# The Strange Case of Miss Annie Spragg/Chapter 9

SHE was not a bad girl, not really. It simply never occurred to her that there was anything wrong, not very wrong, in the way she lived. And so she often remarked to Teena Bitts, "I'm not a tart proper, I never went off with a man that I didn't meet proper in Winterbottom's place." The pavement knew her not although she was well known to the patrons of the Pot and Pie, a sort of restaurant and public house and rendezvous of bookmakers on the city side of Bayswater. She had been ruined at sixteen in an areaway while her mother was away scrubbing the stairs of the Houses of Parliament, and when the same mother discovered Bessie's error and its impending result, she sought out the man and made him right the wrong. Technically Bessie's child (which died) had a father, but substantially Bessie had no husband, for he disappeared two days after the ceremony and was never heard of again.
But marriage did not make of Bessie an honest woman. She went her way as before and in a few months Mrs. Cudlip, her mother, reported to her charring friends that Bessie's husband had returned and that Bessie had lost her position at the Pot and Pie. In four months Bessie gave birth to what her mother called "a little girl," and Bessie went back to work leaving the baby to be cared for by a childless couple who lived in Hammersmith and later adopted it. Before Bessie was twenty-four the same ​incident in all its details (even to the return of the husband who appeared to visit Bessie after the mysterious fashion prevalent among the heathen gods) was repeated twice more. At the birth of the third child, Bessie very nearly died and after that she appeared to change her ways. At least the husband did not miraculously reappear and she had no more children.
At twenty-eight she was a plump, coarsely pretty girl, whose high spirits never deserted her. With a loud laugh she could bandy the coarsest jests with any of the coarse patrons of the Pot and Pie. Her round rosy face, her blue eyes, and the blond hair that hung damp and curling from a huge pompadour constructed over an elaborate apparatus of wire, were among the stimuli which betrayed sober men suddenly into the pagan knowledge that it was best to live while one was alive. Without dreaming of such a thing she conveyed this message to every man she served with mutton pie and stout. And Bessie was so carefree and good-natured that she never imposed upon her admirers any sense of sin. It was all a lark. She even came to be known in a strange blend of good humor, affection and contempt bred of familiarity as Our Bess and sometimes Good Queen Bess. She was the toast and the joy of the Pot and Pie and the men who came in with pockets empty and spirits depressed went away after a tilt with Our Bess feeling warmed and cheered. She really loved humanity. She loved the smoke and heat of the tap room, the collared looks of the mugs of ale, the oaths of the cabbies and bookmakers and the sight of old Mrs. Crumyss, ginny ​and happy, exchanging crackling witticisms with the gentlemen who baited her. She had, too, a liking, fatal to one of her tendency to plumpness, a great liking for the ale that came out of the shiny brass-bound tuns served by Teena Bitts. "That Mrs. Crumyss," she used to say in relating to her mother choice bits of that lady's wit, "She's a hot 'un." She had a way of emphasizing such remarks by a hearty slap on her round, well-covered thigh. There was all the zest about Our Bess that Rubens, who loved life, imparted to the plump rosy ladies who were so like her. Winterbottom, the proprietor of the Pot and Pie, understood her value to him. He did not even object to her enforced holidays.
But Bessie never had any money. It was not that she spent it, even in betting on the races, as might have been supposed. She had a 'orror of betting and of bookmakers as bookmakers. She never had any money because she never understood how it was people got money. Even Winterbottom underpaid her. Sometimes her "friends" gave her a cheap trinket or a pair of silk stockings or a few shillings but rarely more than that. Teena Bitts said scornfully that she had no character. But Our Bess only laughed and asked Teena what her character had got her beyond a reputation for being coldblooded and stingy.
The development of character in Our Bess—that change which turned her in the end into Aunt Bessie of Bloomsbury and St. John's Chapel—dated from the twenty-fourth of December, 1905, a cold foggy ​night with snow falling that melted as it fell. She had been standing in the doorway watching Teena Bitts draw ale from the fine brass-bound tuns and listening with hearty appreciation to the sallies of old Mrs. Crumyss, who was trying to drink through her veil, when the door opened and in out of the fog came a small thin man with a pinched face as white as wax. He had no overcoat and the collar of his coat was turned up about his thin throat. None of the others appeared to take any notice but the sight of him did something to Bessie. Perhaps it was pity that struck her down, for he was everything that she was not. He was sickly, white and shivering, with a wild look in his near-sighted brown eyes. She marked him at once for her own, filled with a strange emotion that sometimes took possession of her. To herself she called it, "feeling that she ought to brighten 'im up a bit," but it was really much more primitive and direct than that. Bessie felt sorry for anyone who could not see that the world was a fine and shining place, as fine indeed as the brass bands on Winterbottom's ale barrels. She could not see why everyone should not be as happy as herself.
He did not respond to her sallies as other men did. Even after she had served him with meat pie, a pitcher of stout, a gooseberry tart and some coffee, his spirits failed to show any signs of rising. Nothing, she discovered, seemed to have any effect upon him. He failed even to appreciate the excruciating sallies of Mrs. Crumyss. After he had eaten he began to drink brandies and sodas, drinks with a great deal of brandy and very little soda. The ​more depressed he became the more interested and curious became Bessie's attitude. It was like a challenge to her, as if her record was to be smirched with failure for the first time in the eyes of Winterbottom and Teena Bitts and the others. She noticed that despite the shabbiness of his clothes he was clean, and that his hands were white and soft. And then suddenly she discovered that under his coat he had no shirt but only a frayed undershirt and she had doubts that he would be able to pay for all he was drinking. But remembering that it was Christmas Eve she told herself that if Winterbottom made trouble she'd pay the bill out of her own money. Everyone else in the place was so gay and happy. Mrs. Crumyss was never in better form. She was still drinking through her veil and seemed now to be managing quite well, as if, like the seventh child of a seventh child, she had been born with one.
A little before closing time when the noise was at its height the stranger suddenly fell forward on the table and Bessie, feeling that the time had come to act, pointed out to him that the pub was closing and that he had better pay for all he had eaten and drunk. Her suggestion brought forth no response save a mumbling and moaning sound of which she could make nothing. Winterbottom at last noticed her efforts and knowing her fatal sympathy for any customer who could not pay, came over to the table. He went straight to the point, searching the stranger's pockets hopefully, but he found only a half-penny, a soiled handkerchief and three damp woodbines. He had already started for the door to ​summon a policeman when Bessie stopped him. "Leave 'im alone," she said. "I'll pay for it."
Winterbottom was content. It had happened before. He would rather have the money than see the stranger arrested, even if the money came out of Bessie's pocket.
"And what are you going to do when it closes?" he asked her.
"Never you fret about that. I'll take 'im in charge."
The revellers, singing, went out at last. Teena Bitts put on her hat and went off scornfully to spend a respectable Christmas with her parents in Limehouse, and Winterbottom stood waiting to see what Bessie proposed to do. In a moment she came in from the washroom and gave the cynical Winterbottom a challenging glance. She was looking high-colored and high-spirited as if she felt her reputation menaced a second time in the same evening. She was a strong woman, and after raising the stranger to his feet she took him firmly by one arm and set out through the fog. Winterbottom put up the shutters, locked the door and put out the lights, unaware that he had lost Our Bess forever.
The beginning of Bessie's character was a violent one, for she no sooner had the pitiful creature safe in her warm and shabby room than he went entirely to pieces. He began seeing things in her closet, under the bed and coming through the transom above the door. He saw all manner of strange beasts, even to unicorns, which Bessie knew well enough did not exist save on the splendid device of the British Empire. Under the stimulus of delirium the little man developed a superhuman strength which proved very nearly too much even for the stalwart Bessie. But she succeeded at last in binding him into the great double bed, and after rousing another indignant lady dwelling in the same house she secured morphine, which after a time reduced him to a stupor. She managed at last to get an hour's sleep lying beside him lest he should awake and become violent again. In the early morning she gave him some hot milk and when he fell asleep again she put on her hat and coat and set out through the slush for the Pot and Pie.
There she confronted Winterbottom and told him that she was in need of a holiday. He looked at her with a twinkle in his hard eye and asked, "What? Again?"
But Bessie denied his suspicion. She had a cousin, she said, who was ill and in need of care. Otherwise he would be sent to the workhouse and no Cudlip had ever darkened the door of a workhouse.
So Mrs. Winterbottom took Bessie's place at the ​Pot and Pie until Bessie was able to return. It had long since become an accepted system.
The stranger not only became Bessie's problem; he took on the proportions of a crusade. She tended him carefully, rarely leaving his side save to buy food out of her almost invisible savings or to come down on the heads of others in the house who disturbed his rest by becoming noisy. She had in a cheap doctor and with the shrewdness of the poor she learned from him enough so that it was unnecessary to have him a second time. Her patient, she discovered, was suffering not only from drink but from starvation. She fed him up in splendid style and as he progressed toward recovery she experienced a new emotion—that of pride in the efficacy of her cure. She even thought for a time of giving up her way of life and becoming a nurse, but learning upon investigation that such a change implied complications and a good deal of tiresome training, she abandoned the idea.
It was not until the third week that she learned the name of the stranger. He had been well enough for some time to lie in bed watching her out of his dark eyes, but Bessie, feeling that it was indelicate to be curious about his name, did not mention the matter. She simply continued to address him as "You" and refer to him to the others in the house as "'im." She stood in awe of him, for her cockney shrewdness told her that he had come out of a world far above her, of which she knew nothing. The ​delicate hands, the beautiful accent, the dim weak face with dark eyes under a high white forehead, filled her with a strange pride. This was indeed a rare flower that had fallen into her hands. Even as she lay beside him on the bed (there was nowhere else for her to sleep) she felt that she was committing sacrilege.
At length one day he looked at her and said, "My name is Lionel Blundon. What's yours?"
She blushed and said, "Bessie Cudlip." It sounded so cheap and commonplace beside the elegance of Lionel Blundon. "Lionel," she said to herself, "Lionel." That was an elegant name.
He began presently to sit up weakly in bed and to take a faint interest in things.
But Bessie soon found that her funds were vanishing. Funds were a thing that never mattered before. There was always the Pot and Pie or she could borrow from Teena Bitts or get an advance from Winterbottom. But it mattered now; Mr. Blundon was a responsibility. He could not be sent out into the streets, white and ill and shaking with fever. He seemed content with his lot and displayed no inclination to go.
So one night after Mr. Blundon had gone to sleep, she slipped out to the Pot and Pie dressed in her best clothes. She took up a place in the corner and became the center of interest. The place had not been the same since she left and they now received her with cheers. The men bought her drinks. ​Even old Mrs. Crumyss was thrown into the shadow by her triumphant return and spent the whole evening neglected in the corner, mumbling and drinking. Teena Bitts, standing before her shining tuns, grew sarcastic and made bitter inquiries about the stranger whom Bessie had "picked from the dust bin." And Bessie, a little flushed and excited by her triumph, retorted that he had turned out to be a gentleman and the cousin of the Duke. But this gave Mrs. Crumyss her long awaited opportunity. From then on she kept making bitter remarks about "The Duchess" and "'er Gryce," and won back a little of her prestige. The name stuck to Bessie. Our Bess became 'er Gryce from that day forward.
At closing time Mrs. Crumyss led the way with unsteady dignity, followed one by one by the others, and at last Bessie left too, accompanied by 'Arry, who, rumor had it, had just made a killing on the Newmarket. Teena, seeing her go, remarked that it was the first time Bessie had shown any character.
At dawn she returned before Mr. Blundon was awake and for several days she was in funds. Necessity had made her practical.
As Mr. Blundon (as she continued to call him) grew stronger, he appeared also to grow restless. Feeling that he was too proud and of a birth too noble to accept money from her, she left small sums about carelessly when she went out, sometimes on the table, sometimes on a shelf in the closet, as if it were crumbs for birds. Always when she returned it was gone. By this trick he was able to buy himself cigarettes and newspapers. He did not return to the Pot and Pie and showed no inclination to ​drink so she came to the conclusion that his drinking was not a disease but done deliberately out of despair. Once in a burst of confidence he confided to her that on the night he had come to the Pot and Pie he had been contemplating suicide but that on studying the chilly river he had decided instead to drink himself to death. He was a simple fellow, she thought, who didn't pretend to be anything he was not.
Then one day he asked her timidly if she would do an errand for him. He wanted some books and he was still too ill to go into the city for them himself. So Bessie dressed herself up and made the excursion, bearing a slip of paper on which were written the titles, because she could not possibly have remembered them. They were difficult names which impressed her profoundly, such names as Astaroth and Indo-Persian and Anaït. They seemed very rare books, for she was forced to trudge from shop to shop to find them all, and they were very expensive. Later on she made other trips to buy books until her room had quite the air of a library. Then Mr. Blundon bought ink and pens and paper and went to work. Each day he covered a great many sheets of paper with spidery handwriting which she attempted without much success to decipher when he was not in the room. But even those portions which she was able to read (and she was none too good at reading and writing) she failed to understand, and she had not the presumption to question him about the whole affair.
But all this took money (she had even to buy him new clothes) and so Bessie went more and more ​frequently to the Pot and Pie, always as a patron, and only after Mr. Blundon had gone to bed. Always she came in early before he was awake. She was afraid that he would discover the nature of her excursions and forbid them. She took great care not to disturb him on getting into bed, but once or twice she fancied that he was awake when she came in. When he made no reference to her mysterious absences, she decided that she must have been wrong, though she was quite certain that once at least he had opened his eyes and looked at her. She even managed to save up quite a bit of money. Teena Bitts's sarcastic references to "'er Gryce's lack of character" grew more and more mild and at length died away altogether. Teena was outdone.
But Bessie had a plan that would require all her money. Mr. Blundon had become to her more than a crusade; he was now a part of her life. If he seemed tired, she began to worry. If he did not eat she thought of calling a doctor. She could not imagine her life without him. And when his poor health lingered she decided that it was the air of Bayswater and that what he needed was a holiday at Brighton.
She was fearful that if she mentioned the plan, his pride might cause him to object to it and so until the day when she had saved enough to swing the excursion in style, she did not speak of it. When at last she summoned up courage to propose it, Blundon accepted it at once as a splendid idea. He would take his books and work in the sea air.
But she could not resist having a final triumph at the Pot and Pie and the night before they departed ​she went there to let Teena Bitts and Winterbottom and Mrs. Crumyss know in the most casual way possible that she and her friend were going to Brighton for a spell. Winterbottom eyed her shrewdly and sadly, suspecting that the moment had come when he was to lose Our Bess forever, and after she had gone Mrs. Crumyss remarked acidly through her veil that "the next thing they'd be hearing was that 'er Gryce had become one of them swell divorce corespondents."
It was the first time Bessie had ever been outside London and, as she said, "it made her feel lost." Even the crowds and the music on the jetty did not help much after she was used to them; they did not make up for the gayety of the Pot and Pie with Teena Bitts uttering coarse bitter comments and 'Arry and Alf drinking and Mrs. Crumyss giving freely of her experience of life. Without Mr. Blundon Bessie would have been miserable, but his presence gave her a purpose, something, as it were, to steer by. She had to plan the days and watch over his health and see that there wasn't any noise in the lodging house and buy him cigarettes. Although she had long been Bessie to him, she never presumed to call him anything but Mr. Blundon, and although they shared the same room there had never been even a suspicion of lovemaking between them.
It was in the second week of the visit that the great meeting occurred. Mr. Blundon, who was working hard at the lodging house and was a bit exhausted by Bessie's hungry attempts at conversa​tion, suggested that she go and listen to the band concert, and as she always felt restless away from crowds, she took his advice. He would meet her by the fifth light out from the shore on the pier.
It was a soft fine evening and all Bessie's smouldering hunger for life was fanned into a flame. Indeed her emotions had so thoroughly gotten the better of her that she began to wish Mr. Blundon wasn't so sickly and that he wasn't such a swell that she was afraid of him. She began to feel deep yearnings for the companionship of the Pot and Pie. She even wished that Mr. Blundon might miraculously turn out to be 'Arry or Alf. Lost in this strange mood of depression she wandered along the pier to the accompaniment of Pomp and Circumstance. She reached the fifth light and halted, lost in a slough of homesickness. And then someone pinched her and her spirits skyrocketed once more.
Turning, she planned to upbraid her insulter, since that was the conventional thing to do. "How dared he do such a thing to a lady?" (Indeed she had been acquiring airs lately through contact with Mr. Blundon's elegance.) But when she turned there was no possible suspect in sight but a kindly looking old gentleman in black who wore a black Homburg hat and carried a black umbrella. He looked a little, she thought, like a parson. Thinking that the pinch must have been administered by some mischievous person who vanished in the crowd, she turned back to her reverie. Being pinched was not a new experience for Bessie. Her plumpness made her a tempting subject and she had developed a technique for dealing with the situation. Barely had ​her spirits fallen, leaving her to brood over the sea, than the pinch was repeated.
Again she turned sharply and this time there could be no mistake. It was the kindly old gentleman in the Homburg hat who had pinched her. She gave him an indignant glance, but not so indignant as it would have been if Alf and 'Arry had been nearer than Bayswater. He lifted his hat calmly and said, "Good evening, ma'am, it's a fine evening."
Her instinct told her at once that this was not a gentleman of Mr. Blundon's elegance. His clothes were rich but his manner and spirit were those which she understood.
"I've seen finer," she replied with some tartness, resolved not to give in too easily.
He was really a fine looking old gentleman, about seventy, she thought, with a fine ruddy face and a chin beard that was white and cut short and round. On his black waistcoat glittered a massive gold watch-chain. He had bland round blue eyes and an air of good humor. He asked her if she was alone.
"Not exactly," said Bessie. "I'm wyting for a friend."
Would she mind if he chatted a bit until her friend came? No, she said, but she'd have to stay there by the fifth light because that was where she was going to meet her friend.
"Nice music," he said.
"Yes, nice music."
"I've always liked Pomp and Circumstance. It's like the British Empire."
"You must be musical," she suggested.
"I like music."
​"I'm from London," she said wistfully. "I came down here for the air and I ran into my friend."
The mention of London appeared to make the old gentleman a little bolder. "Maybe I'd better tell you my name so you can introduce me when she comes along."
"It's a he," said Bessie, and then noticing the old gentleman's alarm, added, "But it's all right. We're only friends."
"Oh," said her companion. "Well, my name's Winnery—Horace J. Winnery."
"And mine's Cudlip—Bessie Cudlip."
Horace J. Winnery, she thought, was a beautiful name like Lionel Blundon, only it didn't fill her with awe. It made her feel quite at home.
The band blared into a potpourri from Faust and Mr. Blundon came into sight through the crowd. He was peering to right and to left with his near-sighted eyes. Bessie, being in a realistic mood, could not help thinking that her new acquaintance, even at his age, was more of a man.
"There's my friend now," said Bessie, and Mr. Winnery with a glance at Mr. Blundon looked relieved of some secret anxiety.
She introduced them and Mr. Winnery was very cordial, but Mr. Blundon seemed absentminded and concerned with his own thoughts. But she was proud of him and hoped that his accent had impressed Mr. Winnery. It would show him what sort she was.
"Let's go and 'ave some ale," said old Mr. Winnery, so they went and sat in the pavilion and drank together. It seemed to cheer Mr. Blundon. It ​was the first time he had had a drop since Christmas Eve.
Mr. Winnery, who wanted clearly to be friendly, relaxed a great deal more and began telling them the story of his life in a voice loud enough to compete with the Soldiers' Chorus. He was in Brighton, he said, for a spell and he didn't think much of Brighton. Frankly, it was getting on his nerves. In his opinion it was a poor place. London for him every time. He was lonely. It was funny but he'd been hoping he'd run into some young people. He was a bit of a gay dog himself and didn't feel a day over thirty. He'd lost his wife some months ago. That was why he was wearing black clothes. He didn't like black clothes but you had to wear them. Not that she wasn't a good sort. He'd been married to her for forty years and when you'd had somebody about for forty years you missed them when they were gone. Would they have another drink? Yes. It was a hot night. He was always thirsty on hot nights. He was a ship's chandler, and a good business it was, too. He'd made a lot of money at it. And now he was trying to enjoy himself, but he couldn't do it alone, not alone. You had to have somebody to enjoy things with you.
(At this point the band swept gayly into a potpourri from Cavalleria Rusticana and Mr. Blundon dropped into a quiet slumber.) "Like most drunks," thought Bessie, "'e's got a weak head. It ain't that he drinks so much." She considered his behavior a proper breach of manners but she hadn't the courage to disturb him.
Mr. Winnery was still shouting above Mascagni's ​best effort. Maybe if they weren't too busy they'd spend a little time with him. It would be his treat. He had plenty of money.
Bessie said Mr. Blundon was working in the daytime, but that she had nothing to do. He was writing a book, she explained impressively.
"Ah," breathed Mr. Winnery, impressed. "A book. What kind of a book?"
"I don't know," said Bessie. "It's just a book."
The band stopped playing and began putting its brass instruments to bed in green baize. Bessie thought it was time for them all to go home and awakened Mr. Blundon. Together the three of them walked to the end of the pier. She noticed that Mr. Blundon was a little unsteady. On the promenade Mr. Winnery bade them a polite good-night.
"Perhaps," he suggested, "we might meet in the morning. Say ten o'clock."
Mr. Blundon offered no objections. He did not even seem to hear.
"All right," said Bessie.
Bessie liked the old gentleman. He was, she told herself, one of her sort, out for a good time. All the black clothes and Homburg hats and black umbrellas in the world could not dampen the twinkle in his blue eyes or the healthy pink in his cheeks. "When he was young," she speculated, "he must have been a wild 'un." She was growing a little bored with Mr. Blundon's quiet way of living. Bessie was one who could not do without her fun.
​She met old Mr. Winnery the following day. She even arrived at the rendezvous a little before the hour agreed upon. It was the wedding of twin spirits. They walked the promenade together and rode in donkey carts and went to the cinema and drank ale in large quantities. (Both, unlike Mr. Blundon, were blessed with hard heads.) They had lunch in the showiest hotels and restaurants, such places as Bessie had never before dreamed of entering. Indeed, Bessie began to think that she was cut out for a grand life. Mr. Winnery was never awkward in such places; he had an assurance beside which the elegant Mr. Blundon seemed a cringing creature. Mr. Winnery could buy anything he wanted and going about with such a gentleman was a new experience for Bessie. He bought her trinkets—a barette set with brilliants for her taffy-colored hair, a spotted veil which she admired and which gave her a fast look. She kept thinking, "I wish that Teena Bitts could see me now." She squealed with delight in shooting galleries and places where she garnered gaudy vases and trinkets by throwing hoops over them. She and Mr. Winnery came to think Brighton the gayest place in the world.
Meanwhile Mr. Blundon worked uninterrupted in the daytime and accompanied them at night to the band concerts. Sometimes he drank a little too much and Bessie was forced to steer him home. It was all very gay and everyone was very happy until one day Bessie, who seldom thought of such things, looked in the old stocking where she kept her money and found that there remained only three pounds and ten shillings. The Paradise of Brighton was at ​an end unless she found an Alf or a 'Arry, and that, she told herself, was difficult with Mr. Blundon on one side and Mr. Winnery on the other taking up all her time. Mr. Winnery might have been an aid but he, like Mr. Blundon, showed no interest in lovemaking, that is, if you discounted an occasional furtive pinch or shady joke. There seemed to be no way out but to bid old Mr. Winnery a sorrowful farewell and conduct Mr. Blundon, whose health seemed much improved, back to Bayswater where she knew her ground.
The next morning while she and Mr. Winnery were drinking together she told him that her visit was at an end, and old Mr. Winnery very nearly caused her to faint by asking her to marry him. She did not accept at once for she had, of course, to consider Mr. Blundon. She could not turn him out abruptly into the world to fall back into poverty and drunkenness. Besides, she would miss him. He would leave a hole in her life. So she told Mr. Winnery the whole story, out and out, even to the fact that although they had long shared a room there was nothing between them. She gave it as her opinion that Mr. Blundon was too sickly to be interested in such things. She told the story regretfully, feeling that she was driving the last nail into the coffin of her adventure with Mr. Winnery.
But Mr. Winnery proved himself a gentleman in every sense of the word. He believed the story, he told her, moved perhaps by the certainty that Bessie was too guileless to have invented such a tale. Her generosity, he said, made him care for her all the more deeply. As to Mr. Blundon, he could go on in ​his present state until he was well enough to fight his own battles in the world. Mr. Winnery would pay the expenses. Oh, yes, it would be a pleasure. He had plenty of money. And in that way they could be married at once. He implied a little sadly that he probably hadn't long to live and now that he'd found a companion that enjoyed life the way he did, he didn't want to waste any time. He told her about his house in Bloomsbury, his victoria and his brougham and his horses and his business. They would travel, he said. He'd always wanted to travel and find out about the world but he never had been able to get away from the docks, and Amanda—that was his late wife—had always made such a fuss when traveling.
She said she would speak to Mr. Blundon. She couldn't say yes or no until she found out how he took it.
When she regained the lodging house she found the room in disorder. The books were mostly lying on the floor and Mr. Blundon's precious manuscript was scattered from one end of the room to the other. There was an ominous scent of brandy in the air. At first she did not see Mr. Blundon. It was only after she had set about putting the room in order that she discovered him. He was lying half in, half out of the closet, entirely hidden by the open door. Only his feet were in view. And he was dead to the world.
She thought, "It was that first drink at the pavilion. It got 'im started again."
​After she had lifted him into the bed, she picked up the books. No, she could not marry Mr. Winnery and desert poor Mr. Blundon to drink himself to death. It was like turning a puppy out into the cold. Still maybe she owed it to herself to be hardhearted and forget him. She couldn't go on forever. . . .
Then as she was sorting the numbered sheets of illegible manuscript, she found among them a bit of paper that did not belong there. It was a sheet of mauve paper and there was a purple coronet in the corner and under it was printed Narkworth Abbey, Middlebox, Surrey. The letter began, "My dear Cousin Lionel" and was written in the crabbed and trembling hand of an aged person.
Bessie began to feel a little sick but curiosity pressed her and she read on. "I have taken up your case with your cousin, the Duke, but he is unwilling to do anything. He remains firm in his belief that you have disgraced the family and the name of Blundon not once but many times and that you have been at all times stubborn and unregenerate. I believe I am quoting his own words correctly. I have done my best to soften him, but as you know, he is a hard man. The Blundons are always hard.
"I have disobeyed him in writing you. He forbade any communication whatever unless, of course, you are willing to go to Africa or Australia. You know he is extremely close and allows me barely enough money to run the two houses, the one here and the one at Prince's Gate. Therefore I am able to spare you only the small amount enclosed."
​(The cheque, thought Bessie, which he had spent in getting drunk.)
"I am glad to hear that your health is better and that you are working. I hope you will continue in the same condition, living quietly and respectably and that your health will not again be affected. I have never been to Brighton but hear that the air is good except for those who have livers.
"I am, with best wishes, your aunt
"Letitia,
"Duchess of Narkworth."
For the only time in her life, Bessie felt faint. She sat down and read the letter through a second time. So the lie she told Teena Bitts had turned out to be true. Mr. Blundon was the cousin of a duke. She felt suddenly dizzy and to steady herself took a drink of what remained in Mr. Blundon's bottle. Then she stared for a time at the frail small figure sleeping on the bed with its mouth open. She thought of Mr. Winnery asking her to marry him. "It ain't true," she told herself. "It's like any blooming nightmare." It was like something she had made up. It was like a cinema. That little thing on the bed was the cousin of a duke.
But when Mr. Winnery set his mind on a thing he got it, so the unfortunate collapse of Mr. Blundon made no difference. When Mr. Blundon had recovered a little, the three of them went back to London, only not to Bayswater this time, but to Bloomsbury, where Mr. Blundon was put in lodgings near enough at hand so that Bessie might keep an eye on him. Bessie herself, with the new-found airs acquired from Mr. Winnery at Brighton, went to a temperance hotel. She objected to this and it was only later that she understood the subtlety of this move of Mr. Winnery.
It had never occurred to her that Mr. Winnery had any relatives. He had always seemed to her a gift from God sent to destroy the fit of misery which had seized her that night by the fifth light on the Brighton pier. It was only when Mr. Winnery announced the banns that the relatives came suddenly to light, filled with fury and indignation. There appeared two pious and rather dreary maiden sisters older than Mr. Winnery who lived at Scarborough on his largesse, and an orphan nephew who lived in Italy. The two sisters made the first move by telegraphing in distress to the nephew, who came all the way from Italy to London.
The interview took place in the common sitting room of the temperance hotel and Bessie acquitted herself with dignity. The nephew, Mr. Winnery of Brinoë, was smallish, about forty, with a bald spot and an air of condescension toward his uncle. It appeared from his insinuations that he was a su​perior, cultivated and literary figure. Bessie, who had only one standard in judging gentlemen, thought him rather a poor thing. He had been educated at Oxford by old Mr. Winnery and had an accent a little like Mr. Blundon, a fact that helped to put Bessie at her ease, since instead of awing her it now seemed quite familiar.
She put on an air of style, taking care to point out that it was old Mr. Winnery who wanted the marriage and not herself. In fact he had insisted upon marrying her despite the fact that she herself had raised many objections. She knew, she said, that she could make him happy in his declining years. They had already discovered that.
Although she had developed a great deal of "character" since she left the Pot and Pie, she was not to be tempted by promises of money to be paid after the two sisters and Mr. Winnery of Brinoë had come into the old gentleman's estate. The idea indeed made her indignant. She pointed out that she was a friend of Mr. Winnery and not of his money and that she would have married him just the same if he hadn't had a penny, which was quite true. She felt in his debt for the good time at Brighton and she was one of the few whose happiness is scarcely affected by money.
Bessie was married to Mr. Winnery at the registry office in the presence of three employees of the ship chandler's firm of Winnery and Company. Mr. Blundon managed to leave his book long enough to be present. He looked very nice in the new clothes Bessie and Mr. Winnery bought him for the occasion.
And Bessie, dressed in the finery lavished upon her by an adoring bridegroom, went on her bridal tour to Paris. They stayed at the Grand Hotel, where Bessie had but to open her window at any hour of the day or night to look out upon the crowds and gayety of the boulevards. They went to music halls and dined each night in a different restaurant and climbed the Eiffel Tower and visited the races and were astonished by the chocolate splendor of the opera. Mr. Winnery was happy as a boy and Paris became for them only a glorified Brighton.
It was only when Bessie went back to the house in Bloomsbury that she became aware for the first time in her life of that mental state known as temptation. The house bore the imprint of the late Amanda Winnery, a religious woman and a stout believer until her death in the professions of the Plymouth Brethern. The furniture was mostly of black teakwood and red plush embellished by a large amount of inlaid funereal marble. In each room framed legends set forth such thoughts as Repent Lest Ye Fall Into the Hands of the Devil, and He That Looketh Upon the Wine When It Is Red Is in Danger of Hell Fire. These had been ​embroidered in appropriately sombre colors by Amanda Winnery and long ago had turned faded and dusty. Bessie found them depressing. During the first few weeks, especially at those moments when the cheerful Mr. Winnery was not in the house, she was filled with a terrible desire to make a visit to the Pot and Pie. Alone in the depths of that mausoleum, her soul cried out for the companionship of Teena Bitts, Alf and 'Arry and old Mrs. Crumyss.
Then slowly, bit by bit, the presence of Amanda Winnery's virtuous ghost began to give way to the presence of the very living Bessie. The framed legends slowly disappeared, whither no one knew, and in their place appeared bright chromos purchased in Mile End Road and a great deal of brass work, for which Bessie developed a great taste. And last of all, a gramophone, a parrot, two canaries and a pair of white poodles made their appearance. She loved food and drink with a passion equalled only by that of Mr. Winnery and so they gave themselves over to a perpetual orgy of eating and drinking. She gracefully allowed her natural indolence to take possession of her, sometimes not troubling to dress until the evening, and each day she grew plumper and plumper and, to the taste of the old-fashioned Mr. Winnery, more desirable. Mr. Winnery beamed with happiness and for the first time in all his seventy years, life seemed to be what he had always believed that it should be. In his lodgings Mr. Blundon seemed to be content. She visited him three or four times weekly and his spells of drunkenness grew fewer and fewer. He ​lived quite comfortably on the money allowed him by Bessie, and Mr. Winnery grew to have quite an affection for him, and to share the pride which Bessie found in supporting the cousin of a duke.
It might have gone on forever thus but that Mr. Winnery was, when all was said and done, an old man, and drinking and eating was certain to take its toll. One night while Bessie sat in her wrapper reading John Bull on the opposite side of the fire from Mr. Winnery she noticed that the newspaper with which he covered his face when he slept was very still and that his hands hung down in a queer fashion. She went over to him and lifted the newspaper. He was quite dead. He had simply gone to sleep in the midst of his happiness, warm and content after a good dinner, with his Bessie sitting opposite him.
What might have been called the Last Phase of Bessie began on the day after the funeral when the will was read. Save for the money to continue the income of the maiden sisters living in Scarborough, the income of the entire fortune was left to Bessie Cudlip Winnery. There was no provision made for the nephew who lived in Brinoë, save the ironical one that on the death of Bessie Cudlip Winnery, the entire fortune was to go to him. And Bessie was more than ten years younger than her nephew and in the most robust of health and spirits. But she was of a forgiving nature, and understanding perhaps the nephew's agitation at the time of her marriage to Mr. Winnery, she arranged that ​the usual income was to be sent to Brinoë out of her own money. So now, with Mr. Blundon, she supported two gentlemen instead of one.
She dressed herself in the thickest and blackest crêpe and then discovered something which she had not noticed before—that for nearly four years old Mr. Winnery had been her entire life and that without him she was lost. He had taken the place of Bayswater and the Pot and Pie and of Alf and 'Arry and Teena Bitts and Mrs. Crumyss and now she had neither the one nor the other. As she had grown immensely fat and very indolent, she did nothing about it for a long time. Even the temptation to return to the Pot and Pie seemed to have weakened, or at least taken another form. She wanted to return now on a single visit only to show Teena Bitts and Winterbottom how well she had done.
Her only diversion was an occasional visit to the lodgings of Mr. Blundon. Sometimes he was in and sometimes not and when she did find him there he received her with the same dignity and detachment that had marked their long friendship. But, as Bessie said, he was never much of a one for small talk and their conversation lagged. The dialogue consisted usually of inquiries about the book, the character of which remained a perpetual mystery to Bessie, and remarks about the weather. The regeneration of Mr. Blundon seemed well on the way to become an accomplished fact. He no longer got drunk, and in decent clothes appeared the gentleman he was by birth. He was fond of Bessie, but cold, and her own attitude toward him was a ​little that of a hen that had mothered a duckling. Only once had he ever lost his temper and that was on the occasion when she suggested that the book must be nearly finished and that surely it would be in many volumes. At which Mr. Blundon told her that it was a monumental and erudite work and that she wouldn't understand it even when it was finished. Bessie wept a little, not because her feelings were hurt (she knew he was quite right about her understanding any book) but because the book had not been finished before the death of Mr. Winnery. He would have understood it, she said. He was a wonderful man and understood everything. She was very lonely without him. Life wasn't the same. Perhaps, she suggested tearfully, Mr. Blundon would like sometime to drive out in the victoria with her and the poodles.
But Mr. Blundon told her that he detested riding in victorias and that the motion made him seasick. His refusal filled her with disappointment because at the bottom of her proposal lay a crafty plan. She had hoped that one afternoon they would make an early start and that suddenly they would find themselves as if by accident in Bayswater before the Pot and Pie. She had pictured to herself the triumph of calling out Teena Bitts and Winterbottom and even old Mrs. Crumyss, if she was still alive, to witness the spectacle of herself with horses and coachman, poodles and Mr. Blundon, the cousin of a duke. She wanted to know what Teena Bitts would have to say now about her lack of character.
But being of a philosophical turn she abandoned the triumphal plan and pushed out into another di​rection in search of human companionship. She simply wanted people to be friendly. She wanted small talk, of this and that, spiced perhaps by sallies like those of old Mrs. Crumyss. So she turned to her own servants, the cook and two housemaids, but the results were disastrous. After two weeks of dreadful uneasiness, all three gave notice and sought mistresses who would not seek to be intimate with them.
In despair Bessie told herself that as the widow of Horace J. Winnery she could not frequent public houses. In any case she could not go comfortably on foot and ladies who frequented pubs did not drive up to the door in a victoria with a coachman. It wasn't that she wanted to drink. She could do that at home. She wanted simply an excuse for a talk.
At last she hit upon the idea of going to Brighton in the hope that if she did not find it gay she might at least recapture memories of that lovely visit with Mr. Blundon and Mr. Winnery. So with a great effort she got off at last and at Brighton took a gilded sitting room and bedroom in the showiest hotel in the place. She hired a victoria and went driving with the poodles. She sometimes went down to the beach and sat under a black umbrella while they yapped and barked for stones thrown them by the children. She sat gloomily listening to Pomp and Circumstance and potpourris from Faust, Carmen and Cavalleria Rusticana. She sat drearily in dark cinemas. She could not frequent places where you could shoot at ducks and giraffes made of painted tin nor toss hoops over Japanese vases. She found ​that hers was a nature that could not live upon memories. She was trying to enjoy herself but she couldn't do it, not alone. You had to have somebody to enjoy things with you.
In the end she began again to hate Brighton as she had hated it the first time she saw it. Only this time it was worse because she didn't even have the gloomy Mr. Blundon to sit with her in the evenings.
But Brighton appeared to occupy a prominent place in the horoscope of Bessie, and two days before she planned to end her visit as a failure she made by accident the acquaintance of a lady and gentleman sitting at the next table to her in the pavilion.
Bessie wouldn't have noticed them, for they were quiet and drab and she had no taste for drab people, but the lady took a fancy to Esther, the poodle which she had in her lap. The lady asked Esther's name and so opened the conversation. One thing led to another. The lady and gentleman were Mr. and Mrs. John Willis and their speech had that faint cockney echo which always warmed Bessie's heart. They were from London, they said, and didn't care much for Brighton. It seemed a poor place and much overrated. Bessie said she thought so too. She was from London. Yes, she lived in Bloomsbury.
Mrs. Willis, who was a dark, nervous little woman of middle age, said, "Bloomsbury—well, I never. That's where Mr. Willis and I live."
​A glow emanated from Bessie's heart and took possession of her whole body. Bloomsbury, well, I never. Queer, and they lived quite near each other and never knew it. Funny how you could live in Bloomsbury for years and never know your nearest neighbor. It was an exclusive community. Mr. Willis, a little blond man with spectacles and a walrus moustache said that was the way life was, he'd found, and wasn't the music nice. That was the only thing they liked about Brighton—the band concerts. Indeed, they were about to cut short their visit and go back to London, where they felt more at home. They were going to stay two more days just to give the place a fair trial. It was Mr. Willis's first real holiday in fifteen years. Yes, he was a busy man. He had a linen shop and you could never trust people who worked for you.
Queer, said Bessie, she felt the same way about Brighton. She was going the day after tomorrow. Maybe they could go up together. How was she traveling? On the express, first class.
Mrs. Willis was afraid they couldn't travel like that. They weren't rich enough. When you've a shop you have to mind how you spend your money.
Perhaps then, suggested Bessie, they would travel with her, as her guests. She'd like it. She had plenty of money and she'd been hoping she'd meet someone to enjoy things with her. It wasn't any good trying to enjoy things alone. It would be a pleasure.
But Mr. Willis, who appeared to be cautious, said he'd have to think it over.
The band finished playing a potpourri from Ca​valleria Rusticana and began putting away its instruments in receptacles of green baize. Mrs. Willis thought perhaps they'd all better be going to bed, so Bessie paid the bill for everything and they set out slowly, for Bessie found it difficult to move very fast. As they walked she said she had no children (which was quite true) and so was very fond of dogs. The Willises must see her other poodle, Minnie. Minnie was at home because her chest was weak and Bessie didn't think the night air at the seaside was good for her.
Queer, said Mrs. Willis, they hadn't any children either, although they'd prayed for them. But she managed to fill in her time in church work. That helped a great deal and it was sociable. Did Mrs. Winnery go to any particular church?
Bessie said no, that she wasn't much of a one for church. (Indeed, she had never seen the inside of a church.) She'd come to Bloomsbury a stranger and she'd never yet found her way about.
Mrs. Willis said she must come to their chapel. She was sure that she'd feel at home there, and Bessie said they must both come and have Sunday dinner with her. At the end of the pier Bessie's hired victoria was waiting and she drove them home to their shabby lodgings. They parted the best of friends.
"We might meet tomorrow," suggested Bessie.
"That would be fine," said Mrs. Willis.
"About ten-thirty at the end of the pier," said Bessie. She waved back to them gaily as she drove off to the splendor of her own suite at the George and Crown.
​The next day proved a great success, so great a success that they all decided to stay five days longer. Bessie it was who paid the expenses. It gave her pleasure, she said, and she had plenty of money. And in the end they all went back to London on the express, first class, with a compartment to themselves because Bessie felt uneasy when anyone like Mr. Blundon was put in the same compartment with her.
In Bloomsbury Bessie went to the chapel and Mr. and Mrs. Willis came home in the victoria to Sunday dinner. She did not care especially for the sermon nor for the boredom of sitting an hour and a half in a hard pew, but she had found human companionship and she told herself that she couldn't have everything. Mrs. Willis admired the brass collection and the chromos and Bessie sent her as a gift a female white poodle. It was the beginning of a great friendship. From then on Bessie attended the chapel regularly save on those Sundays when she found the effort to dress quite beyond her power of will.
She got used to the services and came to endure them but she found her real pleasure in the meetings of the ladies and all the auxiliary activities of the chapel. She could sit and drink her fill of amiable talk. And for the chapel she proved a godsend. In a congregation of small linen drapers, greengrocers and clerks, she appeared to be a female Midas. And because she wanted everybody to be happy she bought a grand new organ for the chapel and had new windows put in and presented it with a baptismal font. Out of gratitude the members ​of the congregation had carved upon it, "Presented to St. John's Chapel by Bessie Cudlip Winnery." As for Bessie, she was happy. She had only one desire—that Teena Bitts might walk in some Sunday and read that inscription on the baptismal font.
It was Bessie, too, who established the famous August Bank Holiday Excursion and Annual Picnic. Oddly enough it was Mr. Blundon who suggested to her the idea. He thought it would be splendid if the children of the congregation could get into the country more often, so Bessie made it an annual affair. On the August Bank Holiday she hired char-a-bancs and, packing into them all the Sunday School children and as many of the parents as were free, set off into the country for the day. She herself occupied a seat in the back of the first char-a-banc, leading the way and filled with happiness. After the second year the excursions became so celebrated that people joined the chapel and sent their children to Sunday School for the sake of the single uproarious outing.
In the fourth year after Bessie met Mr. and Mrs. Willis, two momentous things happened. One was the death of the poodles. Esther died of old age and Minnie of the lung complaint which had troubled her for so long. Bessie bought two new poodles but they were never the same, she told Mr. Willis, because she had had Esther and Minnie while Mr. Winnery was still alive and their deaths were like the breaking of a chain that bound her to him.
In the midst of her grief she was sitting one afternoon in the window of the drawing room ​(happily dressed) and listening to the gramophone when an antiquated and high-pitched Rolls Royce drove up and stopped before the door. At sight of it Bessie withdrew quickly behind the curtains but not so quickly that she wasn't able to see that it had on the door a coronet exactly like the one she had seen on the letter found in Mr. Blundon's room so many years before. A footman rang the bell and in a moment Briggs came in trembling, pale and shaken, to ask if Mrs. Winnery could receive "'er Gryce, the Duchess of Narkworth."
"Now," thought Bessie, "'es's done it. E's gone and told 'er the whole thing."
Peering from behind the curtain she saw a little old woman dressed very queerly in black with a black bonnet and parasol get down from the Rolls Royce and come up the steps.
"She ain't so awesome," thought Bessie with relief. "She looks just like old Mrs. Grubb that sits in the third pew at chapel."
The little old lady came in and Bessie received her with all the grace of manner Mr. Winnery had taught her. Would 'er Gryce sit down? And did she mind the poodle puppies? No, it appeared, 'er Gryce didn't mind, she kept spaniels herself—cockers—and she was very attached to them. Bessie told her about the death of Esther and Minnie, not without shedding a tear and explaining their relation to the late Mr. Winnery.
And then 'er Gryce came to the point. She too had just lost her husband a little while before and since he was dead there had been a reconciliation between her and Mr. Blundon, the cousin of the ​late Duke. Indeed Mr. Blundon had gone to the funeral and then came to Narkworth House for lunch. And a very changed Mr. Blundon he was from the last time she had seen him. He was even cheerful and happy. And after lunch he had taken 'er Gryce aside and told her what had happened to him and how it was a Mr. and Mrs. Winnery who had taken an interest in him and helped him when his own family had cast him out. (Not that Mrs. Winnery must think the worse of the dear Duke. He was a good man but hard. The Blundons were all hard. And Mr. Blundon had given him, as the head of the family, a great deal of trouble.) So she had come to thank Mrs. Winnery for what she had been doing all these years. If the dear Duke hadn't been in his grave he would have come too, out of thankfulness for seeing Mr. Blundon such a changed creature.
Bessie said that what she'd done was nothing and that it had given her and Mr. Winnery great pleasure and that they were very fond of Mr. Blundon and couldn't have got on without him.
'Er Gryce said that now it was arranged for Mr. Blundon to live in the dower house at Narkworth and go on with his writing. He had told her that he was at work on a book which he would have finished shortly and would publish. He had been reticent about it. Did Mrs. Winnery know what it was about?
No, Bessie said, it was, she supposed, just a book. But it was really too bad about Mr. Blundon going to live at Narkworth. She'd miss having him there in Bloomsbury. It would be a hole in her life.
​But 'er Gryce said Mr. Blundon was going to keep the lodging in Bloomsbury to stop in when he came to town. He had grown fond of the place. She didn't suppose there was anything she could do for Bessie, but she wanted her to know how grateful the family had been for what she had done.
Then Bessie suggested that 'er Gryce have a drop of tea and the old lady lifted her veil and said she would be delighted to have some and, after the trembling Briggs had been sent to fetch it, they fell to discussing this and that and Bessie told her about the chapel and the August Bank Holiday Excursion and Annual Picnic. 'Er Gryce said she was interested in such ideas. She proved to be a very pious old lady and much interested in work among the poor. She would send Mrs. Winnery a cheque to help along her good work, which seemed to be growing at such a pace that Mrs. Winnery would soon find it beyond her means.
They drank tea together and became very friendly and 'er Gryce suggested that they might meet again and plan a place at Narkworth where tired girls could be sent for a rest. Mrs. Winnery might help her with the London end of it. Her daughter-in-law, the present Duchess, who was Miss Mazie Ffolliott of the Gaiety, had already been a great help in recruiting tired girls from the music halls. It was a plan she had had in mind for a long time. She could, she thought, house as many as twelve girls at a time in the old Abbey at Narkworth. She was having plumbing laid down. She had begun the day after the dear Duke's funeral. Perhaps Mrs. Winnery would come and have lunch with her one day ​at Narkworth House and they would talk it over. But Bessie said she didn't go out much and maybe 'er Gryce would come instead to Bloomsbury.
Bessie went with her to the door and was standing there when 'er Gryce drove off bowing and waving pretty as anything from the window of the antique Rolls. She was very nice, thought Bessie, and not a bit like a Duchess. She reminded her in a way of old Mrs. Crumyss if you forgot the way Mrs. Crumyss talked and drank.
That evening Bessie dropped in to see Mrs. Willis and gave her a finely detailed account of 'er Gryce's call.
The visit roused again the old temptation to return to the Pot and Pie. She was tormented by the desire to just drop in in passing to tell Teena Bitts about 'er Gryce. But she could not go until after the August Bank Holiday, which was only six days off. There was too much to be done in preparation for the Excursion and Annual Picnic. This year the crowd would need fourteen char-a-bancs. When that was over she would drive back to Bayswater in splendor just for one afternoon to show Teena and Winterbottom and Mrs. Crumyss.
The great day came and Bessie, sitting high in the back of the first char-a-banc, watched Mr. Willis twirling his walrus moustache and getting the crowd organized. At last they were off in an uproar of motors and a cloud of fluttering flags representing about equally the British Empire and St. John's ​Chapel. She wished again that Teena Bitts and old Mrs. Crumyss could see her.
They went to Nottingham Forest and there under the trees with the efficient direction of Mr. Willis they spread out the food from great hampers. There were all kinds of sandwiches, roast beef and mutton, sausages, tarts and fruit, and quantities of ice-cold beer, a real feast such as appealed to the Gargantuan imagination of Bessie. Then Mr. Willis organized a gymkhana in which all the children and some of the grown-ups took part, and all this led up in the end to the peak of interest—a race between the fat men of the congregation and the fat ladies of the congregation. There were twenty-three entries in this event but when the lineup came, Bessie was not among them. At her absence a cry went up from all present. She, the fattest woman in the congregation, was entered! She, Mrs. Winnery, who was responsible for all the fun! It wouldn't be any race at all if she didn't take part in it. (Among the fat ones it was already decided to fix the race and allow her to win.) The children gathered around her crying, "Go along, Mrs. Winnery," and Bessie protested and laughed, laughed until she became hysterical, but in the end she yielded and, removing her hat and jacket, took her place with the others.
The race was to be run from the green char-a-banc to the foot of the great oak that stood on the edge of the road. The whole congregation lined the edge of the course. Among the slim gentlemen bets were placed as to the winner. Shrieks of merriment shattered the forest stillness. And at last Mr. ​Willis dropped the napkin that was the starting signal and they were off. Bessie got off in the midst and was making remarkable speed for so large a woman. Cries of encouragement went up from all sides, for Bessie was the favorite, such a favorite as there had never been in any race. There was not one who did not want her to win. And Bessie was doing her best, although very nearly helpless with laughter. Slowly she forged ahead into the lead. Fifteen more yards and the victory would be hers.
But suddenly something happened. It seemed that she tripped over something, perhaps a root, and fell to the ground. A cry went up and fifty people ran to help her. But when they got to her side, she seemed unable to rise. She lay there quite still, breathing with difficulty. Six men carried her into the shade of the great oak. They brought water and fanned her and from somewhere in the congregation there appeared an unsuspected bottle of brandy. They poured part of this between her lips. But there was nothing to be done. Her breathing stopped presently. She had died of apoplexy in the midst of merriment.
At the chapel they gave her a great funeral. Mr. Blundon attended it and 'er Gryce sent a wreath made by the gardeners at Narkworth House. The preacher delivered a long sermon of eulogy, calling attention to the new organ, the new windows and the baptismal font, and most of all to the August Bank Holiday Excursion and Annual Picnic. In the ​end he said, rather sentimentally, "For one reason, if not for countless others, she will always be remembered among us. It can be said of her that she shared all she had and that her only desire was that others should be happy like herself."
It was Mr. Blundon himself who, as her oldest friend, consulted with Mr. and Mrs. Willis about the tombstone. They decided upon it at last—a simple stone with the inscription:
Here lies Bessie Cudlip Winnery widow of Horace J. Winnery Died August—at the age of forty-six years at the August Bank Holiday Excursion and Annual Picnic of St. John's Chapel
He prayeth best who loveth best all things both great and small for the dear God who loveth us He made and loveth all
The two poodles went to join the poodle Bessie had given Mrs. Willis and the house was closed and sold, and the following week Mr. Blundon's book was published. It was in two large volumes and was named A History of Prostitution, Religious and Secular. It was an excellent and erudite book and received scholarly notices. On the fly-leaf appeared the dedication, "To Mr. and Mrs. Horace J. Winnery, whose Friendship and Aid Made the Writing of This Book Possible."
​But Bessie died without ever returning to Bayswater. She died while the crowds stood in the hot street before the Palazzo Gonfarini in Brinoë looking up at the window where Miss Annie Spragg lay dead.