18 Wuthering Heights -Read And Abridged By Stephanie Poppins

Hello.

Welcome to Sleep Stories with Steph,

Your go-to romantic podcast that guarantees you a calm and entertaining transition into a great night's sleep.

Come with me as we immerse ourselves in a romantic journey to a time long since forgotten.

Emily Bronte was born in Yorkshire in 1818 and along with her brother and sisters Anne and Charlotte wrote from childhood onwards.

Wuthering Heights is the story she is best remembered for.

But before we begin let's take a moment to focus on where we are now.

Take a deep breath in through your nose and let it out with a long sigh.

That's it.

Now close your eyes and feel yourself sink deeper into the support beneath you.

It is time to relax and fully let go.

There is nothing you need to be doing now and nowhere you need to go.

Happy listening.

Chapter 17 Continued The end of Earnshaw was what might have been expected,

Continued Nellie.

It followed fast on his sisters.

There were scarcely six months between them.

We at the Grange never got a very succinct account of his state preceding it.

All that I did learn was on occasion of going to aid in the preparations for the funeral.

Mr.

Kenneth came to announce the event to my master.

Well Nellie,

Says he,

Riding into the yard one morning,

Too early not to alarm me with an instant presentiment of bad news.

It's yours and my turn to go into mourning at present.

Who's given us a slip now,

Do you think?

Oh,

I asked in a flurry.

Well,

I guess he'd returned dismounting and slinging his bridle on the hook by the door.

Not Mr.

Heathcliff,

Surely?

I exclaimed.

What,

Would you have tears for him?

Said the doctor.

No,

Heathcliff's a tough young fellow.

He looks blooming today.

I've just seen him.

He's rapidly regaining flesh since he lost his better half.

Who is it then,

Mr.

Kenneth?

I repeated.

Hindley,

Aren't you?

Your old friend Hindley,

He replied.

And my wicked gossip,

Though he's been too wild for me this long while.

There,

I said we should draw water,

But cheer up.

He died true to his character,

Drunk as a lord.

I confess this blow was greater to me than the shock of Mrs.

Linton's death.

Ancient associations lingered round my heart.

I sat down in the porch and wept for a blood relation,

Desiring Mr.

Kenneth to get another servant to introduce him to the master.

I could not hinder myself from pondering on the question,

Had he had a fair play?

Whatever I did,

That idea bothered me.

I resolved on requesting leave to go to Wuthering Heights and assist in the last duties to the dead.

Mr.

Linton was extremely reluctant to consent,

But I pleaded eloquently for the friendless condition in which he lay.

And I said my old master and foster brother had a claim on my services as strong as his own.

Besides,

I reminded him that child Hairton was his wife's nephew,

And in the absence of nearer kin,

He ought to act as its guardian,

And he ought to and must inquire how the property was left,

And look over the concerns of his brother-in-law.

He was unfit for attending to such matters then,

But he bid me speak to his lawyer,

And at length permitted me to go.

I called at the village,

And asked him to accompany me.

He shook his head and advised that Heathcliff should be let alone,

Affirming if the truth were known,

Hairton would be found little less than a beggar.

His father died in debt,

He said,

The whole property is mortgaged,

And the sole chance for the natural heir is to allow him an opportunity of creating some interest in the creditor's heart,

That he may be inclined to deal leniently towards him.

When I reached the Heights,

I explained I'd come to see everything carried out decently,

And Joseph,

Who appeared in sufficient distress,

Expressed satisfaction.

Mr.

Heathcliff said he did not perceive I was wanted,

But I might stay and order the arrangements for the funeral if I chose.

That fool's body should be buried at the crossroads without ceremony of any kind,

He remarked,

But I insisted on the funeral being respectable.

Mr.

Heathcliff said I might have my own way there too,

Only he desired me to remember the money for the whole affair came out of his pocket.

He maintained a hard,

Careless deportment,

Indicative of neither joy nor sorrow.

If anything,

It expressed a flinty gratification as a piece of difficult work successfully executed,

And previous to following with Hairton,

He lifted the unfortunate child onto the table and muttered with peculiar gusto,

Now,

My bonny lad,

You are mine,

And we'll see if one tree won't grow as crooked as another,

With the same wind to twist it.

That boy must go back with me to Thrushcross Grange,

Sir,

There's nothing in the world less yours than he is.

Does Linton say so?

He demanded.

Of course,

He's ordered me to take him,

I replied.

Well,

Said Heathcliff,

We'll not argue the subject now,

But I have a fancy to try my hand at rearing a young one.

It was many years before when Isabella left Heathcliff.

He was twelve before she died,

And he never got the hand of raising him himself,

So this,

He saw,

Was his chance.

Heathcliff was now the master of Wuthering Heights.

He held firm possession,

And proved to the attorney,

Who in his turn proved to Mr Linton,

That Earnshaw had mortgaged every yard of land he owned for cash to supply his mania for gambling,

And he,

Heathcliff,

Was the mortgagee.

In that manner,

Hairton,

Who should now be the first gentleman in the neighbourhood,

Was reduced to a state of complete dependence on his father's enemy,

And he lives in his own house as a servant,

Deprived of the advantage of wages,

And quite unable to right himself because of his friendlessness and his ignorance that he has been wronged.

Chapter 18 The twelve years,

Continued Mrs Dean,

As she went back in time to when little Kathy was young,

Following that dismal period,

Were the happiest of my life.

My greatest troubles in their passage rose from our little lady's trifling illnesses,

Which she had to experience in common with all children,

Rich and poor.

For the rest,

After the first six months,

She grew like a larch,

And could walk and talk too.

Before the heath blossomed a second time over Mrs Linton's dust.

Little Kathy was the most winning thing that ever brought sunshine into a desolate house,

A real beauty in face,

With the Earnshaw's handsome dark eyes,

But the Linton's fair skin and small features and yellow curling hair.

Her spirit was high,

Though not rough,

And qualified by a heart sensitive and lively to excess in its affections.

That capacity for intense attachments reminded me of her mother.

Still,

She did not resemble her,

For she could be as soft and mild as a dove,

And she had a gentle voice and pensive expression.

Her anger was never furious,

Her love never fierce,

It was deep and tender.

However,

It must be acknowledged she had faults to foil her gifts.

Her propensity to be saucy was one,

And the perverse will that indulged children invariably acquire,

Whether they be good-tempered or cross.

If the servant charged to vex her,

It was always,

I shall tell papa,

And if he reproved her even by a look,

He would have thought it a heart-breaking business.

I don't believe he ever did speak a harsh word to her.

He took her education entirely on himself,

And made it an amusement.

Fortunately,

Curiosity and a quick intellect urged her into an apt scholar.

She learned rapidly and eagerly,

And did honour to his teaching.

Till she reached the age of thirteen,

She'd not once been beyond the range of the park by herself.

Mr Linton would take her with him a mile or so outside on rare occasions,

But he trusted her to no one else.

Wuthering Heights and Mr Heathcliff did not exist for her.

She was a perfect recluse,

And apparently perfectly contented.

Sometimes,

Indeed,

While surveying the country from her nursery window,

She would observe,

Ellen,

How long will it be before I can walk to the top of those hills?

I wonder what lies on the other side,

Is it the sea?

No,

Miss Cathy,

I would answer,

It's hills again,

Just like these.

What are those golden locks like when you stand under them,

She once asked.

The abrupt descent of penistone crags particularly attracted her notice,

Especially when the setting sun shone on it at the topmost heights,

And the whole extent of the landscape besides laying shallow.

I explained they were bare masses of stone,

With hardly enough earth in their clefts to nourish a stunted tree.

And why are they so bright so long after it's evening here,

She asked.

Because they're a great deal higher up than we are,

I replied.

You couldn't climb them,

They're too high and steep.

In winter,

The frost is always there before it comes to us.

And deep into summer,

I found snow under that black hollow on the northeast side.

Oh,

Have you been on them?

She cried gleefully.

Then I can go too when I'm a woman.

Has Papa been,

Helen?

Papa will not let you miss,

I answered hastily,

That they're not worth the trouble of visiting.

The moors,

When you ramble with them,

Are much nicer,

And Thrushcross Park is the finest place in the world.

But I know the park and I don't know those,

She murmured to herself,

And I should delight to look round me from the brow of that tallest point.

My little pony mini shall take me some time.

One of the maids mentioned in the fairy cave quite turned her head with a desire to fulfil the project.

She teased Mr.

Linton about it,

And he promised she should have the journey when she got older.

But Miss Catherine measured her age by months.

Now am I old enough to go to Pennystone Crags?

Was the constant question in her mouth.

The road thither wound close by,

Wuthering Heights.

Edgar hadn't the heart to pass it,

So she received as constantly the answer,

Not yet,

Love,

Not yet.

And as for Miss Isabella,

She lived about a dozen years after quitting Heathcliff.

Her family were of a delicate constitution.

She and Edgar both lacked the ruddy health you would generally meet in these parts.

What her illness was,

I'm not certain.

I think they died of the same thing,

The kind of fever,

Slow at its commencement,

But incurable and rapidly consuming life towards the close.

She wrote to Edgar about the probable conclusion of her four months in disposition under which she suffered and entreated him to come to her.

She had much to settle and she wished to bid him adieu and deliver Linton safely into his hands.

Her hope was that Linton might be left with him.

His father,

She said,

Had no desire to assume the burden of his maintenance or education.

Edgar hesitated not a moment in complying with her request.

Reluctant as he was to leave home at ordinary cause,

He flew to answer this,

Commanding Catherine to my peculiar vigilance in his absence.

With strict instruction,

She must not wander out of the park,

Even under my escort.

He was away for three weeks.

First day or two,

My charge sat in a corner of the library,

Too sad for either reading or playing.

In that quiet state,

Little Cathy caused me little trouble.

But then he was succeeded by an interval of impatient,

Fretful weariness.

I used to send her on her travels round the grounds,

Now on foot and now on a pony,

Indulging her with a patient audience of her own.

I was aware of all her real and imaginary adventures.

I did not fear her breaking bounds,

Because the gates were generally locked,

And I thought she'd scarcely venture forth alone if they'd stood wide open.

But unluckily,

My confidence proved misplaced.

Catherine came to me one morning at eight o'clock and said she was that day an Arabian merchant going to cross the desert with his caravan.

And I gave her plenty of provisions for the journey.

But that naughty thing never made her appearance at tea.

One traveller,

The hound,

Being an old dog and fond of its ease,

Returned,

But neither Cathy,

Nor the pony,

Nor the two-pointed dogs were visible in any direction.

Fretful,

I dispatched emissaries down this path and that path,

And at last I went wandering in search of her myself.

There was a labourer working at a fence round a plantation on the borders of the grounds,

And enquired of him if he'd seen her.

I saw her at morn,

He replied.

She would have me to cut her a hazel switch,

And she leaped her galloway over the edge yonder,

And galloped out of sight.

What will become of her?

I ejaculated,

Pushing through a gap which the man was repairing,

And making straight to the higher road.

And what if she should have slipped and clambered among the crags?

Maybe she's been killed,

Or broken some of her bones,

I fretted.

I hurried to the farmhouse to see Charlie,

The fiercest of the pointers,

Lying under a window,

With a swelled head and a bleeding ear.

I opened the wicket and ran to the door.

A woman who I knew,

And who formerly lived at Gimmerton,

Answered she'd been servant there since the death of Mr Earnshaw.

Ah,

Said she,

You come a-seeking your little mistress,

Have you?

Don't be frightened,

She's in his safe.

But I'm glad it isn't the master.

He's not at home,

Then,

Is he?

I panted,

Worrying that Heathcliff would turn up.

No,

She replied,

Both he and Joseph are off,

And I think they won't return this hour or more.

Step in and rest yourself a bit.

I entered,

Beheld my stray lamb seated on the hearth,

Rocking herself in a little chair that had been her mother's when she was a child.

Her hat was hung against the wall,

And she seemed perfectly at home,

Laughing and chattering in the best spirits imaginable,

To Hairton,

Who was now a great strong lad of eighteen.

He stared at her with considerable curiosity and astonishment.

Very well,

Miss,

Then,

I exclaimed,

Concealing my astonishment.

This is your last ride till papa comes back.

I'll not trust you over the threshold again.

You naughty,

Naughty girl.