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Page 23
"Oh, yes, sir! That'll do nicely!"
Mrs. Bunting went downstairs, and as she did so she took herself
wordlessly, ruthlessly to task, but she did not face--even in her
inmost heart--the strange tenors and tremors which had so shaken
her. She only repeated to herself again and again, "I've got upset
--that's what I've done," and then she spoke aloud, "I must get
myself a dose at the chemist's next time I'm out. That's what I
must do."
And just as she murmured the word "do," there came a loud double
knock on the front door.
It was only the postman's knock, but the postman was an unfamiliar
visitor in that house, and Mrs. Bunting started violently. She was
nervous, that's what was the matter with her,--so she told herself
angrily. No doubt this was a letter for Mr. Sleuth; the lodger must
have relations and acquaintances somewhere in the world. All
gentlefolk have. But when she picked the small envelope off the
hall floor, she saw it was a letter from Daisy, her husband's daughter.
"Bunting!" she called out sharply. "Here's a letter for you."
She opened the door of their sitting-room and looked in. Yes, there
was her husband, sitting back comfortably in his easy chair, reading
a paper. And as she saw his broad, rather rounded back, Mrs. Bunting
felt a sudden thrill of sharp irritation. There he was, doing
nothing--in fact, doing worse than nothing--wasting his time
reading all about those horrid crimes.
She sighed--a long, unconscious sigh. Bunting was getting into
idle ways, bad ways for a man of his years. But how could she
prevent it? He had been such an active, conscientious sort of man
when they had first made acquaintance. . .
She also could remember, even more clearly than Bunting did himself,
that first meeting of theirs in the dining-room of No. 90 Cumberland
Terrace. As she had stood there, pouring out her mistress's glass of
port wine, she had not been too much absorbed in her task to have a
good out-of-her-eye look at the spruce, nice, respectable-looking
fellow who was standing over by the window. How superior he had
appeared even then to the man she already hoped he would succeed as
butler!
To-day, perhaps because she was not feeling quite herself, the past
rose before her very vividly, and a lump came into her throat.
Putting the letter addressed to her husband on the table, she closed
the door softly, and went down into the kitchen; there were various
little things to put away and clean up, as well as their dinner to
cook. And all the time she was down there she fixed her mind
obstinately, determinedly on Bunting and on the problem of Bunting.
She wondered what she'd better do to get him into good ways again.
Thanks to Mr. Sleuth, their outlook was now moderately bright. A
week ago everything had seemed utterly hopeless. It seemed as if
nothing could save them from disaster. But everything was now
changed!
Perhaps it would be well for her to go and see the new proprietor
of that registry office, in Baker Street, which had lately changed
hands. It would be a good thing for Bunting to get even an
occasional job--for the matter of that he could now take up a
fairly regular thing in the way of waiting. Mrs. Bunting knew that
it isn't easy to get a man out of idle ways once he has acquired
those ways.
When, at last, she went upstairs again she felt a little ashamed of
what she had been thinking, for Bunting had laid the cloth, and laid
it very nicely, too, and brought up the two chairs to the table.
"Ellen?" he cried eagerly, "here's news! Daisy's coming to-morrow!
There's scarlet fever in their house. Old Aunt thinks she'd better
come away for a few days. So, you see, she'll be here for her
birthday. Eighteen, that's what she be on the nineteenth! It do
make me feel old--that it do!"
Mrs. Bunting put down the tray. "I can't have the girl here just
now," she said shortly. "I've just as much to do as I can manage.
The lodger gives me more trouble than you seem to think for."
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