So she went on dreaming; happy in the present. The little river valley had never looked so beautiful before, nor her father so restful and content. It was life’s summer, a golden time with nothing to wish for more. The storms were hushed to sleep, and like the beautiful streamlet, they two were gliding onward in that mystic peace that softens down the passion of a strong first genuine love.
“Bah! I wish there was no London, my boy. No work, no worry, no struggle,” cried the Major, one evening, when he was alone with Clive, who had been looking curiously at Martha, and recalling that night when he had first slept at the cottage. He was wondering how it all was. Whether the sturdy elderly woman had some love affair. Then he had, in spite of himself, thought of Sturgess, whom he had that day seen crossing one of the hills at a distance. He recalled the Major’s words and asked himself whether he, as a man, ought not in his resentment to have taken some step to punish the scoundrel. But with the idea within his mental grasp, he had let it slide again. For why, he asked himself, should he strike and jar the gentle, harmonious life of her who was so happy.
Though the mine was so near, he had only seen his brother and the new deputy manager from time to time, at a distance, and his knowledge of the progress there came either from London or from Robson, who wrote occasionally, always to say that things were miserable, for Jessop and Sturgess were at daggers drawn, but the profits of the mine still rose.
And now a letter had come down from the old lawyer—Mr Belton—endorsing the clerk’s announcements, and saying that an extraordinary meeting was to be held through a movement on the part of Wrigley, and in connection with the advance of the mine under the new management.
“I don’t know what plans the man is going to propose, but you had better come up, my dear boy, and be present. I daresay you will do more good here than by staying down there watching and keeping those people up to their work.”
So wrote the old family solicitor, and Clive’s conscience smote him, as he recalled how little he had done, and how very small was the credit he deserved. For his days had been spent in that dreamy pleasure at the cottage, and for the most part the mine was forgotten.
But this letter had roused him to a sense of his duties, and, commending Dinah to her father’s care, Clive departed once more for town, in happy unconsciousness of the fact that his every step was watched; while as his figure grew less and less as she watched him along the moorland track, Dinah’s heart sank, and the old dread crept back at first like a faint mist, then growing more and more dense, until it was a black shadow between her and the sunshine of her life.
“But it will not be long—he will not be long, he said,” she whispered to herself. “He will come back to-day.”
That was on the following morning. But there was no Clive, and on the second morning she rose hopeful, saying the same words—“He will come to-day;” and she waited eagerly till toward evening, when the Major said suddenly—
“No message from Clive, pet. I thought we should have a telegram.”