cloud, it was my duty to make an effort to
dispel it. They could not every day sit so grim and taciturn; and it was
impossible, however ill-tempered they might be, that the universal scowl
they wore was their every-day countenance.

'It is strange,' I began, in the interval of swallowing one cup of tea
and receiving another--'it is strange how custom can mould our tastes and
ideas: many could not imagine the existence of happiness in a life of
such complete exile from the world as you spend, Mr. Heathcliff; yet,
I'll venture to say, that, surrounded by your family, and with your
amiable lady as the presiding genius over your home and heart--'

'My amiable lady!' he interrupted, with an almost diabolical sneer on his
face. 'Where is she--my amiable lady?'

'Mrs. Heathcliff, your wife, I mean.'

'Well, yes--oh, you would intimate that her spirit has taken the post of
ministering angel, and guards the fortunes of Wuthering Heights, even
when her body is gone. Is that it?'

Perceiving myself in a blunder, I attempted to correct it. I might have
seen there was too great a disparity between the ages of the parties to
make it likely that they were man and wife. One was about forty: a
period of mental vigour at which men seldom cherish the delusion of being
married for love by girls: that dream is reserved for the solace of our
declining years. The other did not look seventeen.

Then it flashed on me--'The clown at my elbow, who is drinking his tea
out of a basin and eating his broad with unwashed hands, may be her
husband: Heathcliff junior, of course. Here is the consequence of being
buried alive: she has thrown herself away upon that boor from sheer
ignorance that better individuals existed! A sad pity--I must beware how
I cause her to regret her choice.' The last reflection may seem
conceited; it was not. My neighbour struck me as bordering on repulsive;
I knew, through experience, that I was tolerably attractive.

'Mrs. Heathcliff is my daughter-in-law,' said Heathcliff, corroborating
my surmise. He turned, as he spoke, a peculiar look in her direction: a
look of hatred; unless he has a most perverse set of facial muscles that
will not, like those of other people, interpret the language of his soul.

'Ah, certainly--I see now: you are the favoured possessor of the
beneficent fairy,' I remarked, turning to my neighbour.

This was worse than before: the youth grew crimson, and clenched his
fist, with ever