It is especially the nature of a Dale to be constant in his likings and his dislikings.  Her husband’s affection for her had been unswerving,—­so much so that he had quarrelled with his brother because his brother would not express himself in brotherly terms about his wife; but, nevertheless, the two brothers had loved each other always.  Many years had now gone by since these things had occurred, but still the same feelings remained.  When she had first come down to Allington she had resolved to win the squire’s regard, but she had now long known that any such winning was out of the question; indeed, there was no longer a wish for it.  Mrs Dale was not one of those soft-hearted women who sometimes thank God that they can love any one.  She could once have felt affection for her brother-in-law,—­affection, and close, careful, sisterly friendship; but she could not do so now.  He had been cold to her, and had with perseverance rejected her advances.  That was now seven years since; and during those years Mrs Dale had been, at any rate, as cold to him as he had been to her.

But all this was very hard to bear.  That her daughters should love their uncle was not only reasonable, but in every way desirable.  He was not cold to them.  To them he was generous and affectionate.  If she were only out of the way, he would have taken them to his house as his own, and they would in all respects have stood before the world as his adopted children.  Would it not be better if she were out of the way?

It was only in her most dismal moods that this question would get itself asked within her mind, and then she would recover herself, and answer it stoutly with an indignant protest against her own morbid weakness.  It would not be well that she should be away from her girls,—­not though their uncle should have been twice a better uncle; not though, by her absence, they might become heiresses of all Allington.  Was it not above everything to them that they should have a mother near them?  And as she asked of herself that morbid question,—­wickedly asked it, as she declared to herself,—­did she not know that they loved her better than all the world beside, and would prefer her caresses and her care to the guardianship of any uncle, let his house be ever so great?  As yet they loved her better than all the world beside.  Of other love, should it come, she would not be jealous.  And if it should come, and should be happy, might there not yet be a bright evening of life for herself?  If they should marry, and if their lords would accept her love, her friendship, and her homage, she might yet escape from the deathlike coldness of that Great House, and be happy in some tiny cottage, from which she might go forth at times among those who would really welcome her.  A certain doctor there was, living not very far from Allington, at Guestwick, as to whom she had once thought that he might fill that place of son-in-law,—­to be well-beloved.  Her quiet, beautiful Bell had seemed to like the man; and he had certainly done more than seem to like her.  But now, for some weeks past, this hope, or rather this idea, had faded away.  Mrs Dale had never questioned her daughter on the matter; she was not a woman prone to put such questions.  But during the month or two last past, she had seen with regret that Bell looked almost coldly on the man whom her mother favoured.