Margaret was happily out of hearing. A fresh blow had just been struck. She had looked to Mrs Enderby for information on the subject which for ever occupied her, and on which she felt that she must know more or sink. She had been much disappointed at being refused admission to the old lady, time after time. Now all hope of free access and private conversation was over. She had set it as an object before her to see Mrs Enderby, and learn as much of Philip’s affair as his mother chose to offer: now this object was lost, and nothing remained to be done or hoped—for it was too certain that Mrs Enderby’s friends would not be allowed unrestrained intercourse with her in her daughter’s house.
For some little time Margaret had been practising the device, so familiar to the unhappy, of carrying off mental agitation by bodily exertion. She was now eager to be doing something more active than walking by Mrs Grey’s side, listening to ideas which she knew just as well without their being spoken. Mrs Grey’s thoughts about Mrs Rowland, and Mrs Rowland’s ideas of Mrs Grey, might always be anticipated by those who knew the ladies. Hester and Margaret had learned to think of something else, while this sort of comment was proceeding, and to resume their attention when it came to an end. Margaret had withdrawn from it now, and was upon the ice with Sydney.
“Why, cousin Margaret, you don’t mean that you are afraid of walking on the ice?” cried Sydney, balancing himself on his heels. “Mr Hope, what do you think of that?” he called out, as Hope skimmed past them. “Cousin Margaret is afraid of going on the ice!”
“What does she think can happen to her?” asked Mr Hope, his last words vanishing in the distance.
“It looks so grey, and clear, and dark, Sydney.”
“Pooh! It is thick enough between you and the water. You would have to get down a good way, I can tell you, before you could get drowned.”
“But it is so slippery!”
“What of that? What else did you expect with ice? If you tumble, you can get up again. I have been down three times this morning.”
“Well, that is a great consolation, certainly. Which way do you want me to walk?”
“Oh, any way. Across the river to the other bank, if you like. You will remember next summer, when we come this way in a boat, that you have walked across the very place.”