3 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 3 While leading the way upstairs she recommended I should hide the candle and not make a noise for her master had an odd notion about the chamber she would put me in and never let anybody lodge there winningly.

I asked the reason.

She did not know she answered but she had only lived there a year or two and they had so many queer goings on she could not begin to be curious.

Too stupefied to be curious myself I fastened my door and glanced round for the bed.

The whole furniture consisted of a chair,

A clothes press and a large oak case with squares cut out near the top resembling coach windows.

Having approached this structure I looked inside and perceived it to be a singular sort of old-fashioned couch very conveniently designed to obviate the necessity for every member of the family having a room to himself.

In fact it formed a little closet and the ledge of a window which it enclosed served as a table.

I slid back the panelled sides,

Got in with my light,

Pulled them together again and felt secure against the vigilance of Heathcliff and everyone else.

The ledge where I placed my candle had a few mildewed books piled in one corner and was covered with writing scratched on the paint.

This writing however was nothing but a name pitted in all kinds of characters large and small.

Catherine Earnshaw here and there varied to Catherine Heathcliff and then again to Catherine Linton.

In vapid listlessness I leant my head against the window and continued spelling over Catherine Earnshaw,

Heathcliff,

Linton till my eyes closed.

But they had not rested five minutes when a glare of white letters started from the dark as vivid as spectres.

The air swarmed with Catherines and rousing myself to dispel the obtrusive name,

I discovered my candle wick reclining on one of the antique volumes and perfuming the place with an odour of roasted calf skin.

I snuffed it off and very ill at ease under the influence of cold and lingering heat,

Under the influence of cold and lingering nausea,

I sat up and spread open the injured tome on my knee.

It was a testament in lean time and smelling dreadfully musty.

A fly leaf bore the inscription Catherine Earnshaw,

Her book and a date of some quarter of a century back.

I shut it and took up another and another till I had examined all.

Catherine's library was select and its state of dilapidation proved it to have been well used,

Though not altogether for a legitimate purpose.

Scarcely one chapter had escaped a pen and ink commentary,

At least the appearance of one,

Covering every morsel of blank that the printer had left.

Some were detached sentences,

Other parts took the form of a regular diary,

Scrawled in an unformed childish hand.

At the top of an extra page,

Quite a treasure probably when first lighted on,

I was greatly amused to behold an excellent caricature of my friend Joseph,

Rudely yet powerfully sketched.

An immediate interest kindled within me for the unknown Catherine and I began forthwith to decipher her faded hieroglyphics.

An awful Sunday.

Commenced the paragraph beneath.

I wish my father were back again.

Hindley is a detestable substitute.

His conduct to Heathcliff is atrocious.

H and I are going to rebel,

We took our initiatory step this evening.

All day had been flooded with rain,

We could not go to church,

So Joseph must needs get up a congregation in the gout,

And while Hindley and his wife bask downstairs before a comfortable fire.

I'll answer for it.

Heathcliff,

Myself,

And the unhappy ploughboy were commanded to take out our prayer books and mount.

We were ranged in a row on a sack of corn,

Groaning and shivering,

And hoping that Joseph would shiver too,

Or he might give us a short homily for his own sake.

A vain idea.

The service lasts precisely three hours,

And yet my brother had the face to exclaim when he saw us descending.

What,

Done already?

On Sunday evenings we used to be permitted to play,

If we didn't make much noise.

Now a mere titter is sufficient to send us into corners.

You forget you have a master here,

Says the tyrant.

I'll demolish the first who puts me out of temper.

I insist on perfect sobriety and silence.

Oh boy,

Was that you?

Francis,

Darling,

Pull his hair as you go by.

I heard him snap his fingers.

Francis pulled his hair heartily and went and seated herself on Hindley's knee,

And there they were like two babies kissing and talking nonsense by the hour.

Foolish palaver we should be ashamed of.

At this,

I took my dingy volume by the scoop and hurled it into the dog kennel,

Bowing I hated a good book.

Heathcliff kicked his to the same place.

Then there was a hubbub.

Master Hindley,

Shouted our chaplain,

Master come hither,

But Miss Cathy's rivened back off the helmet of salvation,

And Heathcliff's past his fit,

Through past the broad way to destruction,

Is fair-flaysome,

And you let them go on his gait,

He's an old man,

He'd be laced improperly,

But he's gone.

Hindley hurried up from his paradise on the hearth,

And seizing one of us by the collar and the other by the arm,

Hurled both back into the back kitchen.

Then I reached this book and a pot of ink from the shelf,

And pushed the house door ajar to give me light,

And I've got the time on with writing for twenty minutes,

But my companion,

Heathcliff,

He's impatient and proposes we should appropriate the dairywoman's cloak and have a scamper on the moors under its shelter.

A pleasant suggestion.

And then if the surly old man come in again,

He may believe his prophecy verified.

We cannot be damper or colder in the rain than we are here.

I suppose Catherine fulfilled her project,

For the next sentence took up another subject.

How little did I dream Hindley would ever make me cry so,

She wrote,

My head aches till I cannot keep it on the pillow and I can't give over.

Poor Heathcliff,

Hindley calls him a vagabond and won't let him sit with us nor eat with us anymore,

And he says he and I must not play together and threatens to turn him out of the house if we break his orders.

He's been blaming our father for treating H2 liberally,

And swears he will reduce him to his right place.

I began to nod drowsily over the dim page.

My eye wandered from manuscript to print.

I saw a red ornamented title,

20 times 7 and the first of the 71st.

Then I sank back in bed and fell asleep.

Alas for the effects of a bad tea and a bad temper,

What else could it be that made me pass such a terrible night?

I don't remember another I can at all compare with it since I was capable of suffering.

I began to dream,

Almost before I ceased to be sensible of my locality.

Oh,

How weary I grew,

How I writhed and yawned and nodded and revived,

How I pinched and pricked myself and rubbed my eyes.

And at once I remembered I was lying in the oak closet and I heard distinctly the gusty wind and the driving of the snow.

I heard also the fir bough repeat its teasing sound and ascribed it to the right cause.

But it annoyed me so much I resolved it to silence if possible.

And I thought I rose and endeavoured to unhasp casement.

A book was soldered into the staple,

A circumstance observed by me when awake but forgotten.

I must stop it nevertheless,

I muttered,

Knocking my knuckles through the glass.

I was again dreaming,

A nightmare.

I tried to draw back my arm but the hand clung to it and a most melancholy voice sobbed,

Let me in,

Let me in.

Who are you?

I asked,

Struggling.

Catherine Linton,

It replied shiveringly.

I've come home,

I'd lost my way on the moor.

As the voice spoke I discerned obscurely a child's face looking through the window.

Terror made me crawl.

And finding it useless to attempt shaking the creature off I pulled its wrist onto the broken pane and rubbed it to and fro.

The blood ran down and soaked the bedclothes.

Still it wailed,

Let me in,

And maintained its tenacious grip.

Be gone,

I shouted,

I'll never let you in,

Not if you beg for twenty years.

It is twenty years,

Moaned the voice,

Twenty years I've been away from you.

Twenty years,

Moaned the voice,

Twenty years I've been away for twenty years.

Thereat began a feeble scratching outside and the pile of books moved as if thrust forward.

I tried to jump up but I could not stir a limb and so yelled out in a frenzy of fright.

To my confusion I discovered the yell was not ideal.

Hasty footsteps approached my chamber door,

Somebody pushed it open with a vigorous hand and a light glimmered through the squares at the top of the bed.

I sat shivering yet and wiping the perspiration from my forehead,

The intruder appeared to hesitate and mutter to himself in a half whisper,

Is anyone here?

I considered it best to confess my presence for I knew Heathcliff's accents and feared he might search further if I kept quiet.

With this intention I turned and opened the panels,

I shall not soon forget the effect my action produced.

Heathcliff stood near the entrance in his shirt and trousers with a candle dripping over his fingers and his face as white as the wall behind him.

The first creak of the oak startled him like an electric shock,

The light leaped from his hold to a distance of some feet and his agitation was so extreme he could hardly pick it up.

It is only your guest sir,

I called out,

Zeros to spare him the humiliation of exposing his cowardice further.

I had the misfortune to scream in my sleep owing to a frightful nightmare,

I'm sorry I disturbed you.

What confound you Mr Lockwood,

I wish you were at the- My host settling the candle on the chair because he found it impossible to hold it steady.

And who showed you up into this room?

He continued crushing his nails into his palm and grinding his teeth.

Who was it of a good mind to turn them out of the house this moment?

It was your servant Zilla,

I replied,

Flinging myself onto the floor and rapidly resuming my garments.

I should not care if you did Mr Heathcliff,

She richly deserves it.

I suppose she wanted to get another proof the place was haunted at my expense.

Well it is,

Swarming with ghosts and goblins,

You have reason in shutting it up I assure you,

No one will thank you for a doze in such a den.

What do you mean?

Asked Heathcliff.

And what are you doing?

Lie down and finish out the night since you were here,

But for heaven's sake don't repeat that horrid noise,

Nothing could excuse it,

Unless you were having your throat cut.

If the little fiend would have got into the window she would have strangled me.

I returned.

I'm not going to endure the persecutions of your hospitable ancestors again.

Was not the reverend James Branderman akin to you on the mother's side?

Catherine Linton or Earnshaw or however she was called,

She must have been a changeling wicked little soul.

She told me she'd been walking the earth those 20 years,

A just punishment for her mortal transgressions I've no doubt.

Scarcely were these words uttered when I recollected the association of Heathcliff's with Catherine's name in the book.

I blushed at my inconsideration.

Can you mean by talking in this way to me?

Thundered Heathcliff with savage vehemence.

How dare you under my roof?

Then he struck his forehead with rage.

I did not know whether to resent this language or persist.

Did not know whether to resent this language or pursue my explanation.

But Heathcliff seemed so powerfully affected,

I took pity and proceeded with my dreams.

Affirming I'd never heard the appellation of Catherine Linton before,

But reading it often over produced an impression which personified itself when I had no longer my imagination under control.

Heathcliff gradually fell back into the shelter of the bed as I spoke.

Finally sitting down almost concealed behind it.

I guessed however by his irregular and intercepted breathing he struggled to vanquish an excessive violent emotion.

Always at nine in winter and rise at four,

Said my host suppressing a groan.

And then as I fancied by the motion of his shadow's arm,

Dashing a tear from his eyes.

Mr.

Lockwood,

He added,

You may go into my room,

And you'll only be in the way coming downstairs so early.

And your childish outcry is sent sleep to the devil for me.

And for me too,

I replied.

I'll walk in the yard till daylight and then I'll be off and you need not dread a repetition of my intrusion.

I'm now quite cured of seeking pleasure in society,

Be it country or town.

A sensible man ought to find sufficient company in himself.

Delightful company,

Muttered Heathcliff.

Take the candle and go where you please.

I shall join you directly.

Keep out of the yard though,

The dogs are unchained.

I obeyed so far as to quit the chamber.

And Heathcliff got into the bed,

Wrenched open the lattice,

Bursting as he pulled at it.

Bursting as he pulled at it into an uncontrollable passion of tears.