CHAPTER 33

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'd closed my shutter, laid a mat to the door to prevent the snow,

from blowing in under it, trimmed my fire. Then after sitting nearly an hour on the

hearth, listening to the muffled fury of the tempest, a little candle took down

Marmian, and beginning. Day set on Norham's castled steep, and tweeds fair river broad

and deep, and Chavoy, mountains loan, the massive towers, the dawn John keep. The flanking

walls that round them sweep, in yellow luster shone. 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 instead before me. The

cloak that covered his tall figure all white is a glacier. I was almost in consternation.

So little had I expected any guest from the blocked up veil that night.

Any ill news, I demand it, 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 sell you 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. Hadply the snow

is quite soft yet. But why are you come? I could not forbear saying.

Rather an inhospitable question to a visitor, but since you ask it, I answer simply to have

...