Wuthering Heights — Chapter 34 | Full Audiobook - Chapter by Chapter

Chapter 34. In the days following that evening, Mr. Heathcliff avoided joining us for meals. Though he refused to formally exclude Hareton and Kathy, he was unwilling to completely surrender to his emotions, preferring instead to keep his distance. Subsisting on a single meal a day seemed enough for him. One night, after everyone had gone to bed, I heard him descend the stairs and exit through the front door. I didn't hear him return, and by morning he was still absent. It was April then. The weather was delightful and warm as the grass as lush as rain and sun could make it, and the two small apple trees by the southern wall were in full bloom.

After breakfast, Catherine insisted I bring a chair and sit with my work beneath the fir trees at the end of the house. She coaxed Hareton, who had fully recovered from his accident, into digging and arranging her little garden, which had been moved to that spot due to Joseph's complaints. I was contentedly basking in the spring sense and the gentle blue sky above, when my young lady, who had gone down near the gate to gather some primrose roots for a border, returned only partially laden, and informed us that Mister Heathcliff was approaching.

And he spoke to me, she added, her expression puzzled. What did he say? Hareton asked. He told me to leave as quickly as possible, she replied, but he looked so unlike his usual self that I paused for a moment just to take it in. In what way? He pressed. Well, he seemed almost bright and cheerful. No, not just almost. He was very much excited, wild and happy, she explained. Night walking must entertain him then. I remarked, trying to sound nonchalant. In truth, I was as taken aback as she was and eager to verify her account.

Seeing the master in a good mood was a rare sight. I concocted a reason to go inside. Heathcliff stood at the open door. He was pale and trembling, yet there was an unmistakable strange joy in his eyes that transformed his entire face. Would you like some breakfast? I offered. You must be hungry after wandering around all night. I was curious about where he'd been, but hesitant to ask outright. No, I'm not hungry. He replied, turning his head away and speaking with a hint of disdain, as if he suspected I was trying to uncover the reason behind his unusual cheerfulness.

I was puzzled. I wasn't sure if this was the right moment to offer a word of caution. I don't think it's wise to be out wondering. I noted, instead of being in bed. It's not sensible, especially in this damp season. I dare say you'll catch a bad cold or a fever. Something's definitely wrong with you now. Nothing I can't handle, he replied, and quite gladly. As long as you leave me be, get inside and stop bothering me. I complied, and as I passed I noticed his breath was quick and shallow like a cat's.

Yes, I thought to myself, he's bound to fall. I'll. I can't imagine what he's been up to. That afternoon, he joined us for dinner and accepted a heaping plate from my hands, as if he intended to make up for missed meals. I've neither a cold nor a fever, Nelly, he remarked, referring to my earlier comment. And I'm ready to do justice to the food you've prepared. He picked up his knife and fork, poised to start eating, but the urge seemed to vanish abruptly. He set them down, gazed intently out the window, then stood and left.

We watched him pace back and forth in the garden while we finished our meal. Earnshaw decided to go and ask why he wouldn't eat, thinking we might have upset him somehow. Well, is he coming? Catherine asked when her cousin returned. No, he replied, but he's not angry. He seemed quite pleased, actually. I just made him impatient by speaking to him twice, and then he told me to leave him be. He couldn't understand why I'd want anyone else's company. I kept his plate warm by the fire, and after a couple of hours he returned when the room was empty, no calmer than before.

There was the same unnatural, yes, unnatural Glee beneath his dark brows, the same pallor and his teeth occasionally bared in a sort of smile. His body shivered, not with cold or frailty, but like a taut string vibrating, a powerful thrill rather than a tremor. I thought to myself, Should I ask what's wrong, or should someone else? Then I spoke up. Have you heard any good news, Mr. Heathcliff? You seem unusually lively. Where would good news come from for me? He replied. I'm animated by hunger and apparently I'm not supposed to eat.

Your dinner is right here, I pointed out. Why won't you have it? I don't want it now, he muttered quickly. I'll wait until supper, and Nelly, let me ask you once and for all to keep Hair, Tin and the others away from me. I want to be left alone here. Is there a new reason for this isolation? I asked. Why are you acting so strangely, Mr. Heathcliff? Where were you last night? I'm not asking out of idle curiosity, but you are asking out of very idle curiosity. He interrupted with a laugh. But I'll answer you.

Last night. I was standing at the gates of hell today. I'm within sight of my heaven. I can see it barely 3 feet away from me now. You should leave, you won't encounter anything alarming as long as you don't start snooping. After tidying up the hearth and wiping down the table, I left more confused than before. He stayed inside for the rest of the afternoon, undisturbed in his solitude. By 8:00 I decided it was appropriate, even without being called, to bring him a candle and his supper. He stood leaning against the ledge of an open window, not looking out but facing the dim interior.

The fire had died down to ashes and the room was filled with the damp, mild air of the overcast evening. It was so quiet that I could hear not just the murmur of the stream down in Gimmerton, but also it's ripples and the gurgling as it flowed over pebbles or around large stones it couldn't submerge. I voiced my displeasure at the sight of the dreary fireplace and began closing the windows 1 by 1 until I reached his. Should I shut this one? I asked, hoping to stir him as he hadn't moved. As I spoke, the light caught his face.

Oh Mr. Lockwood, I can't describe the shock I felt at that fleeting glimpse. Those deep are dark eyes, that smile and a ghostly pallor. He seemed less like Mr. Heathcliff and more like a goblin. In my fright, I tilted the candle towards the wall, plunging myself Into Darkness. Yes, close it, he said in his familiar voice. That's just clumsy. Why did you hold the candle sideways? Hurry up and bring another. I rushed out, foolishly terrified, and told Joseph. The master wants you to bring him a light and rekindle the fire.

I couldn't bring myself to go back in just then. Joseph scooped some coals into the shovel and went, but he returned immediately with a supper tray in his other hand, explaining that Mister Heathcliff was going to bed and wanted nothing to eat until morning. We heard him ascend the stairs right away. He didn't head to his usual room, but instead entered the one with a panelled bed. As I mentioned before, it's window is large enough for anyone to climb through, and it occurred to me that he might be planning another midnight outing, one he'd prefer we knew nothing about.

Is he a ghoul or a vampire? I wondered. She'd read about such monstrous incarnations then I reminded myself and be of how I'd cared for him as a child, watched him grow into youth, and it followed him through most of his life. It was absurd to give in to that sense of horror. But where did he come from? That small shadowy figure, sheltered by a good man to his own ruin? Murmured superstition As I drifted into sleep, half dreaming, I began to tire myself with thoughts of who might have been his parents.

Replaying my waking thoughts, I traced his life again with dark twists, eventually imagining his death and burial. All I recall is the frustration of having to decide on an inscription for his gravestone, consulting the Sexton about it. With no Sonic and his age unknown, we settled on the solitary word Heathcliff. That part was true. It's all you'll find on his headstone in the churchyard, along with the date of his death. As dawn broke, clarity returned. I got up and went into the garden as soon as there was enough light to check for any footprints beneath his window.

There were none. He stayed home, I thought, and he'll be fine today. I prepared breakfast for everyone as usual, but told Hareton and Catherine to eat before the Master came down as he was sleeping in. They chose to have their meal outside under the trees, so I set up a small table for them. When I returned, I found Mr. Heathcliff downstairs. He and Joseph were deep in conversation about some farming matters. Heathcliff gave precise, detailed instructions, speaking quickly and constantly turning his head, his expression more intense than ever.

After Joseph left, Heathcliff took his usual seat and I placed a bowl of coffee in front of him. He pulled it closer, rested his arms on the table, and stared at the opposite wall, his eyes darting up and down with such fervent interest that he seemed to hold his breath for long moments. Come now, I urged, nudging some bread toward his hand. Eat and drink while it's hot. It's been waiting nearly an hour. He didn't acknowledge me yet. He smiled. I would have preferred to see him clench his teeth then smile like that.

Mister Heathcliff Master, I exclaimed. Please don't stare as if you're seeing something otherworldly. Please don't shout so loudly, he replied. Turn around and tell me, are we alone? Of course, I replied, though a flicker of uncertainty lingered beneath my words. Despite my doubts, I found myself following his lead. With a swift motion, he cleared a space among the breakfast dishes and leaned forward, intent on something unseen. It became clear he wasn't staring at the wall. His gaze was fixed on something just a couple of yards away.

Whatever he saw seemed to evoke both intense pleasure and pain, his face a canvas of anguished rapture. This imagined object wasn't stationary. His eyes tracked it as tirelessly, never straying even as he spoke to me. I tried to remind him of how long he'd gone without eating, but my efforts were in vain. If he reached for a piece of bread at my urging, his hand would falter, fingers curling back before they touched it, resting forgotten on the table. I sat there, embodying patience, attempting to draw his focus away from whatever held it so fiercely.

Eventually his irritation flared and he stood, questioning why I wouldn't let him eat at his own pace. He told me next time I shouldn't wait, I could just set the table and leave. With that he exited the house, strolling slowly down the garden path until he vanished through the gate. The hours dragged by, heavy with unease, until evening fell once more. I stayed up late, unable to find rest, and when I finally lay down, sleep eluded me. He returned after midnight, and instead of heading to bed, he locked himself in the room below.

I lay there restless, my mind racing with countless anxious thoughts, until finally I got up, dressed and went downstairs. It was unbearable to just lie there. I'm tormented by endless worries. I could hear Mr. Heathcliff pacing the floor, his steps restless, and every so often he broke the silence with a deep sigh that sounded almost like a groan. He muttered disjointed words. The only one I could clearly make out was Catherine, paired with some wild term of endearment or anguish, spoken as if she were right there with him, low, earnest, and torn from the depths of his soul.

I didn't have the courage to walk straight into the room, but I wanted to pull him out of his reverie, so I busied myself with the kitchen fire, stirring it and scraping the cinders. This drew him out sooner than I expected. He opened the door immediately and said, Nelly, come here, is it morning? Bring your light in, it's striking, 4I replied. You need a candle to take upstairs, you could have lit one from this fire. No, I don't want to go upstairs, he said. Come in, light a fire for me and do whatever needs doing around the room.

I need to get the coals glowing before I can carry any, I said, grabbing a chair and the bellows. He paced back and forth, nearly unraveling his heavy size so frequent they left no room for normal breaths. When dawn comes, I'll send for Green, he said. I need to discuss some legal matters while I can still think clearly and act with composure. I haven't written my will yet, and I'm at a loss about how to distribute my estate. Sometimes I wish I could just erase it all from existence. I wouldn't speak like that, Mister Heathcliff.

I interrupted. Leave your will for now. You'll have time to regret your many wrongs. I'd never thought your nerves would falter, but they are remarkably frayed right now, mostly due to your own actions. The way you've spent this last three days would exhaust even a giant. Please eat something and get some rest. Just look in a mirror to see how much you need. Both your cheeks are sunken and your eyes are bloodshot, like someone starving and going blind from lack of sleep. It's not my fault that I can't eat or rest, he replied.

I assure you it's not due to any fixed plans. I'll do both as soon as I possibly can, but asking me to rest now is like telling a drowning man to relax when he's just within the reach of the shore. I need to reach it first, then I'll rest. As for Mr. Green, don't worry about him. Regarding any injustices, I've committed none, and I have no regrets. I am too happy, yet not happy enough. My soul's joy overwhelms my body, but it doesn't fulfill itself. Happy Master, I exclaimed. That's a strange kind of happiness.

If you could listen without getting upset, I might offer some advice that could make you happier. What is it? He asked. Tell me, Mr. Heathcliff, I said. Since you were 13, you've lived a selfish, unchristian life. Probably. Without a Bible in your hands all that time, you've likely forgotten its teachings, and you might not have the time to explore them now. Would it be harmful to call someone a minister of any denomination? It doesn't matter which. To explain it to you, to show you how far you've strayed from its teachings and how unprepared you are for its heaven unless you change before you die.

I'm more grateful than angry, Nelly, he replied. Because you remind me of how I wish to be buried. The burial is set for the evening at the churchyard. You and Hareton can join me if you wish, but make sure to watch the Sexton closely to ensure he follows my instructions regarding the placement of the two coffins. There's no need for a minister and no words need be spoken over me. I've Neil reached my own version of heaven and I have no desire for the heaven other's sake. And if you persist in starving yourself and die because of it, and they refuse to bury you within the church grounds?

I asked, disturbed by his irreverence. How would you feel about that? They won't refuse, he answered. But if they did, you'd have to move me in secret. If you fail to do so, you'll find out first hand that the dead are not truly gone. Once he heard the rest of the family stirring, he retreated to his room and I felt a sense of relief. But later in the afternoon, while Joseph and Hareton were busy with their tasks, he returned to the kitchen with wild expression and asked me to sit with him in the house.

He wanted company. I refused, admitting that his strange behaviour frightened me and I lacked both the courage and the desire to be alone with him. You probably think I'm a demon. He said with a grim laugh. Something too dreadful to live under a respectable roof. Then turning to Catherine, who had moved behind me as he approached, he added with a half mocking tone. Will you come dear? I won't harm you. No, to you I've become worse than the devil himself. Well, there's one who won't recoil from my presence.

By God, she's relentless. Damn it all. It's unbearably too much for any human to endure, even for me. He sought no one's company after that. As dusk settled, he retreated to his room. Throughout the night and well into the morning, we could hear him groaning and muttering to himself. Hareton was eager to check on him, but I told him to fetch Mr. Kenneth, who should go in and see him when he arrived, and I asked to be let in. Trying to open the door, I found it locked. Heathcliff cursed us, saying he was fined and wanted to be left alone, so the doctor left.

The next evening brought heavy rain. It poured relentlessly until dawn. During my morning walk around the house, I noticed the master's window swinging open, rain driving straight in. He can't be in bed, I thought. Those downpours would soak him completely. He must be either up or out. But I won't hesitate any longer. I'll go in and see for myself. Having managed to unlock the door with a different key, I hurried to open the panels, finding the room empty. Quickly sliding them aside, I peeked in.

There lay Mr. Heathcliff on his back. His eyes met mine with such intensity and fierceness that I flinched. Then he seemed to smile. I couldn't believe he was dead yet his face and throat was soaked with rain. The bedclothes were dripping here, and he lay utterly still. The window, swinging back and forth, had scraped one of his hands resting on the sill. No blood flowed from the broken skin, and when I touched it, all in doubt vanished. He was dead and rigid. I latched the window. I combed his long black hair back from his forehead.

I tried to close his eyes, hoping to erase that terrifying, lifelike look of triumph before anyone else saw it. They refused to close. They seemed to mock my efforts, and his parted lips and sharp white teeth mocked as well. Overcome by another wave of fear, I called out for Joseph. Joseph shuffled in, making noise, but stubbornly refused to touch him. The devil snatched away his soul. He exclaimed. And he can have his body too, for all I care. What a wicked sight he is grinning at death. And the old Sinner grinned back in derision.

I thought he might start dancing around the bed, but then he suddenly composed himself, dropped to his knees, lifted his hands and gave thanks that the rightful master and the old lineage had been restored to their place. I was overwhelmed by the gravity of the event, and my mind drifted back to earlier times with a heavy sadness. Yet it was poor Hareton, the one most wronged, who truly bore the weight of sorrow. He sat by the body all night, weeping with genuine anguish. He held his hand, kissed the harsh, mocking face that everyone else recoiled from, and mourned with a profound grief that comes naturally from a generous heart, even one as resilient as tempered steel.

Mr. Kenneth was at a loss to determine what illness had claimed the Master. I kept quiet about his four day fast fearing it might cause complications and I am convinced he didn't abstain intentionally. It was a result of his peculiar illness, not the 'cause we buried him, much to the neighborhoods disapproval as he had wished. Earnshaw, the Sexton, 6 pallbearers and I comprise the entire funeral party. The pallbearers left Dave to lowering the coffin into the grave. We remain to see it covered. Hareton, tears streaming down his face, dug up green sods and laid them over the brown earth himself.

Now it is as smooth and green as the neighboring mounds and I hope it's occupant rests as peacefully. But if you ask the locals, they'd swear on the Bible that he still walks among us. Some claim to have seen him near the church, on the Moor, and even inside this very house. You might dismiss these as idle tales, and so do I. Yet the old man by the kitchen fear insists he's seen two figures peering from the chamber window on every rainy night since the man's death. Something strange happened to me about a month ago.

I was heading to the Grange one evening, a dark night heavy with a threat of Thunder, and just as I turned at the heights I came across a little boy with a sheep and two lambs ahead of him. He was crying terribly and I assumed the lambs were skittish and wouldn't follow him. What's the matter, my little man? I asked. There's Heathcliff and a woman over there under the hill. He sobbed and I dared pass them. I saw nothing myself, but neither the sheep nor the boy would move forward, so I told him to take the lower Rd.

He probably conjured these phantoms from the stories he'd heard his parents and friends repeat as he wandered the Moors alone. Still, I can't shake the unease of being out in the dark now, and I don't like being left alone in this grim house. I can't help it. I'll be relieved when they leave and move to the Grange. So they're going to the Grange then? I asked. Yes, Mrs. Dean replied. They're getting married on New Year's Day. And who will stay here after that? Joseph will look after the house, maybe with a young helper for company.

They'll live in the kitchen, and the rest of the house will be closed off for any ghosts that might want to move in. I remarked. No, Mr. Lockwood, Nelly said, shaking her head. I believe the dead are at peace, and it's not right to speak lightly of them. Just then, the garden gate swung open. The Wanderers were returning. They fear nothing, I muttered, watching them approach through the window. Together, they'd face Satan and all his armies. As they stepped onto the doorstep and paused to gaze at the moon, or rather at each other in its glow, I felt an overwhelming urge to avoid them once more.

I pressed a token of thanks into Missus Dean's hand, ignoring her protests at my abruptness, and slipped out through the kitchen just as they opened the front door. This might have confirmed Joseph's suspicions about his fellow servants frivolities, had he not recognised me as respectable by the sweet sound of a sovereign landing at his feet. I took a longer route home, detouring toward the church. Beneath its walls, I noticed decay had advanced even in seven months. Many windows were now dark voids without glass, and slates jutted awkwardly from the roof, ready to be dislodged by the coming autumn storms.

I searched and soon found the three headstones on the slope near the Moor, the middle 1 grey and half buried in Heather, Edgar Linton's blending with the turf and Moss creeping up its base, Heathcliffs still stark and bare. I lingered among them beneath that gentle sky, observing moths fluttering between the heath and hair bells, listening to the soft wind whispering through the grass. I marvelled at how anyone could conceive of restless dreams for those resting in such tranquil earth. You've been listening to Wuthering Heights by Emily Bronte, Narrated from the Maison Forms Access Edition.

This edition was designed with clarity, reverence and precision, preserving the cadence of Brante's original while inviting new readers to experience it's power without friction. For more titles in the Access Edition series, visit a form of publishing dot ING Maison Forms. Clarity is preservation.

The Story