The Wrong House (Owen Oliver)

by Owen Oliver

THE WRONG HOUSE

By OWEN OLIVER

THE catch of the kitchen window yielded easily, and Bill Simmons had no difficulty in finding his way to the dining-room by the "service" entrance. He was feeling round the wall for the switch of the electric lights, when they flashed out suddenly. He turned and saw a tall, fair lady in a blue dressing-gown at the other end of the long room. The lady looked so much more holy than anything he had imagined, that violence was out of the question; and, moreover. Bill had a grain of chivalry in his burglarious soul. "'E's never so much as laid a 'and on me," his wife boasted.

"Begging your pardon, lady," he said, "but I've made a mistake and come to the wrong 'ouse. Don't you make a fuss, and I'll go quiet, an' touch nothing."

"There isn't much to take," the lady said in a voice which made him think of a church. "Are you in great need, that you are driven to this? Perhaps I might give you enough for a Christmas dinner, if it's that."

Bill believed that he blushed. He certainly felt like it.

"Blimy——" he began.

"Don't swear," the lady told him.

"Beg pardon, lady," he apologised humbly. "Dessay you took it for an excuse, being copped. But it's a fac'. Mistook the 'ouse I did. Owing to liquor. Not drunk, I wasn't, but, being Christmas Eve, had enough to make me careless-like. The crib I was looking for was—well, someone else's. Fac'!"

"Was it need drove you to it?" the vision wanted to know. "Were you starving?"

"No-o," he owned. "It's my perfeshon, you see."

"Then," she told him, "you ought to be ashamed of yourself."

"Dessay I ought," he owned. "A bloke must do something for a living."

"He should work," she stated. "A great, strong man like you. Why don't you do honest work?"

"Ah!" he said. "Work? Been told that before. Church visitors and them. Might 'ave paid more attention if they'd spoke more like you, lady. If you don't mind, I'll be going. No damage done, you'll find. Just slipped a catch of the kitchen window. Your servants don't lock up careful. Best keep an eye to 'em, lady … Begging your pardon." He backed through the "service" door to the kitchen. "Wishing you a merry Christmas, if no offence," he said, touching his cap.

"Wait a moment," the lady commanded. He took a step back from the shadow toward the light. "How poor are you?"

"Middlin' poor," he thought. "off and on. Depends on 'ow my business 'as gone, you see. The fences get most out of it, an' that's a fac', lady."

"Have you a wife and children?" she inquired.

"Three," he said. "Three kids. One wife. Roof over our 'eads. Firing for the kitchen. Enough to eat and drink. Clothes to our backs. Not what you'd call poor—not like some."

"How old are the children?" she demanded.

"Now you've got me." He scratched his head. "Well, 'Arry might be somewhere about four year. Sharp little nipper, too. And Rosalie——"

"Rosalie?" the lady queried. She smiled a wonderful faint smile.

"Name as 'er mother got out of a tale. 'Lady Rosalie' she wanted 'er to be christened, but the parson cut the 'Lady' out. Too good for the like of us. She might be two or three. Dunno. About that 'eight from the floor." He held out his hand. "Got a tongue like 'er mother's—always a-wagging. And the things she says! 'Why doesn't farver go to 'eaven?' she wants to know. 'What 'ud 'e do there?' 'er mother arsks. 'Nick them gold 'arps,' sez she. Funny ideas kids 'ave got!"

"I suppose you wouldn't be above taking them?" the lady suggested. "But I'm afraid you won't get in, Mr.—Mr. Burglar!"

"Simmons, the name is," he told her. "In confidence, lady, and not to be mentioned to the police."

"I shall not mention it to the police, Mr. Simmons," she assured him. "And your third child?"

"Baby," he told her. "Nigh on a year. Born when I was in—well, 'doing time,' to be candid, lady—and ought to have been a lesson to me."

"To give up stealing," she said.

"P'r'aps so," he owned; "but I was thinking of drink. Never been copped, if I'd kept off it. In my line you can't afford to be fuzzy. Want your wits about you. Anything more, lady, you'd like to arsk?"

Women, he reflected, were strangely inquisitive persons, even ladies that looked like a holy princess who might be painted on a church window.

"I was not questioning you merely from curiosity," the lady explained. Her voice, he thought, was like the soft part of a church organ. "I was wondering whether you had bought any Santa Claus presents for your little children?"

"Sweets," he told her, "and some toys off the street barrows; a few pence apiece. Wouldn't run to more."

"Well," she said, "I was thinking. I have some toys upstairs. The children they were meant for—they won't be with me this Christmas."

She sighed as a saint might sigh.

"Lady," Bill sympathised earnestly, "I'm sorry. Strewth—not meaning to swear—I'm sorry. You lost them?"

"For this Christmas," she said. "They—well, I thought they were coming, and they aren't. I was afraid I couldn't get the toys there in time. So I telegraphed to a shop near their house to send others. The children are older than yours. The baby is three. But I think the toys will do. If you wait, I will go upstairs and fetch them."

"Ah!" muttered Mr. Simmons. "Wait, eh?"

He looked round rather suspiciously.

"I am not going to call anybody," she told him, "if that is what you fear. It is only … I was thinking about my children when you came in. I—I came down to look at something."

She scarcely moved her head, but Mr. Simmons had no doubt that her eyes turned to a portrait on the mantelpiece—the portrait of a rather stern-faced young man. Mr. Simmons saw nothing holy about him—would have liked to "bash his head" if he wasn't good to the lady.

"I take it kind," he acknowledged, "very kind; not quite seeing why you should trouble about my kids."

"I should like to make other children happy at Christmas," she explained, "if I can't make my own—well, not just now. We have the children in turn, my husband and I."

"I take it," Mr. Simmons observed, "that you and 'im 'ave 'ad a bust-up?"

"A separation," she amended, "by mutual agreement. That's all. Incompatibility of temperament."

"As bad as that!" cried Mr. Simmons. "Drinks, I suppose?"

"No, he does not drink. Will you wait while I get the toys for your children, Mr. Simmons? I have no thought of betraying you, no wish to. I don't suppose I would try to send you to prison even if you had taken things. I am too unhappy myself to want to make others unhappy."

"It's a cruel shame," he thought, "and I'll chance waiting, lady; and you needn't worry as I'll touch things. Wait outside if you'd prefer."

"It is raining," she said. "You will be more comfortable here. If you are hungry, there are some things to eat in the sideboard. I will fetch the toys."

She went out. Mr. Simmons looked all round the room, and especially at the portrait on the mantelshelf.

"Rummest go I ever knew," he reflected. "The missus'll never believe 'ow I come by the toys, and none too ready to believe things as it is. Best tell 'er as I broke in the emporium, an' not lay myself open to suspicion by tellin' the truth. Rummy thing as he'd want to be separated from 'er. Blackguard, I suppose, an' she was too good for 'im. Funny that sort of bloke should want the kids, though. Bus'ness 'tween a man an' a woman is all funny bus'ness, if you ask me, an' you can't never say 'ow it will turn out. People 'ud say as my brother Jack an' 'is missus was very like Em'ly an' me, an' so they are. They don't get on, an' 'e can't manage 'er, not even if he larrups 'er. Me an' Em'ly 'it it more or less, an' no good promisin' 'er a 'iding. 'Do it now!' she says. An' makes me look a fool. All the same, I can manage 'er—more or less. 'Nuf for me … An' that bloke an' the lady can't 'it it. Seem to know 'is face …"

He approached a little nearer—not too near, because the lady might be frightened to find him close when she returned—studied the portrait hard, scratched his head, and studied it again; suddenly slapped his leg.

"Blimy!" he muttered. "I've got 'im. I've got the blighter! Old Jacobs mixed up 'im an' 'is wife; thought this was 'is 'ouse, and the one at Delsham 'ers … Stayner, that's the chap; and she'll be Mrs. Stayner … Stain-glass winder. That's what she's like. Mo' said 'e was separated from 'is missus. Wonder if they run the two o'clock train Christmas mornings? Might get over to the right 'ouse, an' help 'im off with a few things! … Umph! Sounds like 'er comin'."

The lady appeared with her arms full of parcels. He retreated to the far end of the room.

"If you'll put 'em on the table, lady," he proposed, "I'll take 'em when you've stood back."

She put them on the table.

"I am not afraid of you," she told him. "You will think of your innocent little children, as I think of mine. This is a box of tools, Mr. Simmons, You will take care that your little boy doesn't hurt himself with them, won't you? I meant to be very careful to watch Percy. He is seven, and your little boy is—four, you think. Three years younger. So you must look after him very carefully, and tell your wife to. Please don't be too angry with him if he does a little damage with the things. Boys don't—don't always think. They want someone to—to——" She wiped her eyes. "I shall give him tools when he comes here at Easter," she stated. "I didn't send them to my—his father's—I wasn't sure whether they would look after him carefully enough."

"Not like you would, lady," Mr. Simmons thought, "not like you. An' if 'e destroyed things, 'is father might be 'asty with 'im."

"I was thinking of the servants," the lady said. "His father is good to him—to all of them. He would show him how to use the tools better than I could … These are soldiers, and a book, and paints. They were all for—they are for your big boy. The doll and the tea-things and—and all these—were for … I hope your little girl will like them. Would you mind suggesting to your wife that if she let her have a little tea in them—real tea—she wouldn't make much mess, if she was helped. I dare say your wife likes playing with her little girl? … I did …"

"For Heavin's sake, lady," Mr. Simmons implored, "don't take on like that!"

"I'm not taking on," the lady denied, "but you can't help thinking of things."

It occurred to Mr. Simmons that women were very much alike. His missus and the stained-window lady evidently bought their logic at the same shop.

"Of course you can't," he agreed soothingly, "in course you can't. Do Rosalie proud they will, them things, and the boy."

"These," she said, "will be for your baby. Some are a little old for her, but she can hug the doll. Do you know, Mr. Simmons—men don't understand, but you might mention it to your wife—you can teach children a deal by teaching them to love their dolls. They should never be allowed to be rough with them, or they will grow up rough themselves. But my little Mabel was naturally kind to her dolls. She is of an affectionate dis-dis-po-si-si——"

The lady broke down. "Don't—don't—think of things, lady," Simmons entreated.

"What's the use of telling people not to do what they can't help doing?" she wanted to know. "How would your wife like to be without her children at Christmas-time?"

"Don't suppose she "wouldn't," he thought, "or any other time. Thinks a deal of 'em. If she an' me 'ad 'ad a—wot you called it—an' I 'ad the kids, strike me if I don't think I'd lend 'er one for Christmas if she arst for it."

"I dare say," the lady thought, "he would. I didn't ask him, you see."

"Why not?" he wondered.

"You don't understand women," she charged him.

"No, lady. Never met anyone as did. I take it, you wouldn't see no objection, if I could get over there to-night, to my—paying him a little visit, and——"

"Oh," the lady cried, aghast, "you wicked man! You'd steal from my husband! You horrible man!"

"Well," said Mr. Simmons, "well, not if 'e behaved as such; but things being as they are … Well, it beats me. All a woman you are, lady! 'Owsomever, I won't take nothink of 'is. Swear it on the Book, if you like to bring one."

"I'll take your word," the lady said. "Thank you, Mr, Simmons."

"Thank you, lady," he said. "You do me proud; and, if ever there's anything I can do for you—if you wanted a little 'elp to—wot yer call it?—kidnap them kids any time——"

"Oh, dear, no," she declined. "He is entitled to his share of them. I think he is nearly as fond of them as I am. Of course, we could each have one or two always, but we think it is best for children to be brought up together… Some of the presents will go in that bag of yours. I suppose you can carry the rest. You may take them."

"Thank you, lady." He commenced to load the bag, turning it inside out first to show that he had put nothing else in it. "In course it's best for kids to grow up together," he observed, "and—— Well, I dunno the ways of ladies and gentlemen. Rather 'ard face 'e's got." He jerked his head at the portrait.

"If you dare to say things against my husband," the lady cried, "I'll—I'll—well, I would call the police, if it weren't for your children! He is not really hard at all, only unreasonable over some things. I don't put all the blame on him. It's just incompatibility of temperament."

"Ah!" said Mr. Simmons. "Meanin' as you look at things a bit different, perhaps? Me an' the missus does—an' got a tongue, she 'as!—but … It's like this, lady. It's best for kids not to know of it. 'Never you dare to contradic' me before the children,' Em'ly says, 'an' I never won't you, an' never don't. An' if you do, I'll scrag you.' Which is a figger of speech, 'cause she ain't no size; but I know what she means. Seems to me, lady, as if you an' 'im 'ad best sink this uncomfortability of temper—that's what you call it, ain't it?—for the sake of the kids, an'——"

"Don't you dare to lecture me!" the lady cried. She stamped her foot. "You mend your own wicked ways, and—and"—the tears came welling in her eyes again—"be good to your own wife, even if she has a tongue. All women have."

"I was noticing, lady," he agreed. He picked up the last parcel. "Thanking you very kindly."

"And," she said, "if you and she have a quarrel, a man ought to be the one to offer to make it up, not expect the woman to. She can't. You understand that. … A merry Christmas to you, Mr. Simmons, and—try to find a different business, for the sake of your wife and children. God bless you all!"

Mr. Simmons managed to hug the parcels in one arm, so that he could touch his cap, and backed away.

"If it ain't a liberty, lady," he said, "I 'ope as 'e'll put things right for you; an' wish as I could lend a 'and! Compliments of the season, lady!" He went through the door, returned for a second. "'Ave a neye to them servants of yours in lockin' up," he advised earnestly. "Careless, they are. An' mind you bolt the back door after me. Gawd bless yer, lady!"

The lady was sitting at the table with her head on her arms. She nodded acknowledgment without raising it.

"A lady is wonderful like a woman in 'er ways," he reflected, as he trudged away into the night. "Contradicks 'erself in one breath, an' turns on yer for agreein' with 'er. An' sees through yer, if yer don't mind. 'Eavin' knows what tale I'd best make up for Em'ly. If I says I got 'em from the emporium, she'll want to 'ide 'em away, an' find out they wasn't never broke into. Might try tellin' 'er the truth for once! An' rather like to 'ear what she thinks of this uncomfortability of temper bus'ness."

Mrs. Simmons gave a prompt and decisive opinion on the subject.

"Ladies an' gentlemen," she pronounced, "aren't no different from men and women. Just a pair of fools, like you an' me! But you don't get rid of me by no tempers, if they're ever so uncomfortable. An' I can give as good as I get, an' don't you forget. Not that I've anythink to complain of, Bill, and I'd fair break my 'eart over you, if I wouldn't own to it … Got 'er 'ead down on the table an' cryin', you said. An' 'e don't care, an' I don't suppose you would. Men are all——"

"No, they ain't," Mr. Simmons denied. "Yer know as I would care, my gal. An' like enough 'e would, if 'e knew 'ow she was takin' it… Like to tell 'im, I would … Dashed if I don't, too! I'm going over there."

"You'll get given in charge, if you go an' kick up a row with 'im," Mrs. Simmons protested.

"Shan't kick up no row," Mr. Simmons denied.

"You mayn't mean to," his wife conceded, "but you'll say things; an' one thing leads to another, an' you know what you are, Bill! There'll be 'uncomfortable temper' between you and 'im. Don't you do it, mate. For the sake of the kids an' me—if I reckon."

"'Ow many more times 'ave I got to tell you you do?" he grumbled; but he laid his hand on her shoulder. "Never fancied no one else, old gal," he owned. "'Ere, give us a kiss."

"Not 'er?" Mrs. Simmons asked rather suspiciously.

"Like yer fancy a church winder," he stated. "Them winders of coloured gals; saints, don't they call 'em? An' spoke very nice about you, she did … 'Ow would it be if I went 'nonymous, like they call it? Just dropped a letter in 'is box? You could 'elp me write it; use some of the fine words out of your books."

"Near forgotten them," she thought. "Not much time for books nowadays, with three kids. But it's an 'appy thought, Bill. Sort of Christmas card, looking to the time. An' I wouldn't be for wasting time over fine words that we mightn't know the spelling of, but give 'em the credit of 'avin' feelin's, like a 'uman man an' woman."

And out of Mr. and Mrs. Simmons's human feelings—which were greatly touched by the gifts to their children—a curious epistle grew by the light of two candles, and Mr. Simmons pronounced the work of heart a work of art.

Mr. Stayner was very restless on the night of Christmas Eve. He thought it was due to playing billiards too long in a smoky room. It was one of the many advantages of separation from an exacting and rather nervy wife that a man could stay out and have a little game. His billiards were improving in consequence. He had beaten Rogers, and made breaks of 33 and 35, and the marker said that, with regular practice, he would soon get hold of the "top of the table game"—that will-o'-the-wisp of amateurs. Also he could read by the fire after he came in. But there were a few little disadvantages. He had fallen asleep and the fire had gone out, and the Christmas decorations annoyed him. He had put them up earlier in the evening to please the children. Percy had kept asking whether "Queen" was coming home for his Santa Claus. He insisted on using his father's name for his mother.

"I wonder she didn't ask for one of the kids for Christmas," he thought. "But I suppose she thinks I ought to have offered it. And I ought. Poor old Queen! Perhaps I should have allowed a bit more for her nerves. Women go through a lot. Nearly went under with Mabel. Hanged if I can sleep! Get up and read, I think."

He put on his dressing-gown, the old one that his wife wanted him to give away. Women never understand how a man's heart clings to those old friends. Then he lit the gas-fire in his bedroom and tried to read; found that a novel bored him, and that a magazine bored him more; tried a book on billiards; thought he had become interested in the question of "transmitted side," but discovered that he was puzzling out the wrong diagram for the letterpress; tried a hand at poker-patience and remembered how his wife scoffed at it. "A game for one isn't any game at all!"

"Dashed if she wasn't right!" he snapped, and brushed the cards aside. He paced the room several times, and then took a photograph out of a drawer.

"Never liked the look of anyone quite so well," he owned; "but, of course, she is good-looking … I don't know … I wish I'd asked if she wanted one of the kids for Christmas. I wonder if she's at her own place, the house her aunt left her? She gave that address when she sent the toys for the children—at least, the letter to say she'd ordered them at Pleasant's. She gave it for them to write to, I suppose. And for me to know, perhaps. I wonder if she thought—Heaven knows what she thinks. She doesn't herself very often. Even her own people say she's a bit difficult. Well, they say I am. I remember what old Uncle George said to us, when he'd just heard that we were engaged. 'You two are taking on a devilish tough job. You'll need a lot of patience before you're through with it. But if you make a good job of it, it will be a very good job. So stick to it. Give and take, give and take, my dears!' I seem to have done a good bit of giving, but I'm hanged if I'm not a good mind to wire to-morrow and say, 'Do you want one of the youngsters for Christmas?' … What's that? … I'll swear the front gate clicked."

He turned out the light and peeped through the Venetian blind. Nothing noticeable … That was the letter-box clicking. Someone had put something in it. Or was it the sound of a window fastening forced back? The letter-box presumably, as a dark figure was going away from the front door, apparently a heavily-built man of medium height. Now he must pass the lamp. Umph! Too much muffled to make out his face. A rough chap of the stock burglar type.

It suddenly occurred to Stayner that he had been burgled, and that the noises which he had heard were caused, not by the thieves' entrance, but by their exit. He seized a loaded cane and crept downstairs. One had gone, but perhaps others were still in the house. He hoped so. He was a strong man, and his nerves were irritable from sleeplessness, and he rather liked the prospect of a fight with them. He remembered, as he stole down the cold stairs, that he had always told his wife that, being insured against burglary, he should only go to sleep again if she woke him for noises; and she had always told him that it was exactly what he wouldn't do. Evidently she was right.

He could hear nothing of anyone about, however. When he turned up the lights, he found no signs of anyone. Presently he discovered a letter in the box. It was in a flimsy envelope, addressed in a half-formed hand to "Mr. Stainer." He carried it upstairs, turned up the bedroom light, and sat down in front of the fire. Then he opened it and read it.

Dear Sir,

This coms in confiddens to tell you your wife is in grate trubbel having none of the kids at X. Mas and not wishing to interfeer betwin man an wife which never does mutch good an not nowing the rites of it an genraly folts on both sides but she didn't say a word aginst you So dont blame her for this letter.

Its hard on her for a woman missis her kids at this seeson, an worrid about there toys an if they will be lookt after proper not to hurt thereselfs, childrin being careles, but nose you will do all you can, but not like there mar. It is not to be expeckt.

We beleve she wood meat you harf way if you was dispozed to make it up which we humbly sugest a man an woman can git along if they make up there mines.

It wood be a nise Santy Clos if you took the kids over to her on X. Mas morng but go yourself do not send by a servent a man an his wife shood never have there quarrils befour the young stirs or let them no.

We hope it will all come rite.

Hoping this will find you as it leves us no more at present from

Too Welwishers.

"Well," Mr. Stayner gasped, when he had read it, "well! If it weren't for the writing, and if I hadn't seen the ruffian who left it, I'd think it was a stunt of Queen's to pull my leg. She's clever enough—and artful enough—for anything. The spelling is too bad to be genuine. But she couldn't have written that hand. One of her servants, I should think. If it's genuine … Does it matter? It's a good straight tip, anyway. I'm half a mind to bet on it. More than half a mind. Of Course it's being the one to give in. Queen will score over me. Now, that's wrong. If there's one thing sure about old Queen, it's that anyone scores off her by being generous to her. There's nothing mean about my—about her. Well, she is my wife. I'm hanged if I don't take the youngsters. I must get them up early. Nine-seven the train will be, same as Sundays. When Queen sees us … By Jove! …"

*⁠*⁠*⁠*⁠*⁠*

Mrs. Stayner was having a solitary breakfast, and scarcely knowing that she had it.

"Anyone can guess what her mind's on," the housemaid told the cook. "She keeps looking at the children's photos, and at his too, when she thinks you aren't noticing. Never could make the business out. In course she's a bit jumpy at times, and there's no doubt she's got a temper, but nothing that can't be put up with. I tell you straight, I like her myself."

"Nerves," the cook pronounced, "nerves. Sort of hysteria it was, and they always turn on them they like best. A handful she was to him. Still, he ought to have made more allowances. But there's no sense in men. I'd say he was fond of her, and her of him. If he'd just come and wish her the compliments of the season, she'd soon——"

"Cook!" the housemaid gasped. "Cook!"

She pointed through the basement window to two children running up the path. A tall gentleman followed, leading a smaller child by the hand.

"Bless my soul!" cook cried. "Bless my soul! Don't say a word to her, Mary. Show 'em right in. Push 'em in!"

But there was no need to show them in. Mrs. Stayner had caught sight of them through the breakfast-room window. There was a rush of skirts in the passage. The front door was thrown open so wildly that it banged against the wall as it went back, and Mrs. Stayner flew down the path.

"Children!" she cried. "My children! Dick! Oh, my Dick!"