more absolutely master and more comfortably at home at his own table without her company than with it. And yet he frequently made a grievance of her not corning, and himself believed in that grievance.
“I think mamma was tired,” said Bell.
“Hem. It’s not so very far across from one house to the other. If I were to shut myself up whenever I’m tired— But never mind. Let’s go to dinner. Mr Crosbie, will you take my niece Lilian.” And then, offering his own arm to Bell, he walked off to the dining-room.
“If he scolds mamma any more, I’ll go away,” said Lily to her companion; by which it may be seen that they had all become very intimate during the long day that they had passed together.
Mrs Dale, after remaining for a moment on the bridge, went in to her tea. What succedaneum of mutton chop or broiled ham she had for the roast duck and green peas which were to have been provided for the family dinner we will not particularly inquire. We may, however, imagine that she did not devote herself to her evening repast with any peculiar energy of appetite. She took a book with her as she sat herself down,—some novel, probably, for Mrs Dale was not above novels,—and read a page or two as she sipped her tea. But the book was soon laid on one side, and the tray on which the warm plate had become cold was neglected, and she threw herself back in her own familiar chair, thinking of herself, and of her girls, and thinking also what might have been her lot in life had he lived who had loved her truly during the few years that they had been together.
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 softhearted 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.
In thinking of all this the long evening passed away, and at eleven o’clock she heard the coming steps across the garden. The young men had, of course, accompanied the girls home; and as she stepped out from the still open window of her own drawing-room, she saw them all on the centre of the lawn before her.
“There’s mamma,” said Lily. “Mamma, Mr Crosbie wants to play croquet by moonlight.”
“I don’t think there is light enough for that,” said Mrs Dale.
“There is light enough for him,” said Lily, “for he plays quite independently of the hoops; don’t you, Mr Crosbie?”
“There’s very pretty croquet light, I should say,” said Mr Crosbie, looking up at the bright moon; “and then it is so stupid going to bed.”
“Yes, it is stupid going to bed,” said Lily; “but people in the country are stupid, you know. Billiards, that you can play all night by gas, is much better, isn’t it?”
“Your arrows fall terribly astray there, Miss Dale, for I never touch a cue; you should talk to your cousin about billiards.”
“Is Bernard a great billiard player?” asked Bell.
“Well, I do play now and again; about as well as Crosbie does croquet. Come, Crosbie, we’ll go home and smoke a cigar.”
“Yes,” said Lily; “and then, you know, we stupid people can go to bed. Mamma, I wish you had a little smoking-room here for us. I don’t like being considered stupid.” And then they parted,—the ladies going into the house, and the two men returning across the lawn.
“Lily, my love,” said Mrs Dale, when they were all together in her bedroom, “it seems to me that you are very hard upon Mr Crosbie.”
“She has been going on like that all the evening,” said Bell.
“I’m sure we are very good friends,” said Lily.
“Oh, very!” said Bell.
“Now, Bell, you’re jealous; you know you are.” And then, seeing that her sister was in some slight degree vexed, she went up to her and kissed her. “She shan’t be called jealous; shall she, mamma?”
“I don’t think she deserves it,” said Mrs Dale.
“Now, you don’t mean to say that you think I meant anything?” said Lily. “As if I cared a buttercup about Mr Crosbie.”
“Or I either, Lily.”
“Of course you don’t. But I do care for him very much, mamma. He is such a duck of an Apollo. I shall always call him Apollo; Phoebus Apollo! And when I draw his picture he shall have a mallet in his hand instead of a bow. Upon my word I am very much obliged to Bernard for bringing him down here; and I do wish he was not going away the day after tomorrow.”
“The day after tomorrow!” said Mrs Dale. “It was hardly worth coming for two days.”
“No, it wasn’t,—disturbing us all in our quiet little ways just for such a spell as that,—not giving one time
