“Why, almost bright and cheerful. No, almost nothing—very much excited, and wild, and glad!” she replied.
“Night-walking amuses him, then,” I remarked, affecting a careless manner: in reality as surprised as she was, and anxious to ascertain the truth of her statement; for to see the master looking glad would not be an every-day spectacle. I framed an excuse to go in. Heathcliff stood at the open door; he was pale, and he trembled: yet, certainly, he had a strange joyful glitter in his eyes, that altered the aspect of his whole face.
“Will you have some breakfast?” I said. “You must be hungry, rambling about all night!” I wanted to discover where he had been, but I did not like to ask directly.
“No, I’m not hungry,” he answered, averting his head, and speaking rather contemptuously, as if he guessed I was trying to divine the occasion of his good humour.
I felt perplexed: I didn’t know whether it were not a proper opportunity to offer a bit of admonition.
“I don’t think it right to wander out of doors,” I observed, “instead of being in bed: it is not wise, at any rate this moist season. I daresay you’ll catch a bad cold, or a fever: you have something the matter with you now!”
“Nothing but what I can bear,” he replied; “and with the greatest pleasure, provided you’ll leave me alone: get in, and don’t annoy me.”
I obeyed: and, in passing, I noticed he breathed as fast as a cat.
“Yes!” I reflected to myself, “we shall have a fit of illness. I cannot conceive what he has been doing.”
That noon he sat down to dinner with us, and received a heaped-up plate from my hands, as if he intended to make amends for previous fasting.