Make as little noise as possible, sir.

The master doesn’t like anyone staying in this room.»

Too tired to be curious about this warning, I slumped down on a window-seat and stared out at the snow. The ledge where I had placed my candle had a few tattered books piled up in one corner and seemed to be covered with writing scratched into the paint. At first, I took no notice of the scratches, but then I realized that they spelled out a name, repeated many times in all kinds of letters, large and small – Catherine Earnshaw, again and again, and then Catherine Linton, and sometimes Catherine Heathcliff.

I puzzled over the names until my eyes began to close, but five minutes later I was jolted awake by the smell of burning leather – one of the books had fallen on top of the candle flame.

Drowsily, I opened the book and saw a name written in the front – Catherine Earnshaw, and underneath a date from over twenty years before.