Before the death of Mrs. Bowles it had been arranged that Bessie should spend the winter at Torquay. This plan was adhered to; and in November 1873, travelling in one of the railway companies invalid carriages, she bore the journey fairly well, and reached Torquay without the terrible suffering caused by her previous journey.
She had bright and sunny rooms in Sulyarde Terrace, and on fine days she was still able to spend a few hours out of doors, reclining in an invalid chair; sometimes also she could sit up in her chair for an hour or two, and at this time, when her food was duly prepared, she was still able to feed herself. Her sister Lucy, Mrs. Casson, with husband and many children, resided at Torquay; and she found here, also, a kind brother-in-law, unremitting in his attentions, and numerous young nephews and nieces, whom she knew and loved. In January 1874 Levy died. Father, mother, and sister; house and home and health had been taken from Bessie; and now the faithful servant and friend of her whole life followed. She had put great constraint upon herself at the time of her sister's illness and death, but she was powerless against this blow. Deep depression settled down upon her, which took the form of constant self-reproach. She, the most unselfish and considerate of women, was given over, as it were, to an avenging spirit, which upbraided her with faults never committed, and exacted expiation for imaginary crimes of selfishness and self-seeking. Such dark passages may be borne in mind by other sufferers, tortured with self-questionings and doubt.
The first thing to rouse her was the desire to say some words to the blind men and women on whose behalf Mr. Levy had worked for so many years. As soon as she had somewhat recovered, she wrote perhaps the most touching record we have of her work, her hope, her sorrow, and her submission.
2 Sulyarde Terrace, Torquay, 10th February 1874.
My dear Friends—I feel that both you and I have had a very great loss indeed, and my heart yearns to say to you that you do not know how grieved I am for you; you know full well what the loss is to yourselves, but you can hardly tell what it is to me; you cannot know how he who is now taken and I have worked together with the self-same end of helping you, and now I am left, deprived of all the help that your dear and true friend gave me, and it is impossible for me to tell you how deeply I feel the loss.
Mr. Levy never spared himself when your interest was at stake, and now that he is taken from us, and I am left alone, I feel that I must ask you all to give me all the help in your power, and you can help me by giving me your confidence, by showing me that you feel I will do the best I can for you, and, above all, by trying, with God's help, to become the men and women He would have you to be. Nothing gives me greater joy than for the Association to be the means of helping you, by God's blessing, to lead really Christian lives. This means that you should have in your hearts the love of God and the love of your neighbour, which love will prevent you hurting anybody by word or deed, make you true and just in all your dealings, and temperate and sober in your living. My earnest desire is that the Association should help you to learn and labour truly to get your own living; but you know that this must be a work of time. If I could prevent it there should not be one blind person begging, but all should have the blessing of earning their living; but, as I say, it will take a long time to bring this to pass. Had I been asked I should have said, "You would do better without me than without him who is taken from us; but God does not ask us, and does what He sees and knows to be best, and He has taken Mr. Levy to his rest and reward, and has left me."
If it is His will that I should have strength, I will, with His help and with the aid of the friends engaged in the work, do the best I can. Many of you I have never seen; I wish this were not so, but I cannot help it; but to you all I earnestly say: please think of me as of one who has your truest interest at heart, who is, like yourselves, without sight, and who tries, to the best of her power, to understand what it is to be poor as well as blind, and who longs for your help and co-operation in the work of endeavouring to help you to help yourselves. You will help me, will you not?—Believe me, my dear friends, to be most sincerely yours,
Elizabeth Gilbert.
P.S.—I have signed my name with the pen which Mr. Levy invented for us. You and I must pray that God will help me to do what will be best for you. I know God will not leave us, for He loveth the blind, as He doth all human beings, more than we can possibly understand or know, so that we must try and trust in Him fully in all our trials. May God bless you all!
With advancing spring the cloud of depression was dispelled. She became more cheerful, began to talk of a return to London, and to look forward to her life there. The return journey was undertaken in the second week in June. It was safely accomplished, though at the cost of very great weariness and exhaustion. When she reached Stanhope Place and had been carried to her room, she said, "No more journeys for me." This was indeed her last journey, for though in 1877 she had such a longing for fresh country air that there was a consultation, and her physicians sanctioned removal, yet when the time came her heart failed, and she remained at home.
On her return from Torquay she went into Hyde Park about half a dozen times in an invalid chair, but after October 1874 she left the house no more. She was, however, still able for a time to be dressed, to sit up for an hour or two, and to be carried up and down stairs. As the winter advanced a sitting-room was arranged on the same floor as her bedroom, and then she came downstairs daily no more. In spite of all precautions against cold she had a severe attack of bronchitis in 1875, and was attended by Dr. Hawkesley, whom she knew and liked as a fellow-worker on the Council of the Normal College for the Blind. He was struck by the manner in which she threw off the attack. "She is doing so gallantly," he said. But she did not regain the strength lost during this illness, and resumed life after every access of sorrow and suffering on a lower level, as it were, and with diminished vital powers. After the spring of 1875 she was not dressed again, and never sat up. Recumbent on one of Alderman's couches, in a pretty dressing-gown, with soft warm shawls, and lace, and bright colour, such as she loved, about her, she spent her good days. On the bad ones she was not lifted from her bed.
She had indeed become like a train that is left upon a siding, and all her busy life was hushed and silent.
When the summer came, and her rooms were to be repapered and painted, she was carried downstairs. The drawing-rooms were specially prepared as her bed and sitting-rooms, and she would stay in these her "country quarters" for six weeks or two months. After that she was taken upstairs in the same way for the autumn, winter, and spring. This removal required great care and very skilful management, as the couch on which she reclined had to be lifted over the bannisters, and any jerk or unexpected movement caused both pain and apprehension.
A fresh sorrow awaited her. In 1876 Charlotte Gadney, her faithful and affectionate attendant, had a paralytic seizure, and it was necessary for the sake both of mistress and maid that they should part. Bessie could not at first acquiesce in separation; she reproached herself as the cause of Charlotte's illness, and could not rest until she was informed of all the minutest details connected with her.
But when the parting was over Bessie's anxiety gradually diminished, and Charlotte's recovery was more rapid than had been expected. She was never well enough to resume attendance upon her beloved mistress, but from time to time she came on a short visit, much to her own and Bessie's delight.