lancholy 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
bedclothes: 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
is 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, desir