The presents were opened; twilight had fallen, and darkness was veiling the green hills and scraggy moors. The hour of the box-bed drew near; I had resolved to climb inside as soon as night fell. Though too afraid to sleep in it, I would certainly spend my evening inside it. Standing before the bed I shut my eyes and ‘slid back the paneled sides, got in with my light, pulled them together again’. They creaked terribly as I drew them back; the smell inside was a pleasant one of fresh pinewood – I pretended it was musty, and in my mind’s eye hung cobwebs in the corners. Shaking with fear and yet half laughing, a smile of nervous excitement frozen upon my lips, I leaned across the bed to examine the dreaded window. It was not exactly as described in the book; indeed, in Wuthering Heights the window bore more resemblance to the one outside the bed, already described, for in the book it opened, and was large enough so that ‘the ledge of a window, which it enclosed, served as a table.’. The local legend said however that this was the window, and for good reason, for it looked in many ways spookier than the other. It was very small and square, and cut strait out of the stone, and it did not open. It was placed back substantially from the wall, embedded deep in the wall, with a small slanting window ledge. But alas, carved upon it were no “Catherine”s. Outside the cold dark night pressed against the pane, and far off lights glimmered through the darkness. Condensation beaded the window, and a couple of drops were trickling down onto the window ledge. The stone below was rough, and when the drops reached the bottom they stuck between the bumps in the stone like little jewels. On the window ledge stood a huge old bible, half crumbled apart. Eagerly I turned over the huge leaves, half hoping – or should I say dreading – to find something written in the margins, though I knew it to be impossible. Disappointed in my search, I pulled the book off the ledge (carefully of course) and placed on the windowsill my wonderful writing desk already described in the last part. I folded it out, and taking out some paper and my pens and ink, I began to write.
Many times I was interrupted in my writing by the sight of a strange shadow reaching toward the window; twice on seeing it I nearly screamed, and had to hurry across the bed and, panting, throw open the door and look into the bright, reassuring room, wherein the adults were chatting. I tried to use the new blotter, but ended up splotching ink over all the paper. But if after I had finished it looked more like a mess of ink, I had certainly had fun writing it.
Box bed photos