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Wuthering Heights
Wuthering Heights
Table of Contents
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Wuthering Heights
by Emily Bronte
retold by Clare West
CHAPTER 1
Mr Lockwood visits Wuthering Heights
[1801]
I have just returned from a visit to my landlord, Mr Heathcliff. I am delighted with the house I
am renting from him. Thrushcross Grange is miles away from any town or village. That suits me perfectly.
And the scenery here in Yorkshire is so beautiful!
Mr Heathcliff, in fact, is my only neighbour, and I think his character is similar to mine. He does not
like people either.
'My name is Lockwood,' I said, when I met him at the gate to his house. 'I'm renting Thrushcross Grange
from you. I just wanted to come and introduce myself.'
He said nothing, but frowned, and did not encourage me to enter. After a while, however, he decided to
invite me in.
'Joseph, take Mr Lockwood's horse!' he called. 'And bring up some wine from the cellar!' Joseph was a
very old servant, with a sour expression on his face. He looked crossly up at me as he took my horse.
'God help us! A visitor!' he muttered to himself. Perhaps there were no other servants, I thought. And it
seemed that Mr Heathcliff hardly ever received guests.
His house is called Wuthering Heights. The name means 'a windswept house on a hill', and it is a very
good description. The trees around the house do not grow straight, but are bent by the north wind, which
blows over the moors every day of the year. Fortunately, the house is strongly built, and is not damaged even
by the worst winter storms. The name 'Earnshaw' is cut into a stone over the front door.
Mr Heathcliff and I entered the huge main room. It could have been any Yorkshire farmhouse kitchen,
except that there was no sign of cooking, and no farmer sitting at the table. Mr Heathcliff certainly does not
look like a farmer. His hair and skin are dark, like a gipsy's, but he has the manners of a gentleman. He could
perhaps take more care with his appearance, but he is handsome. I think he is proud, and also unhappy.
We sat down by the fire, in silence.
'Joseph!' shouted Mr Heathcliff. No answer came from the cellar, so he dived down there, leaving me
alone with several rather fierce−looking dogs. Suddenly one of them jumped angrily up at me, and in a
moment all the others were attacking me. From every shadowy corner in the great room appeared a growling
animal, ready to kill me, it seemed.
'Help! Mr Heathcliff! Help!' I shouted, trying to keep the dogs back. My landlord and his servant were in
no hurry to help, and could not have climbed the cellar steps more slowly, but luckily a woman, who I
supposed was the housekeeper, rushed into the room to calm the dogs.
'What the devil is the matter?' Mr Heathcliff asked me rudely, when he finally entered the room.
'Your dogs, sir!' I replied. 'You shouldn't leave a stranger with them. They're dangerous.'
'Come, come, Mr Lockwood. Have some wine. We don't often have strangers here, and I'm afraid
neither I nor my dogs are used to receiving them.'
I could not feel offended after this, and accepted the wine. We sat drinking and talking together for a
while. I suggested visiting him tomorrow. He did not seem eager to see me again, but I shall go anyway. I am
interested in him, even if he isn't interested in me.
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Wuthering Heights
* * *
Two days later Yesterday afternoon was misty and bitterly cold, but I walked the four miles to
Wuthering Heights and arrived just as it was beginning to snow. I banged on the front door for ten minutes,
getting colder and colder. Finally Joseph's head appeared at a window of one of the farm buildings.
'What do you want?' he growled.
'Could you let me in?' I asked desperately.
He shook his head. 'There's only Mrs Heathcliff indoors, and she won't open the door to you.'
Just then a young man appeared and called me to follow him. We went through the back door and into
the big room where I had been before. I was delighted to see a warm fire and a table full of food. And this
time there was a woman sitting by the fire. She must be Mrs Heathcliff, I thought. I had not imagined my
landlord was married. She looked at me coldly without saying anything.
'Terrible weather!' I remarked. There was silence.
'What a beautiful animal!' I tried again, pointing to one of the dogs that had attacked me. She still said
nothing, but got up to make the tea. She was only about seventeen, with the most beautiful little face I had
ever seen. Her golden wavy hair fell around her shoulders.
'Have you been invited to tea?' she asked me crossly.
'No, but you are the proper person to invite me,' I smiled.
For some reason this really annoyed her. She stopped making the tea, and threw herself angrily back in
her chair. Meanwhile the young man was staring aggressively at me. He looked like a farm worker, but
seemed to be part of the family. I did not feel at all comfortable. At last Heathcliff came in.
'Here I am, sir, as I promised!' I said cheerfully.
'You shouldn't have come,' he answered, shaking the snow off his clothes. 'You'll never find your way
back in the dark.'
'Perhaps you could lend me a servant to guide me back to the Grange?' I asked.
'No, I couldn't. There aren't any servants here except Joseph and the housekeeper. Get the tea ready, will
you?' he added fiercely to the young woman. I was shocked by his unpleasantness.
We sat down to eat. I tried to make conversation with the three silent people round the table.
'How happy you must be, Mr Heathcliff,' I began, 'in this quiet place, with your wife and − '
'My wife! My wife's ghost, you mean?'
I suddenly realized I had made a serious mistake. So his wife was dead! Of course he was too old to be
married to that young girl. She must be married to the young man next to me, who was drinking his tea out of
a bowl and eating his bread with unwashed hands. Perhaps the poor girl had found no one better to marry in
this uninhabited area. I turned politely to the young man.
'Ah, so you are this lady's husband!' This was worse than before. His face went red, and he seemed only
just able to stop himself hitting me. He muttered something I could not hear.
'Wrong again, Mr Lockwood,' said Mr Heathcliff. 'No, her husband, my son, is dead. This,' he added,
looking scornfully at the young man, 'is certainly not my son.'
'My name is Hareton Earnshaw,' growled the young man.
We finished our meal in silence, and when I looked out of the window, all I could see was darkness and
snow.
'I don't think I can get home without a guide,' I said politely. No one answered me. I turned to the
woman.
'Mrs Heathcliff,' I begged, 'What can I do? Please help me!'
'Take the road you came on,' she replied without interest, opening a book. 'That's the best advice I can
give.'
'Mr Heathcliff, I'll have to stay here for the night!' I told him.
'I hope that will teach you not to walk over the moors in bad weather,' he answered. 'I don't keep guest
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Wuthering Heights
bedrooms. You can share a bed with Hareton or Joseph.'
I was so angry with them all that I could not stay there a moment longer, and rushed out into the
darkness. I saw Joseph by the back door, caught hold of the lamp he was carrying, and ran with it to the gate.
But the dogs chased after me and attacked me, and I was soon knocked to the ground. Heathcliff and Hareton
stood at the door, laughing, as I shouted at the dogs and tried to get up. In the end I was again rescued by the
housekeeper, Zillah, who ordered away the dogs and helped me to my feet.
I was so bruised and exhausted that I did not feel strong enough to walk home, and although I did not
want to, I had to spend the night at Wuthering Heights. Nobody wished me goodnight, as Zillah took me
upstairs to find a bed for me.
CHAPTER 2
Catherine Earnshaw's room
[1801]
'Quietly, sir!' whispered the housekeeper, as we climbed up the dark stairs. 'My master will be
angry if he discovers which bedroom you're sleeping in. For some reason he doesn't want anyone to sleep
there, I don't know why. They're strange people in this house, you know. Here's the room, sir.'
But I was too tired to listen. 'Thank you, Zillah,' I said, and, taking the candle, I entered the room and
closed the door.
The only piece of furniture in the large, dusty bedroom was a bed, placed next to the window. There
were heavy curtains which could be pulled around it, to hide the sleeper from anyone else in the room.
Looking inside the curtains I saw a little shelf full of books, just under the window. I put my candle down on
the shelf, and dropped thankfully on to the bed. I closed the curtains around the bed, and felt safe from
Heathcliff and everyone else at Wuthering Heights.
I noticed that there were names written on the wall in childish handwriting − Catherine Earnshaw,
Catherine Heathcliff and Catherine Linton. Then I fell asleep, but I was woken very suddenly by a smell of
burning. My candle had fallen on to a Bible on the shelf and was burning it. When I opened the Bible to see if
it was damaged, I found that wherever there was an empty page, or half a page, someone had written on it,
and on the first page was written 'Catherine Earnshaw's diary, 1776'. Who was the girl who had slept in this
bed, written her name on the wall, and then written her diary in the Bible, twenty−five years ago? I read it
with interest.
'How I hate my brother Hindley!' it began. 'He is so cruel to poor Heathcliff. If only my father hadn't
died! While he was alive, Heathcliff was like a brother to Hindley and me. But now Hindley and his wife
Frances have inherited the house and the money, and they hate Heathcliff. That horrible old servant Joseph is
always angry with Heathcliff and me because we don't pray or study the Bible, and when he tells his master,
Hindley always punishes us. I can't stop crying. Poor Heathcliff! Hindley says he is wicked, and can't play
with me or eat with me any more.'
My eyes were beginning to close again and I fell asleep. Never before had I passed such a terrible night,
disturbed by the most frightening dreams. Suddenly I was woken by a gentle knocking on the window. It
must be the branch of a tree, I thought, and tried to sleep again. Outside I could hear the wind driving the
snow against the window.
But I could not sleep. The knocking annoyed me so much that I tried to open the window. When it did
not open, I broke the glass angrily and stretched out my hand towards the branch. But instead, my fingers
closed around a small, ice−cold hand! It held my hand tightly, and a voice cried sadly, 'Let me in! Let me in!'
'Who are you?' I asked, trying to pull my hand away.
'Catherine Linton,' it replied. 'I've come home. I lost my way!' There seemed to be a child's face looking
in at the window.
Terror made me cruel. I rubbed the creature's tiny wrist against the broken glass so that blood poured
down on to the bed. As soon as the cold fingers let go for a moment, I pulled my hand quickly back, put a
pile of books in front of the broken window, and tried not to listen to the desperate cries outside.
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