Chapter 41

CHAPTER XLI - THE JOURNEY'S END

'I see my way as birds their trackless way--

I shall arrive! what time, what circuit first,

I ask not: but unless God send his hail

Or blinding fire-balls, sleet, or stifling snow,

In some time--his good time--I shall arrive;

He guides me and the bird. In His good time!'

BROWNING'S PARACELSUS.

So the winter was getting on, and the days were beginning to
lengthen, without bringing with them any of the brightness of
hope which usually accompanies the rays of a February sun. Mrs.
Thornton had of course entirely ceased to come to the house. Mr.
Thornton came occasionally, but his visits were addressed to her
father, and were confined to the study. Mr. Hale spoke of him as
always the same; indeed, the very rarity of their intercourse
seemed to make Mr. Hale set only the higher value on it. And from
what Margaret could gather of what Mr. Thornton had said, there
was nothing in the cessation of his visits which could arise from
any umbrage or vexation. His business affairs had become
complicated during the strike, and required closer attention than
he had given to them last winter. Nay, Margaret could even
discover that he spoke from time to time of her, and always, as
far as she could learn, in the same calm friendly way, never
avoiding and never seeking any mention of her name.

She was not in spirits to raise her father's tone of mind. The
dreary peacefulness of the present time had been preceded by so
long a period of anxiety and care--even intermixed with
storms--that her mind had lost its elasticity. She tried to find
herself occupation in teaching the two younger Boucher children,
and worked hard at goodness; hard, I say most truly, for her
heart seemed dead to the end of all her efforts; and though she
made them punctually and painfully, yet she stood as far off as
ever from any cheerfulness; her life seemed still bleak and
dreary. The only thing she did well, was what she did out of
unconscious piety, the silent comforting and consoling of her
father. Not a mood of his but what found a ready sympathiser in
Margaret; not a wish of his that she did not strive to forecast,
and to fulfil. They were quiet wishes to be sure, and hardly
named without hesitation and apology. All the more complete and
beautiful was her meek spirit of obedience. March brought the
news of Frederick's marriage. He and Dolores wrote; she in
Spanish-English, as was but natural, and he with little turns and
inversions of words which proved how far the idioms of his
bride's country were infecting him.

On the receipt of Henry Lennox's letter, announcing how little
hope there was of his ever clearing himself at a court-martial,