Daniel's unusually late absence from home disturbed Bell and Sylvia
not a little. He was generally at home between eight and nine on
market days. They expected to see him the worse for liquor at such
times; but this did not shock them; he was no worse than most of his
neighbours, indeed better than several, who went off once or twice a
year, or even oftener, on drinking bouts of two or three days'
duration, returning pale, sodden, and somewhat shame-faced, when all
their money was gone; and, after the conjugal reception was well
over, settling down into hard-working and decently sober men until
the temptation again got power over them. But, on market days, every
man drank more than usual; every bargain or agreement was ratified
by drink; they came from greater or less distances, either afoot or
on horseback, and the 'good accommodation for man and beast' (as the
old inn-signs expressed it) always included a considerable amount of
liquor to be drunk by the man.
Daniel's way of announcing his intention of drinking more than
ordinary was always the same. He would say at the last moment,
'Missus, I've a mind to get fuddled to-neet,' and be off,
disregarding her look of remonstrance, and little heeding the
injunctions she would call after him to beware of such and such
companions, or to attend to his footsteps on his road home.
But this night he had given no such warning. Bell and Sylvia put the
candle on the low window-seat at the usual hour to guide him through
the fields--it was a habit kept up even on moonlight nights like
this--and sate on each side of the fire, at first scarcely caring to
listen, so secure were they of his return. Bell dozed, and Sylvia
sate gazing at the fire with abstracted eyes, thinking of the past
year and of the anniversary which was approaching of the day when
she had last seen the lover whom she believed to be dead, lying
somewhere fathoms deep beneath the surface of that sunny sea on
which she looked day by day without ever seeing his upturned face
through the depths, with whatsoever heart-sick longing for just one
more sight she yearned and inwardly cried. If she could set her eyes
on his bright, handsome face, that face which was fading from her
memory, overtasked in the too frequent efforts to recall it; if she
could but see him once again, coming over the waters beneath which
he lay with supernatural motion, awaiting her at the stile, with the
evening sun shining ruddy into his bonny eyes, even though, after
that one instant of vivid and visible life, he faded into mist; if
she could but see him now, sitting in the faintly flickering
fire-light in the old, happy, careless way, on a corner of the
dresser, his legs dangling, his busy fingers playing with some of
her woman's work;--she wrung her hands tight together as she
implored some, any Power, to let her see him just once again--just
once--for one minute of passionate delight. Never again would she
forget that dear face, if but once more she might set her eyes upon
it.