Mr. Lockwood, a new tenant at Thrushcross Grange, uncovers the turbulent history of his neighbors, the Earnshaws and Lintons, through the housekeeper Nelly Dean. Her tale recounts the orphan Heathcliff’s degradation and his fierce bond with Catherine Earnshaw, a connection severed by her marriage to Edgar Linton. Heathcliff returns years later to exact a brutal revenge on the families, corrupting the next generation and claiming the estates. Only after his death does the cycle of violence break, allowing the young Catherine and Hareton to heal the wounds of the past.
I earnestly asked her to point out landmarks, but she ensconced herself with a book, advising me to take the road I came. She refused to persuade Heathcliff to provide a guide. Heathcliff appeared, declaring he kept no accommodations for visitors; I must share a bed with Hareton or Joseph. When I offered to sleep on a chair, he refused, insisting a stranger must not have the range of the place while he was off guard.
My patience exhausted, I pushed past him into the dark yard. I heard Hareton offer to guide me, but Heathcliff forbade it. I seized Joseph’s lantern and rushed to the postern. Joseph shouted that I was stealing it and set the dogs on me. Upon opening the door, two massive beasts sprang at my throat, knocking me down and extinguishing the light while Heathcliff and Hareton laughed. The dogs held me pinned until Zillah, the housekeeper, came out. She dragged me into the kitchen and dashed a pint of icy water down my neck to revive me. Dizzy and bleeding, I was forced to accept lodging under Heathcliff’s roof for the night.
Forced to stay the night, Lockwood is shown to a mysterious chamber where he reads Catherine’s diary and experiences a terrifying nightmare involving a ghostly child. His screams rouse Heathcliff, who is devastated by the mention of Catherine Linton’s name, and the next morning Lockwood finally returns to the Grange, exhausted and frozen.
Zillah led me upstairs with a caution to hide my candle and stay silent, explaining that her master harbored a strange aversion to the specific chamber she was assigning me. Too weary to question her, I secured the door and surveyed the room. It was sparsely furnished, containing only a chair, a press, and a massive oak structure with apertures cut near the top. Upon inspection, I realized this was a unique sleeping arrangement, a built-in bed enclosed by paneling that formed a private closet. I slid the panels shut with my candle inside, feeling safely hidden from Heathcliff’s scrutiny.
The window ledge held a stack of mildewed books, and the painted wood was scarred with writing. I saw only one name repeated endlessly in various scripts: Catherine Earnshaw, occasionally altered to Catherine Heathcliff, and finally to Catherine Linton. I leaned against the glass, tracing the names until my eyes grew heavy. Sleep overtook me, but I soon woke with a start to find the candle wick had charring one of the volumes. After extinguishing the flame, I opened the book to distract myself from my nausea. It was a Testament belonging to Catherine Earnshaw, dated twenty-five years prior. The margins were filled with childish handwriting, a diary detailing a miserable childhood.
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