Unknown to any mortal, Joan had made a kind of idol of the pictured Denasia. She was sorry for her weakness in this matter, but she was not able to resist the temptation of very frequently opening the drawer in which it lay, of looking at it, and of kissing it. Her conversation, her thoughts, her fancies made her child-sick. She longed for a sight of her darling’s face, and she lifted a candle and went to the door of the room in which it lay hidden.
There was always an unacknowledged sense of self-indulgence in this act, and the sense made her go a little softly about it, as if it had to be done secretly. She opened the door slowly, and the rush candle showed her clothing scattered about the room. Her heart stood still; she was breathless; she put down her light and on tiptoes went to the bedside. Denas was fast asleep. Her long hair lay loose upon the pillow, her face was pale and faintly smiling, her hands open and at rest upon the coverlet. Her deep, slow breathing showed her to be far below conscious being, and Joan knelt down at her child’s side and filled her empty eyes with the fair picture and her empty heart with the hopes it inspired.
Still Denas slept. Then Joan went into the outer room and sat down to wait for John. As the dawn came up the East she pushed aside the foliage of her flowering plants and watched the beach for John’s approach. He came on with his mates, but they scattered to their cottages, and at last he was alone. Then Joan went to the door and he smiled when he saw her waiting. She made an imperative 223 motion of silence; she took his string of fish and his water-bottle out of his hands and laid them very softly down, and while John was yet lost in amazement at her actions, she put her hand in his and led him to their girl’s bedside. Without a word both stood looking at her. The dawn showed every change in her young face, and the pathos of hidden suffering was revealed unconsciously as she slept.
There is some wonderful magnet in the human eye; no sleeper can long resist its influence. As John and Joan gazed steadily on their sleeping daughter she, became restless, a faint flush flew to her cheeks, she moved her hands. Joan slipped down on her knees; when the girl opened her eyes she was ready to fold her in her arms. John stood upright, and it was his wide-open, longing gaze which brought Denasia’s soul back to her. She gazed back silently into her father’s face for a moment and then murmured:
“Father! forgive me! Oh, mother! mother!”
They forgave her with tears of joy. They put her fault out of words and out of memory. Confession and forgiveness was an inarticulate service of sorrow; but joy and welcome were eloquent and full of tender words. For once John locked his door and did not call his neighbours to share his gladness. He speedily understood the shortness and secrecy of her visit. After all, it was but a farewell. The joy was dashed with tears. The hope quickly faded away.
They did not try to turn her from the way she had promised to go. John said only, “The Lord go 224 with you, Denas,” and Joan wept at the thought of the land so far, far off. But they divined that their child had her own sorrows, that the lot of woman had found her out, that she had come to places where their love could not help her. Yet the visit, short and unsatisfactory as it was, made a great difference in Penelles’ cottage. It lifted much anxiety. It gave the father and mother hopes which they took to God to perfect, excuses which they pleaded with Him to accept. Their confidence in their child was strengthened; they could pray for her now with a more sure hope, with a more perfect faith.
When the gloaming came on thick with Cornish fog Joan kissed her darling good-bye with passionate love and grief, and John walked with his “little dear” through the dripping woods to the wayside station, and lifted her into the carriage with a great sob. None of the three could have borne such another day, but oh, how glad was each one that they had dared, and enjoyed, and suffered through this one! It left a mark on each soul that eternity would not efface.