Wuthering Heights — Chapter 31 | Full Audiobook - Chapter by Chapter

Chapter 31 Yesterday was bright, calm and frosty as planned. I went to the Heights. My housekeeper asked me to deliver a note to her young lady and I agreed as she seemed unaware of any impropriety in her request. The front door was open but the gate was locked just as it was during my last visit. I knocked and called for urn she from the garden. He Unchained the gate and I went in. He's as striking A rustic as you could find. I paid special attention to him this time, though he seems to do his utmost to downplay his good looks.

I inquired if Mr. Heathcliff was at home. He replied no, but he'd be back by dinner. It was 11:00, and I declared my intention to wait for him inside. At this, he promptly set down his tools and joined me, acting as a watchdog rather than a host. We entered together. Catherine was there, busy preparing vegetables for the upcoming meal. She seemed more sullen and less lively than when I first met her. She barely glanced up to acknowledge me, continuing her work with the same indifference to social niceties as before, not even returning my bow and greeting with the slightest nod.

She doesn't seem as amiable, I thought, as Missus Dean would have me believe. She's beautiful, sure, but not angelic. Earnshaw gruffly told her to move her things to the kitchen. Move them yourself, She retorted, pushing them away as soon as she finished, then retreating to a stool by the window. There she began carving figures of birds and beasts from the turnip peelings in her lap. I approached her, pretending to admire the garden, and as I thought, cleverly dropped Missus Dean's note onto her knee, unnoticed by Hareton.

But she asked aloud, What's that? And flicked it away. A letter from your old acquaintance, the housekeeper at the Grange, I replied, irritated by her exposing my kind gesture and worried it might be mistaken for a personal note. She would have eagerly gathered it up upon hearing this, but Hareton was quicker. He grabbed it and tucked it into his waistcoat, insisting that Mister Heathcliff should see it first. At this, Catherine turned her face away from us in silence, discreetly pulling out her handkerchief to dab at her eyes.

Her cousin, after wrestling with his own softer emotions, finally yanked the letter out and tossed it onto the floor beside her. As ungraciously as possible, Catherine snatched it up and read it eagerly. Then she asked me a few questions about the people, both sensible and otherwise, from her old home. Gazing towards the hills, she murmured to herself, I wish I were riding Minnie down there. I wish I were climbing up there. Oh, I'm tired, I'm worn out, Hareton. She rested her lovely head against the window sill, half yawning, half sighing, and slipped into a state of distant melancholy, indifferent to whether we noticed her or not.

Missus Heathcliff, I said, after a long silence. Are you aware that I am an acquaintance of yours? So familiar, in fact, that I find it odd you won't come and speak to me. My housekeeper never tires of talking about you and singing your praises. She'll be very disappointed if I return with no word from you except that you received her letter and said nothing. She seemed puzzled by my words and asked, Does Ellen like you? Yes, all right, I replied hesitantly. You must tell her, she continued, that I'd respond to her letter.

But I have nothing to write with, not even a book to tear a page from. No books? I exclaimed. How do you manage to live here without them, if I may ask? Even with a large library at the Grange, I often find myself quite bored. Take my books away and I'd be utterly lost. I was always reading when I had them, Catherine said. Mr. Heathcliff never reads, so he decided to destroy my books. I haven't seen one in weeks. Once I rummaged through Joseph's collection of theology, much to annoyance, and once, Hareton, I stumbled upon a hidden stash in your room, some Latin and Greek, along with tales and poetry, all old friends.

I brought the last here, and you gathered them like a magpie hoarding shiny spoons, just for the thrill of taking them. They're useless to you. Or perhaps you hid them out of spite, thinking that if you can't enjoy them, no one else should. And maybe your envy persuaded Mr. Heathcliff to strip me of the my treasures. But most of them are etched in my mind and engraved on my heart, and you can't take those away from me. Earnshaw flushed a deep red when his cousin exposed his private collection of literary efforts, stammering out an indignant denial of her accusations.

Mr. Hatton is eager to expand his knowledge. I interjected, coming to his defense. He's not envious, but rather inspired by your achievements. In a few years he'll be quite the scholar, and in the meantime he wants me to become a fool. Catherine retorted. I hear him trying to spell and read to himself, and the mistakes he makes are quite amusing. I wish you'd repeat Chevy Chase like you did yesterday. It was hilarious. I heard you and I heard you flipping through the dictionary to find the difficult words, then cursing because you couldn't understand their meanings.

The young man clearly felt it was unfair to be mocked for his ignorance and then ridiculed for trying to overcome it. I shake his sentiment and recalling Missus Dean's story of his first attempts to shed the darkness of his upbringing, I remarked. But Missus Heathcliff, we all have our beginnings stumbling and faltering at the start. If our teachers had mocked us instead of helping, we'd still be stumbling and faltering. Oh, she replied. I don't want to limit his learning. Still, he has no right to take what's mine and make it absurd with his awful mistakes and mispronunciations.

Those books, both prose and poetry, hold a special place in my heart because of their associations, and I can't stand to hear them sullied by his voice. Worse still, he picks my favorite pieces, the ones I cherish most, as if to spite me deliberately, Hareton's chest rose and fell in silent turmoil, grappling with deep humiliation and anger that he struggled to contain. I stood up, hoping to ease his discomfort with a gentlemanly gesture and position myself in the doorway, gazing out at the view.

He followed suit, leaving the room, but soon returned with a stack of books in his arms. He tossed them into Catherine's lap, declaring, Take them. I never want to hear, read, or think about them again. I don't want them now, she retorted. I'll associate them with you and despise them. She opened one book, its pages clearly well thumbed, and read a passage in the slow, awkward manner of a novice, then laughed and tossed it aside. And listen. She continued tauntingly, the beginning a verse of an old ballad in the same mocking tone.

But his pride could take no more. I heard and didn't entirely disapprove of a swift rebuke to her insolent tongue. The little tormentor had done her best to wound her cousin's sensitive, though unrefined feelings, and a physical retort was the only way he knew to settle the score and counteract her impact. He then gathered the books and threw them into the fire. I could see in his face the torment it caused him to make the sacrifice out of spite. I imagined that as the flames consumed, he was remembering the joy those things had already given him and the triumph and growing pleasure he had expected from them.

I also thought I understood what drove him to his secret studies. He had been satisfied with his daily work and simple, earthy pleasures until Catherine came into his life. Her disdain and his desire for her approval first pushed him toward greater ambitions, but instead of shielding him from 1 and roshing him toward the other, his efforts to elevate himself had backfired entirely. Yes, that's all the benefit a brute like you can get from them. Catherine exclaimed, tending to her injured lip and watching the fire with angry eyes.

You'd better keep quiet now, he retorted fiercely. His agitation stopped him from saying more. He moved quickly to the door and I stepped aside to let him pass. But before he could cross the threshold, Mr. Heathcliff approached along the path, caught him by the shoulder and asked. What's going on now, my boy? Nothing, nothing, He replied, breaking away to nurse his grief and anger alone. Heathcliff watched him go and sighed. It would be strange if I were to sabotage myself, he muttered, unaware that I stood behind him.

But when I search his face for traces of his father, I find more of her every day. How on earth does he resemble her so much? It's almost unbearable to look at him. He lowered his gaze to the ground and walked inside with a brooding air. There was a restless, anxious look on his face that I hadn't noticed before, and he seemed thinner. His daughter-in-law, spotting him through the window, quickly retreated to the kitchen, leaving me alone. I'm glad to see you outside again, Mr. Lockwood, he said in response to my greeting.

Partly for selfish reasons, I doubt I could easily replace your company in this desolate place. I've often wondered what brought you here. An idle whim, I suppose, Sir, I replied. Or perhaps it's an idle whim that's about to take me away. I'm heading to London next week and I must inform you that I have no intention of staying at Thrushcross Grange beyond the 12 months I agreed to rent it. I don't think I'll live there anymore. Oh really? You've grown weary of being exiled from the world, have you?

He remarked. But if you're here to try and avoid paying for a place you won't occupy, your trip is in vain. I never waver in collecting what's owed to me. I'm not here to plead for anything of the sort. I retorted, feeling quite irritated. If you'd like, we can settle up now, I offered, pulling out my notebook. No need. He replied coolly. You'll leave enough behind to cover your debts if you don't come back. I'm not in a rush. Sit down and have dinner with us. A guest who won't be returning is usually welcome.

Catherine, bring in the things. Where are you? Catherine returned, carrying a tray of cutlery. You can have your dinner with Joseph. Heathcliff muttered to her. And stay in the kitchen until he's gone. She followed his instructions precisely, perhaps because she felt no urge to do otherwise, living among such rough and misanthropic company. She likely couldn't recognize better company when she encountered it. With Mr. Heathcliff grim and brooding on one side and Hareton utterly silent on the other.

My meal was rather bleak, and I took my leave early. I had hoped to slip out the back to catch a last glimpse of Catherine and irritate old Joseph, but Hareton was told to bring my horse around and my host personally saw me to the door, thwarting my plan. How dreary life becomes in that house. I'm used riding down the road. Imagine the enchantment of a reality more romantic than any fairy tale for Missus Linton Heathcliffy. Had she and I formed a bond as her well meaning nurse had hoped, and ventured together into the vibrant life of the city?

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