“I am writing this on the couch, so please excuse pencil. This must be to say goodbye. May you all be kept in health. We are so sorry to hear of the bad colds. God bless and keep you in all your goings and comings. Kindest regards to your husband and Mr. and Mrs. Stonelake, and love to yourself, from
“Yours affectionately,
“Gwen E. Lewis.”
This was the last letter Mrs. Lewis ever wrote.
The rest may be told in a few words. The railway journey was accomplished with comparative comfort. The authorities reserved a compartment for her and she travelled in bed. On September 5th the party sailed from Matadi. The unremitting and skilled attention of Dr. and Mrs. Gamble was of greatest comfort to the patient and her husband, and during five days there was hopeful improvement, and happy intercourse was enjoyed. Then hæmaturia suddenly returned and hope was relinquished. She said quietly to her husband: “Tom, we know as much about this as the doctors; I think I am dying, don’t you?” And he had to reply, “Yes, my darling, I do.” Then she concerned herself with messages to her friends, some of whom she saw with the clearness of vision, and much was said of Camden Road Church, and even of its Sale of Work, which she had hoped to attend. She was especially concerned for her sister and her nieces, saying simply, “They will be grieved”; and begged that Mr. Myers, who, five-and-twenty years before, had brought her news of John Hartland’s death, might bear the heavy tidings to them. The words “They will be grieved,” became a kind of refrain which she repeated after naming her friends. She could not bear gloom, and smilingly rebuked her doctors for looking grave, saying, “One would think it was a terrible thing to die.” The Mission was more to her than life, and she said to her husband, “It is well that I am going. The doctors would never allow me to return, and that would block your work; now you will be free to go on with it.” She lingered for days, calm and bright, often murmurously singing hymns, the tunes only when the words no longer came at call; and on September 17th passed away, holding tightly the hand of the man to whom she had been gentle wife, and gallant comrade, and perennial inspiration, for three-and-twenty years.
“Nothing is here for tears, nothing to wail
Or knock the breast; no weakness, no contempt,
Dispraise or blame; nothing but well and fair,
And what may quiet us in a death so noble.”