Wuthering Heights — Chapter 32 | Full Audiobook - Chapter by Chapter

Chapter 3218 O2 This September, I received an invitation to explore mirth, the Moors of a friend in the north. During my journey to his home, I unexpectedly found myself just 15 miles from Gympton. As I paused at A roadside inn, watched the Osler offer a pail of water to refresh my horses, A cart loaded with freshly harvested vivid green oats rolled by. The Osler commented. That's from Gimmerton. They're always three weeks behind everyone else with their harvest, Gimmerton, I echoed. The memory of living there had already faded into something distant and dreamlike.

Oh yes, I might remember. How far is it from here? About 14 miles over the hills. It's a rough Rd. he replied. An unexpected urge gripped me to visit Thrushcross Grange. It was barely noon and I figured I might as well spend the night under my own roof rather than in an inn. Moreover, I could easily spare a day to settle matters with my landlord, thus sparing myself the inconvenience of returning to the area. Latham. After a brief rest, I instructed my servant to find the way to the village. Despite the strain on our animals, we covered the distance in about 3 hours.

I left him there and ventured down the valley alone. The grey church appeared even greyer and the solitary churchyard seemed more desolate. I noticed a Moor sheep nibbling at the short grass on the graves. The weather was sweet and warm, almost too warm for travel. Yet the heat didn't stop me from savouring the enchanting scenery both above and below. Had I visited closer to August, I'm certain I would have been tempted to spend a month amidst it's solitude. In winter nothing could be more bleak, in summer nothing more divine than those Glens enclosed by hills and those bold, sweeping expanses of heath.

I arrived at the Grange before sunset and knocked for entry. It seemed the family had retreated to the back rooms, as suggested by a thin blue wisp of smoke curling from the kitchen chimney, and they didn't hear me. I rode into the courtyard. Under the porch, a girl of 9 or 10 was knitting while an old woman lounged on the doorstep, smoking a contemplative pipe. Is Missus Dean inside? I asked the woman. Mistress Dean. No, she replied. She's not here. She's up at the Heights. Are you the housekeeper then?

I asked. Yes, I keep the house, she answered. Well, I'm Mr. Lockwood, the owner. Are there any rooms available for me to stay the night? The master? She exclaimed in surprise. Why? Who knew you were coming? You should have sent word. There's nothing ready here, nothing at all. She put down her pipe and bustled inside, the girl following her, and I entered as well. It quickly became clear that her report was accurate and that my unexpected Robifle had nearly thrown her into a tizzy. I told her to calm down, I would go for a walk, and in the meantime she should try to prepare a corner of a sitting room for me to have supper in and a bedroom to sleep in.

No need for sweeping and dusting, just a good fire and dry sheets would suffice. She seemed eager to do her best, though she mistakenly used the hearth brush as a poker and misused several other tools of her trade. But I left, trusting in her determination to have a place ready for me when I returned. Wuthering Heights was the destination of my intended walk. A second thought brought me back after I had left the courtyard. All well at the Heights? I asked the woman. For all I know, she replied, hurrying away with a pan of hot ashes.

I wanted to ask why Missus Dean had left the Grange, but it was impossible to stop her at such a moment, so I turned away and made my exit. I wandered leisurely along, with the glow of the setting sun behind me and the gentle brilliance of the rising moon ahead, 1 fading as the other, growing brighter as I left the park and climbed the rocky path leading to Mr. Heathcliff's home. Before I could see it, the day had dwindled to a beepless animal light in the West, but the magnificent moonlight revealed every Pebble on the path and every blade of grass.

I didn't need to climb the gate or knock, it opened easily at my touch. That's an improvement, I thought. I noticed another, thanks to my sense of smell. A fragrance of stalks and wallflowers drifted through the air from among the humble fruit trees. Both doors and windows were open. Yet, as is typical in a coal district, a warm red fire glowed in a fireplace. The comfort it provided the eyes made the extra heat bearable, but Wuthering Heights is so large that it's residents have plenty of room to escape it's warmth.

Thus, those who were there had settled not far from one of the windows. I could see them and hear their conversation before I entered, compelled by a mix of curiosity and envy that grew as I lingered. Contrary chimed, a voice as sweet as a silver bell. That's the third time, you dunce. I won't repeat myself, remember, or I'll pull your hair. Contrary then replied another voice, deep but softened. Now kiss me for getting it right. No, read it over first. Perfectly. Without a single mistake, the male speaker began to read.

He was a young man, well dressed, seated at a table with a book in front of him. His handsome features were lit with pleasure, and his eyes kept darting from the page to a small white hand over his shoulder, which would give him a playful slap on the cheek whenever it's owner noticed his wandering attention. She stood behind him, her light shining curls occasionally mingling with his brown locks as she leaned over to guide his studies. Her face, fortunately for him, was out of his sight or he would never have managed to stay focused.

I could see her face and I bit my lip in frustration, regretting the lost opportunity to do anything other than gape at her stunning beauty. The task it was completed, though not without further errors, but the pupils insisted on the reward and received at least five kisses, which he generously returned. Then they moved to the door and from their conversation I gathered they were about to head out for a walk on the Moors. I imagined Hareton Earnshaw would curse me to the depths of hell if I dared show myself in his vicinity.

At that moment. Feeling quite low and spiteful, I slunk away to find refuge in the kitchen. There was easy access from that side as well, and at the door sat my old friend Nelly Dean, sewing and singing a song frequently interrupted by harsh words of scorn and intolerance coming from within, spoken in far from melodious tones. I'd rather have them cursing in my ears from morning till night than listen to you, declared the kitchen tenant, responding to something Nelly had said. It's a crying shame that I can't open the blessed Book without you glorifying Satan and all the dreadful wickedness ever borne into this world.

You're a real scoundrel, and she's no better. That poor boy will be lost between the two of you. Key, poor boy, he added with a groan. He's bewitched, I'm sure of it. Oh, Lord, judge them, for there's neither law nor justice among our rulers. No, or we'd be sitting in flaming pyres, I suppose. The singer shot back. But harsh, old man, and read your Bible like a Christian. And don't mind me, this is Fairy Annie's wedding. A lovely tune. It goes with a dance. Misses Dean was about to start again when I stepped forward.

Recognizing me immediately, she jumped up exclaiming. Why bless you, Mr. Lockwood, how could you think of returning like this? Everything's shut up at Thrush Cross Grange. You should have given us a heads up. I've made arrangements to stay there for the duration of my visit, I replied. I'm leaving again tomorrow. But tell me, Mrs. Dean, how did you end up here? Zilla left and Mr. Heathcliff asked me to come shortly after you went to London to stay until you returned. But please come in. Did you walk all the way from Gimmerton this evening from the Grange?

I said. While they prepare a room for me there. I want to wrap up my business with your master. I don't expect I'll have another chance anytime soon. What business, Sir? Nelly asked as she led me inside. He's at out there at the moment and won't be back for a while. It's about the rent. I explained. Oh, then you'll need to settle that with Missus Heathcliff. She noted. Or rather with me. She hasn't learnt to handle her affairs yet, so I managed them for her. There's no one else. I looked at her, surprised.

Oh, you haven't heard about Heathcliff's death, have you? She went on. Heathcliff dead? I exclaimed, taken aback. When did this happen? Three months ago. But sit down, let me take your hat and I'll tell you everything. Wait, you haven't eaten anything, have you? I don't need anything. I've arranged for supper at home. You sit down too. I never imagined he would die. Tell me how it happened. You mentioned you don't expect it. The young ones back for a while? No. They wander late every evening and I have to scold them.

But they pay me no mind. At least have a glass of our old ale, it'll do you good. You look tired. Before I could decline, she hurried off to fetch it, and I overheard Joseph grumbling about how disgraceful it was for her to have visitors at her age and then to take ale from the master's cellar. He was ashamed to stand by and watch. She didn't pause to respond, but returned shortly, carrying a foaming silver pint which I praised with Jew enthusiasm. Then she proceeded to share the rest of Heathcliff's story with me.

He met a rather peculiar and as she put it, I was called to Wuthering Heights just two week after you left us. She recounted and I went eagerly for Catherine's sake. My first meeting with her was both distressing and shocking. She had changed so much since we last parted. Mr. Heathcliff didn't bother to explain why he suddenly wanted me there. He simply said he needed me and was weary of seeing Catherine. I was to use the small parlour as my sitting room and keep her company. It sufficed if he only had to see her once or twice a day.

Catherine seemed content with this arrangement and gradually I managed to sneak in a good number of books and other items that had entertained her at the Grange, hoping we might find some comfort. But this illusion was short lived. Initially content, Catherine soon became irritable and restless. For one, she was not allowed to leave the garden, and it pained her to be confined as spring approached. For another, my duties around the house often forced me to leave her, and she complained of loneliness.

She preferred arguing with Joseph in the kitchen to sitting alone in silence. I didn't mind their squabbles, but Hareton often had to retreat to the kitchen too, whenever the master wanted the house to himself. And although at first she would either leave when he arrived or quietly join my activities, avoiding any interaction with him, and despite his constant sullenness and silence, eventually she changed. She couldn't resist provoking him, talking at him, criticizing his laziness and ignorance, wondering aloud how he could tolerate his life, how he could spend entire evenings staring into the fire, half asleep.

Isn't he just like a dog, Ellen? She remarked once, Or a cart horse? He goes about his task, he eats his meals and sleeps as if in an endless lumber. What a dull, lifeless mind he must have. Do you ever dream, Hareton? And if you do, what do you dream about? But you can't speak to me, can you? She glanced at him, but he neither spoke nor returned her gaze. Maybe he's dreaming right now. She continued. He shrugged his shoulder. Just like Juno does. Ask him, Ellen, Mr. Hareton will ask the master to send you upstairs if you don't behave.

I warned. He had not only shrugged but also clenched his first, as if tempted to use it. I know why Hairton never speaks when I'm in the kitchen, she declared on another occasion. He's afraid I'll laugh at him, Ellen. Guess what? He once tried to teach himself to read, and because I laughed, he burned his books and gave up. Wasn't he foolish? Weren't you being naughty? I asked. Answer me that. Perhaps I was, she admitted. But I didn't expect him to be so sensitive. Hareton, if I gave you a book now, would you accept it?

I'll give it a shot. She placed the book she'd been flipping through onto his hand. He tossed it aside and muttered that if she didn't stop, he'd break her neck. Fine, I'll just leave it here, she said, tucking it into the table drawer. I'm off to bed. She whispered to me to keep an eye on whether he touched it, then left, but he wouldn't go near it, and I reported this to her the next morning, much to her disappointment. I could see she regretted his stubborn sulkiness and laziness. Her conscience nagged at her for scaring him away from bettering himself, and she had done so quite thoroughly.

Yet her cleverness was already at work to fix the damage while I ironed or did other tasks that kept me in one place. She'd bring a delightful book and read it aloud to me. When Hareton was around, she'd often stop at an intriguing part and leave the book lying about. She did this repeatedly, but he was as stubborn as a mule. Instead of taking the bait on rainy days, he took to smoking with Joseph. They sat like statues on either side of the fire, the older man blissfully to deaf to catch her so-called wicked nonsense and the younger doing his best to ignore it.

On pleasant evenings, Hareton would go off on his shooting trips, leaving Catherine to yawn. Sigh and pester me for conversation, only to dash off to the courtyard or garden as soon as I started talking. As a last resort, she'd cry and declare she was tired of living, that her life felt pointless. Mr. Heathcliff, increasingly averse to company, had nearly banished Earnshaw from his rooms due to an accident at the start of March. He found himself confined to the kitchen for several days. His gun exploded while he was alone in the hills, a Shard sliced his arm and he bled heavily before he could make it back Humpy.

As a result, he was forced to stay by the fireside, embracing a reluctant peace until he recovered. This arrangement suited Catherine. It intensified her aversion to her room upstairs and she insisted I find tasks downstairs so she could join me. On Easter Monday Joseph went to the Gimmerton Fair with some cattle, and in the afternoon I was occupied with ironing in the kitchen. Earnshaw sat as sullen as ever by the fireplace while my young mistress passed the time drawing on the window panes, interspersing her doodles with muffled songs, whispered exclamations, and quick, irritated glances toward her cousin, who smoked steadily and stared into the fire.

When I mentioned that she was blocking my light, she moved to the Hearthstone. I pay little attention to her actions until I heard her say. I've realized, a Hatton, that I want that I'm glad that I'd like you to be my cousin now, if only you hadn't become so cross and rough with me. Hareton gave no reply. Hareton, Hareton, Hareton, do you hear me? She persisted. Get away from me, he growled with unyielding roughness. Let me take that pipe, she said cautiously, reaching out and removing it from his mouth.

Before he could try to retrieve it, she had broken it and tossed it into the fire. He cursed at her and grabbed another. Stop. She insisted. You have to listen to me first. I can't talk with all this smoke in my face. Go to hell, He shouted fiercely. And leave me alone. No, she persisted. I won't. I don't know how to make you talk to me, and you're determined not to understand. When I call you stupid, I just mean it. I don't mean to insult you. Come on, You have to acknowledge me, Hurton. We're cousins, and you must recognize that I want nothing to do with you, your filthy pride and your damned mocking ways.

He retorted. I'll go to hell, body and soul, before I ever look your way again. Get out of my sight right now. Catherine frowned and retreated to the window seat, biting her lip and trying to hide her growing urge to cry by humming an odd tune. You should really try to be friends with your cousin, Mr. Hareton, I interjected. She's sorry for her rudeness and having her as a friend would do wonders for you. It could transform you. A friend? He exclaimed. When she despises me and thinks I'm not even worthy to clean her shoes.

Even if it made me a king, I wouldn't endure her scorn just to win her favour. It's not me who hates you, it's you who hate me, Kathy cried, no longer hiding her distress. You hate me as much as Mr. Heathcliff does, if not more. You're a damned liar, Earnshaw retorted. Why have I angered him by defending you so many times then? Even when you mocked and looked dawn on me? Keep tormenting me and I'll go in there. Say you drove me out of the kitchen. I didn't know you stood up for me. She replied, wiping her tears.

I was miserable and bitter towards everyone, but now I thank you and ask for your forgiveness. What else can I do? She returned to the hearth and offered her hand sincerely. He darkened and frowned like a storm cloud, keeping his first tightly clenched and his eyes on the floor. Catherine must have sensed it was stubbornness, not dislike, driving his behaviour. After a moment of hesitation, she leaned in and gently kissed his cheek. The little Rascal thought I hadn't noticed, and stepping back, she resumed her place by the window, looking quite innocent.

I shook my head in gentle reproach, and she blushed, whispering. Well, what was I supposed to do, Ellen? He wouldn't shake hands or even look at me. I had to show him somehow that I like him, that I want us to be friends. I can't say if the kiss convinced Hareton. For several minutes he was careful to keep his face hidden, and when he finally did look up, he seemed unsure, weird to direct his gaze. Catherine busied herself by wrapping a handsome book in white paper, tying it with a ribbon and addressing it to Mr. Hareton Earnshaw.

She asked me to be her envoy and deliver the gift to its intended recipient and tell him if he accepts it, I'll come and teach him to read it properly, she said. But if he refuses, I'll go upstairs and never bother him again. I took the beak and relayed her message, all the while being watched anxiously by Catherine. Hareton wouldn't open his hands, so I placed it on his knee. He didn't push it away either. I returned to my tasks. Catherine rested her head and arms on the table until she heard the faint rustle of the paper being unwrapped.

Then she quietly moved to sit beside her cousin. He trembled, his face flushed. All his roughness and harsh demeanour had vanished. At first he couldn't find the courage to respond to her questioning look and soft plea. Please say you forgive me, Hareton, She urged. You can make me so happy just by saying that little word. He mumbled something I couldn't catch. And you'll be my friend? Catherine asked, her voice full of hope. No, you'll be embarrassed by me every day of your life, He replied. The more you know me, the more ashamed you'll be, and I can't stand that.

So you won't be my friend. She said, smiling sweetly and moving closer. I couldn't make out any more of their conversation, but when I glanced back I saw their faces glowing as they leaned over the pages of a book they both seemed to accept. I had no doubt they'd reached an agreement and we're now allies instead of adversaries. The book that they were engrossed in was filled with lavish illustrations and both the images and their new found camaraderie held them captivated until Joseph returned home.

He was utterly shocked to find Catherine sitting beside Hareton Earnshaw, her hand resting on his shoulder. The sight of his favorite enduring her presence left him too stunned to comment that night. His feelings were only betrayed by the deep sighs he emitted as he solemnly laid his large Bible on the table, covering it with dirty banknotes from his pocket. The day's earnings. Finally, he called Hareton over. Take these to the master lad, he instructed, and stay there. I'm going up to my own room.

This place isn't fit or proper for us. We need to move on and find another. Come on, Catherine, I said. We need to wrap things up here. I finished my ironing. Are you ready to leave? It's not even 8:00, she replied, standing reluctantly. Hareton, I'll leave this book on the mantle, and I'll bring more tomorrow. Any books you leave, I'll take into the house. Joseph interjected. And it'll be a miracle if you ever see them again, so do as you please. Kathy playfully threatened that his library would suffer for hers, and with a smile at Hareton, she went upstairs singing, her heart lighter than it had ever been under that roof, except perhaps during her earliest visits to Linton.

The friendship that began then grew quickly. Despite occasional setbacks, Earnshaw couldn't be tamed with mere goodwill. And my young lady was neither a philosopher nor a model of patience. Yet with both of them striving towards the same goal, one yearning to love and be respected, the other yearning to be loved and respected, they eventually found their way. You see, Mr. Lockwood, winning Missus Heathcliff's heart wasn't difficult. But I'm relieved you didn't attempt it. The pinnacle of my hopes is the union of those two on their wedding day.

I will envy no one. There won't be a happier woman than me in all of England.

The Story