Robert Bunting and Ellen his wife sat before their dully burning,
The room, especially when it be known that it was part of a house
standing in a grimy, if not exactly sordid, London thoroughfare,
was exceptionally clean and well-cared-for. A casual stranger,
more particularly one of a Superior class to their own, on suddenly
opening the door of that sitting-room; would have thought that Mr.
and Mrs. Bunting presented a very pleasant cosy picture of
comfortable married life. Bunting, who was leaning back in a deep
leather arm-chair, was clean-shaven and dapper, still in appearance
what he had been for many years of his life — a self-respecting
On his wife, now sitting up in an uncomfortable straight-backed
chair, the marks of past servitude were less apparent; but they
were there all the same — in her neat black stuff dress, and in
her scrupulously clean, plain collar and cuffs. Mrs. Bunting, as
a single woman, had been what is known as a useful maid.
But peculiarly true of average English life is the time-worn
English proverb as to appearances being deceitful. Mr. and Mrs.
Bunting were sitting in a very nice room and in their time — how
long ago it now seemed! — both husband and wife had been proud of
their carefully chosen belongings. Everything in the room was
strong and substantial, and each article of furniture had been
bought at a well-conducted auction held in a private house.
Thus the red damask curtains which now shut out the fog-laden,
drizzling atmosphere of the Marylebone Road, had cost a mere song,
and yet they might have been warranted to last another thirty years.
A great bargain also had been the excellent Axminster carpet which
covered the floor; as, again, the arm-chair in which Bunting now sat
forward, staring into the dull, small fire. In fact, that arm-chair
had been an extravagance of Mrs. Bunting. She had wanted her husband
to be comfortable after the day’s work was done, and she had paid
thirty-seven shillings for the chair. Only yesterday Bunting had
tried to find a purchaser for it, but the man who had come to look at
it, guessing their cruel necessities, had only offered them twelve
shillings and sixpence for it; so for the present they were keeping
But man and woman want something more than mere material comfort,
much as that is valued by the Buntings of this world. So, on the
walls of the sitting-room, hung neatly framed if now rather faded
photographs — photographs of Mr. and Mrs. Bunting’s various former
employers, and of the pretty country houses in which they had
separately lived during the long years they had spent in a not
But appearances were not only deceitful, they were more than
usually deceitful with regard to these unfortunate people. In
spite of their good furniture — that substantial outward sign of
respectability which is the last thing which wise folk who fall
into trouble try to dispose of — they were almost at the end of
their tether. Already they had learnt to go hungry, and they were
beginning to learn to go cold. Tobacco, the last thing the sober
man foregoes among his comforts, had been given up some time ago
by Bunting. And even Mrs. Bunting — prim, prudent, careful woman
as she was in her way — had realised what this must mean to him.
So well, indeed, had she understood that some days back she had
crept out and bought him a packet of Virginia.
Bunting had been touched — touched as he had not been for years by
any woman’s thought and love for him. Painful tears had forced
themselves into his eyes, and husband and wife had both felt in
their odd, unemotional way, moved to the heart.
Fortunately he never guessed — how could he have guessed, with his
slow, normal, rather dull mind? — that his poor Ellen had since
more than once bitterly regretted that fourpence-ha’penny, for they
were now very near the soundless depths which divide those who dwell
on the safe tableland of security — those, that is, who are sure of
making a respectable, if not a happy, living — and the submerged
multitude who, through some lack in themselves, or owing to the
conditions under which our strange civilisation has become organised,
struggle rudderless till they die in workhouse, hospital, or prison.
Had the Buntings been in a class lower than their own, had they
belonged to the great company of human beings technically known to
so many of us as the poor, there would have been friendly neighbours
ready to help them, and the same would have been the case had they
belonged to the class of smug, well-meaning, if unimaginative, folk
whom they had spent so much of their lives in serving.
There was only one person in the world who might possibly be brought
to help them. That was an aunt of Bunting’s first wife. With this
woman, the widow of a man who had been well-to-do, lived Daisy,
Bunting’s only child by his first wife, and during the last long two
days he had been trying to make up his mind to write to the old lady,
and that though he suspected that she would almost certainly retort
with a cruel, sharp rebuff.
As to their few acquaintances, former fellow-servants, and so on,
they had gradually fallen out of touch with them. There was but
one friend who often came to see them in their deep trouble. This
was a young fellow named Chandler, under whose grandfather Bunting
had been footman years and years ago. Joe Chandler had never gone
into service; he was attached to the police; in fact not to put too
fine a point upon it, young Chandler was a detective.
When they had first taken the house which had brought them, so they
both thought, such bad luck, Bunting had encouraged the young chap
to come often, for his tales were well worth listening to — quite
exciting at times. But now poor Bunting didn’t want to hear that
sort of stories — stories of people being cleverly “nabbed,” or
stupidly allowed to escape the fate they always, from Chandler’s
point of view, richly deserved.
But Joe still came very faithfully once or twice a week, so timing
his calls that neither host nor hostess need press food upon him
— nay, more, he had done that which showed him to have a good and
feeling heart. He had offered his father’s old acquaintance a loan,
and Bunting, at last, had taken 30s. Very little of that money
now remained: Bunting still could jingle a few coppers in his pocket;
and Mrs. Bunting had 2s. 9d.; that and the rent they would have to
pay in five weeks, was all they had left. Everything of the light,
portable sort that would fetch money had been sold. Mrs. Bunting
had a fierce horror of the pawnshop. She had never put her feet in
such a place, and she declared she never would — she would rather
But she had said nothing when there had occurred the gradual
disappearance of various little possessions she knew that Bunting
valued, notably of the old-fashioned gold watch-chain which had been
given to him after the death of his first master, a master he had
nursed faithfully and kindly through a long and terrible illness.
There had also vanished a twisted gold tie-pin, and a large mourning
ring, both gifts of former employers.
When people are living near that deep pit which divides the secure
from the insecure — when they see themselves creeping closer and
closer to its dread edge — they are apt, however loquacious by
nature, to fall into long silences. Bunting had always been a
talker, but now he talked no more. Neither did Mrs. Bunting, but
then she had always been a silent woman, and that was perhaps one
reason why Bunting had felt drawn to her from the very first moment
he had seen her.
It had fallen out in this way. A lady had just engaged him as
butler, and he had been shown, by the man whose place he was to
take, into the dining-room. There, to use his own expression, he
had discovered Ellen Green, carefully pouring out the glass of port
wine which her then mistress always drank at 11.30 every morning.
And as he, the new butler, had seen her engaged in this task, as he
had watched her carefully stopper the decanter and put it back into
the old wine-cooler, he had said to himself, “That is the woman for
But now her stillness, her — her dumbness, had got on the
unfortunate man’s nerves. He no longer felt like going into the
various little shops, close by, patronised by him in more prosperous
days, and Mrs. Bunting also went afield to make the slender purchases
which still had to be made every day or two, if they were to be
saved from actually starving to death.
Suddenly, across the stillness of the dark November evening there
came the muffled sounds of hurrying feet and of loud, shrill shouting
outside — boys crying the late afternoon editions of the evening
Bunting turned uneasily in his chair. The giving up of a daily
paper had been, after his tobacco, his bitterest deprivation. And
the paper was an older habit than the tobacco, for servants are
great readers of newspapers.
As the shouts came through the closed windows and the thick damask
curtains, Bunting felt a sudden sense of mind hunger fall upon him.
It was a shame — a damned shame — that he shouldn’t know what was
happening in the world outside! Only criminals are kept from hearing
news of what is going on beyond their prison walls. And those
shouts, those hoarse, sharp cries must portend that something really
exciting had happened, something warranted to make a man forget for
the moment his own intimate, gnawing troubles.
He got up, and going towards the nearest window strained his ears to
listen. There fell on them, emerging now and again from the confused
babel of hoarse shouts, the one clear word “Murder!”
Slowly Bunting’s brain pieced the loud, indistinct cries into some
sort of connected order. Yes, that was it — “Horrible Murder!
Murder at St. Pancras!” Bunting remembered vaguely another murder
which had been committed near St. Pancras — that of an old lady by
her servant-maid. It had happened a great many years ago, but was
still vividly remembered, as of special and natural interest, among
the class to which he had belonged.
The newsboys — for there were more than one of them, a rather unusual
thing in the Marylebone Road — were coming nearer and nearer; now
they had adopted another cry, but he could not quite catch what they
were crying. They were still shouting hoarsely, excitedly, but he
could only hear a word or two now and then. Suddenly “The Avenger!
The Avenger at his work again!” broke on his ear.
During the last fortnight four very curious and brutal murders had
been committed in London and within a comparatively small area.
The first had aroused no special interest — even the second had only
been awarded, in the paper Bunting was still then taking in, quite a
Then had come the third — and with that a wave of keen excitement,
for pinned to the dress of the victim — a drunken woman — had been
found a three-cornered piece of paper, on which was written, in red
ink, and in printed characters, the words,
It was then realised, not only by those whose business it is to
investigate such terrible happenings, but also by the vast world
of men and women who take an intelligent interest in such sinister
mysteries, that the same miscreant had committed all three crimes;
and before that extraordinary fact had had time to soak well into
the public mind there took place yet another murder, and again the
murderer had been to special pains to make it clear that some
obscure and terrible lust for vengeance possessed him.
Now everyone was talking of The Avenger and his crimes! Even the
man who left their ha’porth of milk at the door each morning had
spoken to Bunting about them that very day.
Bunting came back to the fire and looked down at his wife with mild
excitement. Then, seeing her pale, apathetic face, her look of
weary, mournful absorption, a wave of irritation swept through him.
He felt he could have shaken her!
Ellen had hardly taken the trouble to listen when he, Bunting, had
come back to bed that morning, and told her what the milkman had
said. In fact, she had been quite nasty about it, intimating that
she didn’t like hearing about such horrid things.
It was a curious fact that though Mrs. Bunting enjoyed tales of
pathos and sentiment, and would listen with frigid amusement to
the details of a breach of promise action, she shrank from stories
of immorality or of physical violence. In the old, happy days,
when they could afford to buy a paper, aye, and more than one paper
daily, Bunting had often had to choke down his interest in some
exciting “case” or “mystery” which was affording him pleasant mental
relaxation, because any allusion to it sharply angered Ellen.
But now he was at once too dull and too miserable to care how she
Walking away from the window he took a slow, uncertain step towards
the door; when there he turned half round, and there came over his
close-shaven, round face the rather sly, pleading look with which
a child about to do something naughty glances at its parent.
But Mrs. Bunting remained quite still; her thin, narrow shoulders
just showed above the back of the chair on which she was sitting,
bolt upright, staring before her as if into vacancy.
Bunting turned round, opened the door, and quickly he went out into
the dark hall — they had given up lighting the gas there some time
ago — and opened the front door.
Walking down the small flagged path outside, he flung open the iron
gate which gave on to the damp pavement. But there he hesitated.
The coppers in his pocket seemed to have shrunk in number, and he
remembered ruefully how far Ellen could make even four pennies go.
Then a boy ran up to him with a sheaf of evening papers, and Bunting,
being sorely tempted — fell. “Give me a Sun,” he said roughly, “Sun
But the boy, scarcely stopping to take breath, shook his head. “Only
penny papers left,” he gasped. “What’ll yer ‘ave, sir?”
With an eagerness which was mingled with shame, Bunting drew a penny
out of his pocket and took a paper — it was the Evening Standard —
from the boy’s hand.
Then, very slowly, he shut the gate and walked back through the raw,
cold air, up the flagged path, shivering yet full of eager, joyful
Thanks to that penny he had just spent so recklessly he would pass
a happy hour, taken, for once, out of his anxious, despondent,
miserable self. It irritated him shrewdly to know that these moments
of respite from carking care would not be shared with his poor wife,
with careworn, troubled Ellen.
A hot wave of unease, almost of remorse, swept over Bunting. Ellen
would never have spent that penny on herself — he knew that well
enough — and if it hadn’t been so cold, so foggy, so — so drizzly,
he would have gone out again through the gate and stood under the
street lamp to take his pleasure. He dreaded with a nervous dread
the glance of Ellen’s cold, reproving light-blue eye. That glance
would tell him that he had had no business to waste a penny on a
paper, and that well he knew it!
Suddenly the door in front of him opened, and he beard a familiar
voice saying crossly, yet anxiously, “What on earth are you doing
out there, Bunting? Come in — do! You’ll catch your death of cold!
I don’t want to have you ill on my hands as well as everything else!”
Mrs. Bunting rarely uttered so many words at once nowadays.
He walked in through the front door of his cheerless house. “I
went out to get a paper,” he said sullenly.
After all, he was master. He had as much right to spend the money
as she had; for the matter of that the money on which they were now
both living had been lent, nay, pressed on him — not on Ellen — by
that decent young chap, Joe Chandler. And he, Bunting, had done
all he could; he had pawned everything he could pawn, while Ellen,
so he resentfully noticed, still wore her wedding ring.
He stepped past her heavily, and though she said nothing, he knew
she grudged him his coming joy. Then, full of rage with her and
contempt for himself, and giving himself the luxury of a mild, a
very mild, oath — Ellen had very early made it clear she would
have no swearing in her presence — he lit the hall gas full-flare.
“How can we hope to get lodgers if they can’t even see the card?”
he shouted angrily.
And there was truth in what he said, for now that he had lit the
gas, the oblong card, though not the word “Apartments” printed on
it, could be plainly seen out-lined against the old-fashioned
fanlight above the front door.
Bunting went into the sitting-room, silently followed by his wife,
and then, sitting down in his nice arm-chair, he poked the little
banked-up fire. It was the first time Bunting had poked the fire
for many a long day, and this exertion of marital authority made
him feel better. A man has to assert himself sometimes, and he,
Bunting, had not asserted himself enough lately.
A little colour came into Mrs. Bunting’s pale face. She was not
used to be flouted in this way. For Bunting, when not thoroughly
upset, was the mildest of men.
She began moving about the room, flicking off an imperceptible
touch of dust here, straightening a piece of furniture there.
But her hands trembled — they trembled with excitement, with
self-pity, with anger. A penny? It was dreadful — dreadful to
have to worry about a penny! But they had come to the point when
one has to worry about pennies. Strange that her husband didn’t
Bunting looked round once or twice; he would have liked to ask Ellen
to leave off fidgeting, but he was fond of peace, and perhaps, by
now, a little bit ashamed of himself, so he refrained from remark,
and she soon gave over what irritated him of her own accord.
But Mrs. Bunting did not come and sit down as her husband would have
liked her to do. The sight of him, absorbed in his paper as he was,
irritated her, and made her long to get away from him. Opening the
door which separated the sitting-room from the bedroom behind, and
— shutting out the aggravating vision of Bunting sitting comfortably
by the now brightly burning fire, with the Evening Standard spread
out before him — she sat down in the cold darkness, and pressed her
hands against her temples.
Never, never had she felt so hopeless, so — so broken as now. Where
was the good of having been an upright, conscientious, self-respecting
woman all her life long, if it only led to this utter, degrading
poverty and wretchedness? She and Bunting were just past the age
which gentlefolk think proper in a married couple seeking to enter
service together, unless, that is, the wife happens to be a professed
cook. A cook and a butler can always get a nice situation. But Mrs.
Bunting was no cook. She could do all right the simple things any
lodger she might get would require, but that was all.
Lodgers? How foolish she had been to think of taking lodgers! For
it had been her doing. Bunting had been like butter in her hands.
Yet they had begun well, with a lodging-house in a seaside place.
There they had prospered, not as they had hoped to do, but still
pretty well; and then had come an epidemic of scarlet fever, and
that had meant ruin for them, and for dozens, nay, hundreds, of
other luckless people. Then had followed a business experiment
which had proved even more disastrous, and which had left them in
debt — in debt to an extent they could never hope to repay, to a
good-natured former employer.
After that, instead of going back to service, as they might have
done, perhaps, either together or separately, they had made up
their minds to make one last effort, and they had taken over, with
the trifle of money that remained to them, the lease of this house
in the Marylebone Road.
In former days, when they had each been leading the sheltered,
impersonal, and, above all, financially easy existence which is
the compensation life offers to those men and women who deliberately
take upon themselves the yoke of domestic service, they had both
lived in houses overlooking Regent’s Park. It had seemed a wise
plan to settle in the same neighbourhood, the more so that Bunting,
who had a good appearance, had retained the kind of connection
which enables a man to get a job now and again as waiter at private
But life moves quickly, jaggedly, for people like the Buntings.
Two of his former masters had moved to another part of London, and
a caterer in Baker Street whom he had known went bankrupt.
And now? Well, just now Bunting could not have taken a job had
one been offered him, for he had pawned his dress clothes. He had
not asked his wife’s permission to do this, as so good a husband
ought to have done. He had just gone out and done it. And she had
not had the heart to say anything; nay, it was with part of the
money that he had handed her silently the evening he did it that
she had bought that last packet of tobacco.
And then, as Mrs. Bunting sat there thinking these painful thoughts,
there suddenly came to the front door the sound of a loud, tremulous,
uncertain double knock.