BOOK ONE: A HOUSE OF HATRED

CHAPTER ONE

A Strange Night

In the winter of 1801, I first visited the large, lonely house called Wuthering Heights. It was at that time that I met the strange and angry man who I will remember until I die.

That year, I moved to Yorkshire, a county of England. I lived in a fine old house, which was named Thrushcross Grange. I had written to a man named Heathcliff and asked to rent the house from him. He was my only neighbor in all that country. When I had been at the house for about a week, I decided to walk across the moor and visit him.

It was a cold afternoon in winter when I began to walk. Fog hung in the trees, and in the distance, large, sharp, tall rocks called the Penistone Crags rose up out of the ground. I had to walk almost four miles through the grass and mud before I saw Wuthering Heights, the house where Heathcliff lived. It stood on the top of a hill. Around the house was a circle of short, dark trees. The house was long and low and made of gray stone. It had narrow windows in the walls.

The ground was hard because of the winter frost. The air was cold as I walked towards the house. I arrived at the gate of the house's garden. It was beginning to snow, and the snowflakes were blinding my eyes. I could not see, but I put my hand on the gate. Suddenly I stopped, with a look of surprise. A man was there, leaning on the gate. He stared at me with his cold, dark eyes. He seemed as gloomy and silent as the gravestones in the churchyard at the foot of the hill. He straightened up, standing tall and still. His hair and eyes were black. The features of his face were cruel-looking, yet he was very handsome. He was dressed in good clothes, like a gentleman. But his skin was as dark as a savage's.

I guessed who he was. "Are you Mr Heathcliff?" I said.

He did not speak, he only nodded his head.

"My name is Lockwood. I rent the house Thrushcross Grange from you. I thought I should come and meet you."

"Come in!" he said. His voice sounded so angry that he could have been saying "Go to Hell!" However, he opened the gate, and we walked along the garden path. As we entered a big yard, he called out, "Joseph, bring up some wine!" Then he spoke to me in a cold voice. "I shall be with you in a moment. If you need anything, ask the servant."

He walked off around a corner of the house. I waited for his servant. While I waited, I looked at the strange writing on the door of the house. Among them, I saw the date "1500" and the name "Hareton Earnshaw" carved on the door.

I heard someone coming. A man appeared through a side door. He was an old man with a thin, tight mouth in a sour and angry face. I thought that this was Joseph. He looked at me meanly. "Well," he said, "you should come inside, out of the cold. The mistress of the house is inside!"

He led me along a passage made of stones, and told me to go through a door on my right. I did, and found myself in a big room where a fire was burning in a very large fireplace, like a small cave. Some frightening-looking guns were on the wall, above the fireplace. Sitting close to the fire were two large dogs, which growled at me. Beside the dogs there was a table with much food on it.

And then I saw the girl who was sitting at the table. She was a beautiful girl of some twenty years, with an exquisite face framed by soft golden hair.

I bowed and waited for her to speak. She only stared at me in a cool and scornful manner.

I went closer to the fire. "I think there will be a storm tonight," I said. "It's begun to snow."

"You shouldn't have come here," she said. Then she stood up and reached for a painted box on a high shelf. It was almost too high for her. I made a move to help her. She turned upon me suddenly.

"I can get it myself!" she said angrily.

"I beg your pardon!" I quickly said.

"Do you want any tea?" she demanded, opening the box, and standing with a spoon poised over the pot.

"I would be happy to have a cup." I answered.

"Did anyone ask you if you wanted any?" she said.

"No," I said, smiling. "You are the person who asked me."

She threw the tea leaves and the spoon into the box. But before she could say anything the door opened and Heathcliff came in. Behind him there was a tall young man in rough clothing, with thick brown curly hair, and an angry look.

Heathcliff nodded to me, but his face was angry. He began shaking white snowflakes from his clothes. Through the window, I could see that snow was falling quickly.

"I'm afraid I shall have to stay here for half an hour or so, because of the weather." I said. "May I shelter here?"

"I don't know why you have to walk around in a snowstorm," Heathcliff growled. "Don't you know that you might get lost on the moors? People who know this area often get lost on nights like this, and the weather's not going to change for some time."

"Perhaps one of your boys could guide me home," I said, "and stay at my house until morning. Could you spare me one?"

"No, I could not."

"Oh! Then I'll have to find my own way back."

Heathcliff said nothing.

"Are you going to make the tea?" asked the young man. He looked from me to the young lady.

She stared coldly at me for a moment. "Is he going to have any?" she asked.

"Make the tea, will you?" said Heathcliff, speaking so savagely that I started. "Bring up your chair," he added to me, and we all drew round the table.

Food was passed in silence, and the three looked very angry as they ate it. I thought it my duty to make polite talk.

"Mr Heathcliff," I began, "there must be times here, when you and your wife ... "

"My wife!" growled Heathcliff, with an ugly look on his face. "My wife is dead!"

I saw that I had made a mistake. Then I suddenly thought that the young man at my elbow, drinking his tea out of a bowl and eating his bread with dirty hands, might be the husband of the girl. I sighed at the thought.

"Mrs Heathcliff is my daughter-in-law," said Heathcliff, as if he guessed my thoughts.

He turned, as he spoke, and looked at the girl. She met his gaze squarely and in that moment I saw in both their eyes a look of devilish hatred. It was quite unmistakable.

"Ah," I said uneasily, to the youth at my side, "so you are the happy husband ... "

I stopped. The young man had turned very red.

"She's not my wife!" he said.

He let out the words with a sudden burst of strong hatred, and followed them with a curse.

"Wrong again," said Heathcliff, with something like a cold laugh. "I said she was my daughter-in-law; therefore, she must have married my son."

"And this young man is ... "

"Not my son, I tell you."

He smiled, as if at the strangeness of the situation.

"My name is Hareton Earnshaw," growled the youth. "And you'd better respect it!"

"I've shown it no disrespect," I replied, amused at his tone of voice.

He stared at me for a moment and then went on putting food into his mouth. I said no more, but sat wondering at this house of strange hatreds.

As soon as the meal was finished, I stood up and went to a window. There, I saw a sad sight. The dark night was coming early. The sky and hills could not be seen, in the great storm of snow.

"I shall need someone to take me home." I said. "The road will be buried in the snow."

"Hareton, go and take the sheep into the barn," said Heathcliff.

"What shall I do?" I asked feeling annoyed.

There was no reply. I looked round. Heathcliff and the young man had gone out. Mrs Heathcliff had picked up a book.

"Will you point out some landmarks by which I can find my way home?" I said.

"Take the road that you came here on!" she answered carelessly.

"If you hear of me being found dead in a swamp, or a hole full of snow, I suppose it won't worry you!" I said angrily.

"Why should it? I can't show you the way. They wouldn't let me. And there's no one else to take you."

"Then I'll have to stay here," I said hopelessly.

She shrugged. "I have nothing to do with that either," she said.

"I hope this will be a lesson to you, not to go walking around on these hills," said Heathcliff's stern voice from the kitchen door. "As to staying here, you will have to share a bed with Hareton or Joseph if you do."

"I can sleep on a chair in this room," I replied.

"Oh, no! I'm not going to have you roaming about the place while I'm asleep," said the unkind man.

That was the last straw. I uttered an expression of disgust, and went past Heathcliff into the yard. I saw Joseph in the barn milking cows by the light of a lantern. In my anger, I moved towards him, snatched up the light, called out that I would send it back on the morrow, and rushed towards the gate.

"Master, he's stealing a lantern!" shouted Joseph. "Hey, Gnasher! Hey, dog! Hey, Wolf, hold him, hold him, hold him!"

The next second two hairy dogs came flying at my throat, bearing me down. I heard a deep yell from Heathcliff, who was behind me. I was burning with anger, but the dogs stood over me and growled so fiercely that I dared not rise till their master walked up and dragged them off.

I got to my feet then, trembling with rage, and ordered them to let me out. My words were cut short by a gush of blood from my nose. Hareton had appeared from somewhere, and he and Heathcliff stood and roared with laughter until an old woman, whose name I found was Zillah, came out to see what all the uproar was about.

"Look at the poor lad!" she cried. "He's almost choking! I wish you all wouldn't act this way! Come in, and I'll take care of you."

With these words she splashed a pint of icy water down my neck and took me into the kitchen. Heathcliff followed, told her to give me some liquor, and said something about a room for the night. He went out again.

Zillah gave me the brandy, handed me a candle and told me to follow her upstairs. "And don't make a noise." she said. "I don't want the master to know which room I'm giving you. He never lets anybody stay there—but it's the one you'll have to stay in tonight."

She left me in a big room, with simple furniture, and an old-fashioned bed made of oak wood beneath a window.

I undressed and got into bed, leaving my candle burning. There was a shelf on the wall above the bed, with a few books piled up in one corner. There was writing scratched on the wall—someone's name. It was repeated again and again, in all kinds of writing, large and small—Catherine—Catherine Earnshaw, here and there Catherine Heathcliff, and then again, Catherine Linton.

I lay back and continued spelling over the names Catherine Earnshaw—Heathcliff—Linton till my eyes closed, and the white letters shone from the dark as vivid as ghosts, and the air seemed full with the name of "Catherine."

Even now, I cannot tell if what happened later on that terrible night was a dream—or whether, in fact, I had a ghostly visitor.

I was lying in bed, listening to the howling wind and the driving of the snow. I heard also the noises of a tree branch, that touched my window as the wind came by. The branch tapped against the window. It annoyed me so much that I decided to silence it. I sat up and tried to open the window. It was stuck!

"I must stop it," I kept saying.

The sound, indeed, was making me insane. Somehow it must and should be stopped.

I raised my fist, and smashed it through the glass. I put an arm through the hole to grab the branch.

And then it happened!

My fingers closed on the fingers of a small, ice-cold hand.

(end of section)