Part 7

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.

V

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.

VI

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.

VII

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 halves?” 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.”

VIII

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.”

THE GARDENS AND THE NILE

THE GARDENS AND THE NILE

THE STORY OF SPEKE

In Kensington Gardens, close to Lancaster Gate, there rises from the grass beside the path leading direct to “Physical Energy” a column of red granite, bearing the words “In Memory of Speke. Victoria Nyanza and the Nile. 1864.” Anyone curious enough to stand for a while near this column and listen to the nurses and children who pass would hear some strange suggestions as to why the column is there, and who or what Speke was; but for the most part the answer to the question is: “I don’t know,” or, “How should I know?” or, “Inquire of your pa”; or, by the more daring, “Speke was a great man.”

“Yes, but what kind of a great man? What did he do?”

“Do? Oh! [airily] he did great things. That’s why he has a monument--monuments are put up only to great men.”

“Yes, nurse, but do tell me what Speke did?”

“That I shan’t now. I might have done if you hadn’t worried me so. But I’ll tell you what he didn’t do: he didn’t ask questions all day long. No great man ever did.”

That evening, perhaps, just before bedtime, the same question will be repeated at home.

“Father, who is Speke?”

“Speke?”

“Yes, there’s a monument in the Gardens in memory of Speke.”

[Illustration: “YES, NURSE, BUT DO TELL ME WHAT SPEKE DID?”]

“A very unsuitable inscription, I think. Bad advice. Little boys--yes, and little girls too--should be seen and not heard. I would rather it said ‘In honour of not speaking.’” (This father, you see, was one of the funny fathers who think that children want only to laugh.)

“No, father, not S-P-E-A-K; S-P-E-K-E.”

“Oh, Speke!--yes, of course, well, Speke--Speke was a great man.”

“Nurse said that, father. But what did he do?”

“Do? Oh, he was a great, great Englishman! A very noble life. That’s why he has a monument. Monuments, you know, are raised only to the great. You have seen the Albert Memorial, and the statue of the Duke of Wellington at Hyde Park Corner?”

“Yes, father, but do tell me what Speke did?”

“Speke--my dear child, do you know what the time is? It’s twenty to eight. You ought to have been upstairs for ten minutes. Good-night. Sleep well.”

The result is that for several years the children of Bayswater and Kensington have had to invent stories of Speke for themselves. They know in a vague way that he was a traveller, because of the other words on the monument; but that is all. They don’t know whether he was young or old; whether he travelled in 1864, or died in 1864. Some of them, the smaller ones, connecting Victoria Nyanza in some way with Queen Victoria, think of Speke as something to do with Kensington Gardens--perhaps he was the head gardener, they think, or the man who planted the trees. To others the word Nile on the column suggests thoughts of Moses in the bulrushes, and Pharaoh and the Israelites.

Meanwhile, who was Speke?

I will tell you.

John Hanning Speke was born on May 4, 1827, at Jordans, near Ilchester, in Somersetshire. That was the year when it was first observed that Englishmen walked with their hands in their pockets. Speke’s father was a captain in the 14th Dragoons, and the son was brought up to be a soldier too; and in 1844, when he was seventeen, he entered the army, and went to the Punjab in India, where he fought in several battles and became a lieutenant. Any time he could get from active service he spent in exploring the Himalayas and in hunting wild beasts and looking for rare plants and fossils.

In 1854, when his ten years in India were over, he went to Africa in order to carry out his pet scheme of exploring the centre of that Continent, which was then almost unknown. Before, however, he could get to work properly the Crimean War broke out, and he at once volunteered for service there and fought very gallantly; and then, in 1856, he really began again upon Africa in earnest, in company with another intrepid traveller, Sir Richard Burton, the wonderful man who made the pilgrimage to Mecca disguised so cleverly as a Mohamedan that he was not discovered. Had he been he would have been killed at once.

The particular ambition of Burton and Speke was to trace the river Nile back to its source in the mysterious heart of the Mountains of the Moon.

Has it ever occurred to you that every river has a source--that every river begins somewhere, in a tiny spring? Few forms of exploration are more interesting than to trace a stream back to its first drop. The Thames, for example, begins in the Cotswold Hills--the merest little trickle. All running water, you know, sooner or later reaches the sea. That little trickle in the Cotswolds will in time glide past Henley and Hampton Court and Westminster Bridge, and past the Tower, and help to bear up the thousands of vessels in the Port of London, and at last will run out into the sea at Gravesend. Some day perhaps you will walk up the banks of the Upper Thames until you come to the Cotswold spring.