He wrote in simple language, therefore, and
dwelt on his own helpless condition, exaggerating it to some extent.
"No. 6 Melbury Gardens, London.
"My own dear love--What can I say to make you know what has kept me away
from you? There is but one word and that is my poor sick and suffering
body. I wrote to you and tore up what I wrote, for I loved you too much to
ask you to come and share my sad life. It was very, very awful to be away
and know you were waiting and waiting for Jan; yet I could not come,
because Mother Nature was so hard. Then I went far away and hoped you had
forgotten me. Doctors made me go to a place over the sea where tall palm
trees grew up out of a dry yellow desert; but my poor lungs were too sick
to get well again and I came home to die. Yes, sweetheart, you will forgive
me for all when you know poor lonely Jan will soon be gone. He cannot live
much longer, and he is so weak now that he has no more power to fight
against the love of Joan.
"For your own good, dear one, I made myself keep away and hid myself from
you. Now the little life left to me cries out by night and by day for you.
Joan, my own true love, I cannot die until I have seen you again. Come to
me, Joan, love, if you do not hate me. Come to me; come; and close my eyes
and let poor Jan have the one face that he loves quite near him at the end.
Even your picture has gone, for they came when I was away and took it and
put it in a place with many others for people to see.
Pages:
350
351
352
353
354
355
356
357
358
359
360
361
362
363
364
365
366
367
368
369
370
371
372
373
374