Anne's Terrible Good Nature (Collection)/Sir Franklin and the Little Mothers

upon a time there was a very rich gentleman named Sir Franklin Ingleside, who lived all alone in a beautiful house in Berkeley Square. He was so rich that he could not possibly spend more than a little of his money, although he gave great sums away, and had horses and carriages, and bought old pictures and new books.

He lived very quietly, rode a little, drove a little, called on old friends (chiefly old ladies), usually dined alone, and afterwards read by the fire.

Although the house was large and full of servants, all Sir Franklin's wants were supplied by his own particular man, Pembroke. Pembroke was clean-shaven, very neat, spoke quietly, and never grew any older or seemed ever to have been any younger. It was impossible to think of Pembroke as a baby, or a boy, or a person with a Christian name. One could think of him only as a grave man named Pembroke. No one ever saw him smile in Berkeley Square, but a page boy once came home with the news that he had passed Mr. Pembroke talking to a man in the street at Islington, and heard him laugh out loud. But page boys like inventing impossible stories, and making your flesh creep.

Pembroke lived in a little room communicating by bells with all the rooms which Sir Franklin used; that whenever the bell rang Pembroke knew exactly where his master was. Pembroke did not seem to have any life but his master's; and the one thing about which he was always thinking was how to know beforehand exactly what his master wanted. Pembroke became so clever at this that he would often, after being rung for, enter the room carrying the very thing that Sir Franklin was going to request him to get.

Sir Franklin once asked him how he did it, and Pembroke said that he did not know; but part of the secret was explained that very year quite by chance. It was like this. In the autumn Sir Franklin and Pembroke always went to Scotland, and that year when they were in Scotland the Berkeley Square house was done up and all the old pull-bells were taken away and new electric ones were put in instead. When Sir Franklin came back again he noticed that Pembroke was not nearly so clever in anticipating needs as he had been before; and when he asked him about it, Pembroke said: "My opinion, sir, is that it's all along of the bells. The new bells, which you press, ring the same, however you press them, and startle a body too, whereas the old bells, which you used to pull, sir, told me what you wanted by the way you pulled them, and never startled one at all."

So Sir Franklin and Pembroke went to Paris for a week while the new press bells were taken away and the old pull bells put back again, and then Pembroke became again just as clever as before. (But that was, of course, only part of the secret.)

It was at a quarter to nine on the evening of December 18, 1907, that Sir Franklin, who was sitting by the fire reading and thinking, suddenly got up and rang the bell.

Pembroke came in at once and said, "I'm sorry you're troubled in your mind, sir. Perhaps I can be of some assistance."

"I'm afraid not," said Sir Franklin. "But do you know what day this is?"

"We are nearing the end of December 18," said Pembroke.

"Yes," said Sir Franklin, "and what is a week to-day?"

"A week to-day, sir," said Pembroke, "is Christmas Day."

"And what about children who won't get any presents this Christmas?" Sir Franklin asked.

"Ah, indeed, sir," said Pembroke

"And what about people in trouble, Pembroke?" Sir Franklin asked.

"Ah, indeed, sir," said Pembroke.

"And that reminds me," Pembroke added after a pause, "that I was going to speak to you about the cook's brother-in-law, sir: a worthy man, sir, but in difficulties,"

Sir Franklin asked for particulars.

"He keeps a toy-shop, sir, in London, and he can't make it pay. He's tried and tried, but there's no money in toys in his neighbourhood—except penny toys, on which the margin of profit is, I am told, sir, very small."

Sir Franklin poked the fire and looked into it for a little while. Then, "It seems to me, Pembroke," he said, "that the cook's brother-in-law's difficulties and the little matter of the children can be solved in the same action. Why shouldn't we take over the toy-shop and let the children into it on Christmas Eve to choose what they will?"

Pembroke stroked his chin for a moment and then said, "The very thing, sir."

"Where does the cook's brother-in-law live?" Sir Franklin asked.

Pembroke gave the address.

"Then if you'll call a hansom, Pembroke, we'll drive there at once."

It does not matter at all about the visit which Sir Franklin Ingleside and Pembroke paid to the cook's brother-in-law. All that need be said is that the cook's brother-in-law was quite willing to sell Sir Franklin his stock-in-trade and to make the shop over to him, and Sir Franklin Ingleside rode back to Berkeley Square not only a gentleman who had horses and carriages and who bought old pictures and new books, but perhaps the first gentleman in Berkeley Square to have a toy-shop too.

On the way back he talked to Pembroke about his plans.

"There's a kind of child, Pembroke," said Sir Franklin, "that I particularly want to encourage and reward. It is clear that we can't give presents to all; and I don't want the greedy ones and the strongest ones to be as fortunate as the modest ones and the weak ones. So my plan is, first of all to make sure that the kind of child that I have in mind is properly looked after, and then to give the others what remains. And the particular children I mean are the little girls who take care of their younger brothers and sisters while their parents are busy, and who go to the shops and stalls and do the marketing. Whenever I see one I always say to myself, 'There goes a Little Mother!' and it is the Little Mothers whom this Christmas we must particularly help.

"Now what you must do, Pembroke, during the next few days, is to make a list of the streets in every direction within a quarter of a mile of the toy-shop, and then find out, from the schoolmistresses, and the butchers, and the publicans' wives, and the grocers, and the oil-shops, and the greengrocers, and the more talkative women on the doorsteps, which are the best Little Mothers in the district and what is the size of their families, and get their names and addresses. And then we shall know what to do."

By this time the cab had reached Berkeley Square again, and Sir Franklin returned to his books.

The next few days were the busiest and most perplexing that Pembroke ever spent. He was in Clerkenwell, where the toy-shop was situated, from morning till night. He bought all kinds of things that he did not want—cheese and celery, mutton-chops and beer, butter and paraffin—just to get on terms with the people who know about the Little Mothers.

Although naturally rather silent and reserved, he talked to butchers and bakers and women on doorsteps, and school-mistresses, and even hot-potato men, as if they were the best company in the world, and bit by bit he made a list of twenty-two Little Mothers of first-class merit, and fifty-one of second-class merit, and all their children.

Having got these down in his book, Pembroke was going home on the evening of the 21st very well pleased with himself on the whole, but still feeling that Sir Franklin would be disappointed not to have the name of the best Little Mother of all, when an odd thing happened. He had stopped in a doorway not very far from the toy-shop, to light his pipe, when he heard a shrill voice saying very decidedly, "Very well, then, William Kitchener Beacon, if that's your determination you shall stay here all night, and by and by the rats will come out and bite you."

Pembroke stood still and listened.

"I don't want to go home," a childish voice whimpered. "I want to look in the shops."



"Come home you must and shall," said the other. "Here's Lucy tired out, and Amy crying, and John cold to his very marrer, and Tommy with a sawreel, and father'll want his dinner, and mother'll think we're all run over by a motor-car; and come home you must and shall."

Sounds of a scuffle followed, and then a little procession passed the doorway. First came a sturdy little girl of about ten, carrying a huge string-basket filled with heavy things, and pulling behind her by the other hand a small and sulky boy, whom Pembroke took to be William Kitchener Beacon. Then came the others, and lastly Tommy, limping with the sore heel.

Pembroke stopped the girl with the bag, and asked her if she lived far away, and finding that it was close to the toy-shop, he said he should like to carry the bag, and help the family home. He was not allowed to carry the bag, but no objection was raised to his lifting Tommy on his back, and they all went home together.

On the way he discovered that the Little Mother was named Matilda Beacon, and that she lived at 28, Pulvercake Buildings, Clerkenwell.

She was nine years old, an age when most of you are still running to your nurses to have this and that done for you. But Matilda, in addition to doing everything for herself very quietly and well, had also to do most things for her mother, who went out charing every day, except Sunday, and for her brothers and sisters, of whom she had five—three brothers aged seven, six, and three, and two sisters, who were twins and both five. Matilda got them up and put them to bed; picked them up when they fell, and dried their tears; separated them when they quarrelled, which was very often; bought their food and cooked it, and gave it to them, and saw that they did not eat too fast; and was, in short, the absolute mistress of the very tiny flat where the Beacons lived.

Mr. Beacon worked on the line at St. Pancras, and if he was late home, as he very often was, Mrs. Beacon was always sure that he had been run over by a passing train and cut into several pieces; so that in addition to all her other work Matilda had also to comfort her mother.

The next day, when he came again to the toy-shop district, Pembroke was delighted to find that by general consent Matilda Beacon was considered to be the best Little Mother in Clerkenwell; but who do you think came next in public opinion? Not Carrie Tompsett, although she had several strong backers; and not Lou Miller, although she had her supporters too, and was really a very good little thing, with an enormous family on her hands. No, it was neither of these. Indeed, it was not a Little Mother at all, so I don't see how you could have guessed. It was a "Little Father." It was generally agreed by the butchers and bakers and oilmen and hot-potato men and publicans and the women on the doorsteps, that the best Little Mother next to Matilda Beacon was Artie Gillam, who, since his mother had died last year and his father had not yet married again, had the charge of four sisters and two brothers.

All these things Pembroke reported to his master; and Sir Franklin was so much interested in hearing about Matilda Beacon that he told Pembroke to arrange so that Mrs. Beacon might stay at home one day and let Matilda come to see him. So Matilda put on her best hat and came down from Clerkenwell to Berkeley Square on the blue bus that runs between Highbury and Walham Green.

When the splendid great door was opened by a tall and handsome footman Matilda clung to Pembroke as if he were her only friend in the world, as, indeed, he really seemed to be at that moment in that house. She had never seen anything so grand before; and after all, it is rather striking for a little girl of nine who has all her life been managing a large family in two small rooms in Clerkenwell, to be brought suddenly into a mansion in Berkeley Square to speak to a gentleman with a title. Not that a gentleman with a title is necessarily any more dreadful than a policeman; but Matilda knew several policemen quite intimately, and was, therefore, no longer afraid of them, although she still found their terribleness useful when her little brothers and sisters were naughty. "I'll fetch a policeman to you!" she used to say, and sometimes actually would go downstairs a little way to do so and come back stamping her feet; and this always had the effect of making them good again.

Sir Franklin was sitting in the library with a tea-table by his side set for two, and directly Matilda had dared to shake his hand he told Pembroke to bring the tea.

Matilda could not take her eyes from the shelves of books which ran all round the room. She did not quite know whether it might not be a book-shop and Sir Franklin a grand kind of bookseller; and then she looked at the walls and wondered if it was a picture-shop; and she made a note in her mind to ask Mr. Pembroke.

Her thoughts were brought back by Pembroke bringing in a silver tea-pot and silver kettle, which he placed over a spirit lamp; and then Sir Franklin asked her if she took sugar.

(If she took sugar? What a question!)

She said, "Yes, please, sir," very nicely, and Sir Franklin handed her the basin.

Would she have bread and butter or cake? he asked next.

(Or cake? What a question again!)

She said she would like cake, and she watched very carefully to see how Sir Franklin ate his, and at first did the same; but when after two very small bites he laid it down and did not pick it up again, Matilda very sensibly ceased to copy him.

When they had finished tea and had talked about various things that did not matter. Sir Franklin asked her suddenly, "How would you like to keep shop, Matilda?"

Matilda gasped. "What sort of a shop?" she asked at last.

"A toy-shop," said Sir Franklin.

"Oh, but I couldn't," she said.

"Only for one day," Sir Franklin added.

"One day!" Her eager eyes glistened. "But what about Tommy and Willy and the twins?"

"Your mother would stay at home that day and look after them. That could easily be arranged.

"You see," Sir Franklin went on, "I want to give all the children in your street and in several other streets near it a Christmas present, and it is thought that the best way is to open a toy-shop for the purpose. But it is necessary that the toy-shop keeper should know most of the children and should be a capable woman of business, and that is why I ask you. The salary will be a sovereign; the hours will be from two to eight, with an interval for tea; and you shall have Mr. Pembroke to help you."

Matilda did not know how to keep still, and yet there was the least shade of disappointment, or at least perplexity, on her face.

"Is it all right?" Sir Franklin asked.

"Ye-e-s," said Matilda.

"Nothing you want to say?"

"No-o-o," said Matilda; "I don't think so."

And yet it was very clear that something troubled her a little.

Sir Franklin was so puzzled by it that he went out to consult Pembroke. Pembroke explained the matter in a moment.

"I ought to have said," Sir Franklin remarked at once on returning, "that the shopkeeper, although a capable business woman, may play at being a little girl, too, if she likes, and will find a doll and a work-basket for herself, and even sweets too, just like the others."

Matilda's face at once became nothing but smiles.

"You will want a foreman," Sir Franklin then said.

"Yes," said Matilda, who would have said yes to anything by this time.

"Well, who will you have?"

"I don't think Tommy would do," said Matilda. "He's that thoughtless. And Willy's too small."

"How about Frederick?" said Sir Franklin, ringing the bell twice.

Matilda sat still and waited, wondering who Frederick was.

After a moment or two the door opened, and a very smart boy, all over buttons, came in. "You can take away the tea-things," said Sir Franklin.

"That was Frederick," said Sir Franklin, when the boy had gone.

"Oh!" said Matilda.

"Would he do for foreman?" Sir Franklin asked.

Matilda hesitated. She would have preferred some one she knew, but she did not like to say so.

"Too buttony?" suggested Sir Franklin.

Matilda agreed.

"Then," said Sir Franklin, "is there anyone you know?"

"I think Artie Gillam" said Matilda.

"Very well, then," said Sir Franklin, "it shall be Artie Gillam. His wages will be ten shillings."

And thus everything was settled, and Matilda was sent home with Frederick the page boy, the happiest and most responsible Little Mother in London, with an armful of good things for the family.

Meanwhile Pembroke had been to Houndsditch buying quantities of new toys: for every Little Mother a large doll and a work-basket, and smaller dolls and other toys for the others, together with sweets and oranges and all kinds of other things, and everything was ready by the day before Christmas Eve, and all the tickets were distributed.

The tickets were Pembroke's idea, because one difficulty about opening a free toy-shop in a poor district of London for one day only is that even the invited children, not having had your opportunities of being brought up nicely and learning good manners, are apt to push and struggle to get in out of their turn, and perhaps even to try to get in twice, while there would be trouble, too, from the children who did not belong to the district. Pembroke knew this, and thought a good deal about the way to manage it so that there should be no crowding or difficulty. In the end Sir Franklin engaged a large hall, to which all the children were to come with their tickets, and from this hall they were to visit the shop in little companies of ten, make their choice of toys, and then go straight home. Of course, a certain number of other children would gather round the shop, but that could not be helped, and perhaps at the close of the afternoon, when all the others had been looked after, they might be let in to choose what was left. And in this state were the things the night before Christmas Eve.

Pembroke managed everything so well that the great day went off" without a hitch. At half-past two the Little Mothers with their families began to arrive, and they were sent off to the shop in companies of ten or thereabouts, two or three families at once. A couple of friendly policemen kept the crowd away from the shop, so that the children had plenty of time and quiet to choose what they wanted.

All the Little Mothers, as I have said, had each a doll and a work-basket; but the younger children might make their choice of two things each, and take two things for any little brother or sister who could not come—Clerkenwell being full of little boys and girls who are not very well.

When they were chosen, Artie Gillam wrapped them up, and off the children went to make room for others.

Matilda was a splendid shopkeeper. She helped the smaller children to choose things in a way that might be a real lesson to real keepers of toy-shops, who always seem tired.

"Now then, Lizzie Hatchett," she said, "you don't want that jack-in-the-box. What's the good of a jack-in-the-box to you if your brother's got one? One in a family's plenty. Better have this parasol: it lasts longer and is much more useful.

"Here's a nice woolly lamb for Jenny Rogers's baby brother," she cried, taking away a monkey on a stick. "He'll only suck the paint off that and be deathly ill.

"Now, Tommy Williams, don't bother about those ninepins. Here's a clockwork mouse I've been keeping for you." And so on. Matilda's bright, quick eyes were everywhere.

Only one or two uninvited children squeezed in with the others. One of these was a very determined little rascal, who actually got in twice. The first time he went away not only with toys of his own, but with something for a quite imaginary brother with whooping-cough. This made him so bold that he hurried away and fought another little boy in the next street and took away his coat and cap. The coat was red and the cap had flaps for the ears, so that they made him look quite different. Wearing these, he managed to mix with the next little party coming from the hall. But he had forgotten one thing, and that was that the little boy whom he had fought was Artie Gillam's cousin. Artie at once recognized both the cap and the coat, and told Mr. Pembroke, and Mr. Pembroke told one of the policemen, who marched Into the shop, looking exceedingly fierce, and seizing the interloper by the arm, asked him whose coat he had on. At this the boy began to cry, and said he would never do it again. But it was too late. The policeman took hold of his wrist and marched him out of the shop and through all the other children in the street, who followed them in a procession, to the home of Artie's cousin, and there he had to give back the coat. Then he was allowed to go, because Artie's cousin's father was out, and Artie's cousin's mother (who was Artie's aunt) was not at all the kind of woman to thrash little boys.

So the time went on until all the children in Pembroke's list had got their toys and the hall was empty, and then the many others who had been waiting outside were let in, one by one, until all the toys were gone, and the policemen sent the rest away.

"Now," said Pembroke, "we must shut the shop." So Artie Gillam went outside and put up the shutters, and Matilda put on her jacket and hat.

Then Pembroke took some money out of his pocket to pay the manager and her foreman their salaries.

"How will you have it?" he said to Matilda.

"Please I don't know what you mean," Matilda replied.

"Gold or silver?" Pembroke explained.

Matilda had never seen gold yet, except in jewellers' windows. Her mother's wedding-ring was silver. "Oh, gold, please," she gasped.

"One sovereign or two ?" Pembroke asked.

"Two halves," Matilda said.

Pembroke gave them to her.

Artie Gillam, on the other hand, wanted his ten shillings in as many coins as he could have, and his pocket was quite heavy with it.

"And now," said Pembroke, "I suppose you're going home. Be careful of your money on the way."

"Oh no," said Matilda, "I'm not going home yet. I've got some shopping to do."

"To-morrow's dinner?" Pembroke suggested,

"No," said Matilda mysteriously. "That's all bought. Father won a goose in the Goose Club."

"Then what are you going to buy?" Pembroke asked, for he wished to take as long and full a story home to Sir Franklin as might be.

"I'm going shopping for myself," said Matilda. "I'm going to buy some Christmas presents."

"May I come with you?" Pembroke asked.

"Oh yes, please, I want you to. I'm only going to spend one of these half-sovereigns. The other I shall put away. But I must buy something for mother, and something for father, and I want to buy something else, too, for somebody else."

So Pembroke and Matilda and Artie, having turned out the gas and locked up the shop, which, however, now contained nothing whatever but paper and string and straw, walked off to the shops.

They first went into a draper's, where Matilda looked at some shawls and bought a nice thick woollen one for her mother, and also a pair of grey wool mittens for her father. These came to five-and-six.

Then they went to an ironmonger's and bought a cover for a plate to keep things warm, which Matilda said was for her father's dinner, because he was often late while her mother thought he was being cut in pieces. This cost ninepence.

Then they went to a tobacconist's and bought a pipe with a silver band on it, and two ounces of tobacco. These came to one-and-fourpence and were also for her father.

Then they went to a china-shop and bought a hot-water bottle for a shilling. "That," said Matilda, "is for the old woman next door to us, who nursed mother when she was ill. She can't sleep at night because her feet are so cold."

"And now," said Pembroke, "it's my turn," and he took the children into a greengrocer's shop and bought a shilling's worth of holly and mistletoe for each of them. "If you like," he said, "I will carry this home for you."

Matilda thanked him very heartily, but said that she still had one more present she must buy, and led the way to a little fancy shop, kept by an old maid.

"Please," said Matilda, "I want a kettle-holder."

The old lady took out a drawer and laid it on the counter. It was full of kettle-holders, some made in wool-work, others in patch-work. Matilda looked at them very carefully one by one, and at last chose one in scarlet and bright yellow wool-work. When it was done up in a neat little packet and she had paid for it—sixpence—she handed it to Pembroke.

"That," she said, "is a present for the gentleman. When I had tea with him I noticed that he hadn't got one, and of course every family ought to have a kettle-holder. I should have liked to make one for him myself, but there hasn't been time."

Sir Franklin Ingleside did not use the kettle-holder. He hung it on a nail by the fire-place, and whenever he is asked about it, or people smile at its very striking colours, he says, "I value that very highly; that is the profit that I made out of a toy-shop which I once kept."