she has formed the ambition to spread my Master’s Kingdom, to achieve victories for the standard of the Cross. So much has religion done for me; turning the original materials to the best account; pruning and training nature. But she could not eradicate nature; nor will it be eradicated “till this mortal shall put on immortality.”’11
Having said this, he took his hat, which lay on the table beside my palette. Once more he looked at the portrait.
‘She is lovely,’ he murmured. ‘She is well named the Rose of the World,12 indeed!’
‘And may I not paint one like it for you?’
‘Cui bono?13 No.’
He drew over the picture the sheet of thin paper on which I was accustomed to rest my hand in painting, to prevent the card-board from being sullied. What he suddenly saw on this blank paper, it was impossible for me to tell; but something had caught his eye. He took it up with a snatch; he looked at the edge; then shot a glance at me, inexpressibly peculiar, and quite incomprehensible: a glance that seemed to take and make note of every point in my shape, face and dress; for it traversed all, quick, keen as lightning. His lips parted, as if to speak: but he checked the coming sentence, whatever it was.
‘What is the matter?’ I asked.
‘Nothing in the world,’ was the reply; and replacing the paper, I saw him dexterously tear a narrow slip from the margin. It disappeared in his glove; and, with one hasty nod and ‘good-afternoon,’ he vanished.
‘Well!’ I exclaimed, using an expression of the district, ‘that caps the globe, however!’
I, in my turn, scrutinised the paper; but saw nothing on it save a few dingy stains of paint where I had tried the tint in my pencil. I pondered the mystery a minute or two; but finding it insolvable, and being certain it could not be of much moment, I dismissed, and soon forgot it.
CHAPTER XXXIII
When Mr St John went, it was beginning to snow; the whirling storm continued all night. The next day a keen wind brought fresh and blinding falls; by twilight the valley was drifted up and almost impassable. I had closed my shutter, laid a mat to the door to prevent the snow from blowing in under it, trimmed my fire, and after sitting nearly an hour on the hearth listening to the muffled fury of the tempest, I lit a candle, took down ‘Marmion’, and beginning –
‘Day set on Norham’s castled steep,
And Tweed’s fair river broad and deep,
And Cheviot’s mountains lone;
The massive towers, the donjon keep,
The flanking walls that round them sweep,
In yellow lustre shone’ –1
I soon forgot storm in music.
I heard a noise: the wind, I thought, shook the door. No; it was St John Rivers, who, lifting the latch, came in out of the frozen hurricane, the howling darkness, and stood before me: the cloak that covered his tall figure all white as a glacier. I was almost in consternation, so little had I expected any guest from the blocked-up vale that night.
‘Any ill news?’ I demanded. ‘Has anything happened?’
‘No. How very easily alarmed you are?’ he answered, removing his cloak and hanging it up against the door, towards which he again coolly pushed the mat which his entrance had deranged. He stamped the snow from his boots.
‘I shall sully the purity of your floor,’ said he, ‘but you must excuse me for once.’ Then he approached the fire. ‘I have had hard work to get here, I assure you,’ he observed, as he warmed his hands over the flame. ‘One drift took me up to the waist; happily the snow is quite soft yet.’
‘But why are you come?’ I could not forbear saying.
‘Rather an inhospitable question to put to a visitor: but since you ask it, I answer simply to have a little talk with you; I got tired of my mute books and empty rooms. Besides, since yesterday I have experienced the excitement of a person to whom a tale has been half-told, and who is impatient to hear the sequel.’
He sat down. I recalled his singular conduct of yesterday, and really I began to fear his wits were touched. If he were insane, however, his was a very cool and collected insanity: I had never seen that handsome-featured face of his look more like chiselled marble than it did just now, as he put aside his snow-wet hair from his forehead and let the firelight shine free on his pale brow and