“But where did he come from, the little dark thing, harbored by a good man to his bane?” muttered Superstition, as I dozed into unconsciousness.  And I began, half dreaming, to weary myself with imagining some fit parentage for him:  and repeating my waking meditations I tracked his existence over again, with grim variations; at last picturing his death and funeral; of which all I can remember is being exceedingly vexed at having the task of dictating an inscription for his monument, and consulting the sexton about it; and as he had no surname, and we could not tell his age, we were obliged to content ourselves with the single word “Heathcliff.”  That came true—­we were.  If you enter the kirkyard, you’ll read on his headstone only that, and the date of his death.  Dawn restored me to common-sense.  I rose, and went into the garden, as soon as I could see, to ascertain if there were any foot-marks under his window.  There were none.

“He has staid at home,” I thought, “and he’ll be all right to-day!”

I prepared breakfast for the household, as was my usual custom, but told Hareton and Catherine to get theirs ere the master came down, for he lay late.  They preferred taking it out of doors, under the trees, and I set a little table to accommodate them.

On my re-entrance I found Mr. Heathcliff below.  He and Joseph were conversing about some farming business; he gave clear, minute directions concerning the matter discussed, but he spoke rapidly, and turned his head continually aside, and had the same excited expression, even more exaggerated.

When Joseph quitted the room, he took his seat in the place he generally chose, and I put a basin of coffee before him.  He drew it nearer, and then rested his arms on the table, and looked at the opposite wall, as I supposed surveying one particular portion, up and down, with glittering, restless eyes, and with such eager interest that he stopped breathing during half a minute together.

“Come now,” I exclaimed, pushing some bread against his hand, “eat and drink that while it is hot.  It has been waiting near an hour.”

He didn’t notice me, and yet he smiled.  I’d rather have seen him gnash his teeth than smile so.

“Mr. Heathcliff! master!” I cried.  “Don’t, for God’s sake, stare as if you saw an unearthly vision.”

“Don’t, for God’s sake, shout so loud,” he replied.  “Turn round and tell me, are we by ourselves?”

“Of course,” was my answer, “of course we are!”

Still I involuntarily obeyed him, as if I were not quite sure.  With a sweep of his hand he cleared a vacant space in front among the breakfast things, and leaned forward to gaze more at his ease.

Now I perceived he was not looking at the wall; for when I regarded him alone, it seemed exactly that he gazed at something within two yards’ distance.  And, whatever it was, it communicated apparently both pleasure and pain in exquisite extremes; at least the anguished yet raptured expression of his countenance suggested that idea.