The ledge, where I placed my candle, had a few mildewed books piled
up in one corner; and it was covered with 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 there varied to CATHERINE HEATHCLIFF, and then again to
CATHERINE LINTON.
In vapid listlessness I leant my head against the window, and
continued spelling over Catherine Earnshaw - Heathcliff - Linton,
till my eyes closed; but they had not rested five minutes when a
glare of white letters started from the dark, as vivid as spectres
- the air swarmed with Catherines; and rousing myself to dispel the
obtrusive name, I discovered my candle-wick reclining on one of the
antique volumes, and perfuming the place with an odour of roasted
calf-skin. I snuffed it off, and, very ill at ease under the
influence of cold and lingering nausea, sat up and spread open the
injured tome on my knee. It was a Testament, in lean type, and
smelling dreadfully musty: a fly-leaf bore the inscription -
'Catherine Earnshaw, her book,' 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
dilapidation proved it to have been well used, though not
altogether for a legitimate purpose: scarcely one chapter had
escaped, a pen-and-ink commentary - at least the appearance of one
- covering every morsel of blank that the printer had left. Some
were detached sentences; other parts took the form of a regular
diary, scrawled in an unformed, childish hand. At the top of an
extra page (quite a treasure, probably, when first lighted on) I
was greatly amused to behold 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.
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