And all men and women
say it is the best picture. I shall be dead before they send it back to me.
So now I have nothing but the thoughts of my Joan. Oh, come to me, my love,
if you can. It will not be for long, and when Jan lies under the ground all
that he has is yours. I have fought so hard to keep from you and from
praying you to come to me, but I can fight no more. My home is named at the
top of this letter. You have but to enter the train for London and stop in
it until it gets to the end of its journey. My servant shall wait each day
for your coming. I can write no more, I can only pray to the God we both
love to bring you to me. And if you come or do not I shall have the same
great true love for you. I will die alone rather than trouble you to come
if you have forgotten me and not forgiven me for keeping silence. God bless
you, my only love. JAN."
This feeble stuff rang like a clarion on the ear of the reader, for he who
had written it knew how best to strike, how best to appeal with
overwhelming force to Joan Tregenza. Her mind plunged straight into the
struggle and the billows of the storm, sweeping aside lesser obstructions,
were soon beating against the new-built ramparts of faith. The rush of
thought which had coursed through her brains before reading the letter now
made the task of deciding upon it easier. Indeed it can hardly be said that
any real doubt from first to last assailed Joan's decision.
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