SEVEN XMAS EVES

(Frontispiece). “God bless us all.” (Page 246)

BEING THE ROMANCE OF A SOCIAL EVOLUTION

London

HUTCHINSON & CO.

34 PATERNOSTER ROW

THE TESTIMONY OF MRS. MARY CHEEVERS REGARDING THEM TWO.

By CLO GRAVES.

Never having had much book-learning in my time, having entered into that state of life into which it pleased them above to call me, more than fifty years before the piano began to be taught in Board-schools, with part singing on the cistern of the tonic sofas, as to hear Cheevers’s sister Eliza’s daughter Grace’s eldest Emmeline sing “Come buy my Coloured ’Errin’,” and recite “Not a Drum was ’Eard” and the “Fall of Smackerib,” makes 2you feel oysters creepin’ up and down the small of your back.

Being a plain person, accustomed to call a spade a spade, and so hope do not give offence—I, the undersigned Mary Cheevers, washer-woman, being called on by some as I have reason, the dear Lord knows, to love and reverence, write my plain story in my own plain way, and with the best of intentions, though a difficulty with the spelling—Eliza’s Grace’s Emmeline not being always handy—and a cramped hand from soaking in the tub for many, many labouring years.

Me and Cheevers was newly married at the time I am asked to go back to, and in poor circumstances, but hopeful, Cheevers doing a small trade in coke an’ cheap vegetables, and me taking in what washing I could get, which was mostly that of poor folks; but poverty will sometimes ’ide a empty cravin’ under a clean shirt, and all the more 3credit I says, as my motto have been throughout my whole life— and I have seen some ups and downs in my time—Keep Yourself Respectable.

Mrs. Mary Cheevers.

4I think my attention was just drawn to them through seeing ’em so much together.

Me and Cheevers lived on the ground floor in Lemon’s-passage East, one room—and glad to keep that over our heads—with the bed kept under the counter in the daytime, and the sacks of coke and greens with bundles of kindling and a package of sulphur matches forming what might be called the stock-in-trade.

You might have expected to see soap, but there was little if any call for such an article—except in my way of business—neither yellow nor mottled, as when only used on Saturday nights one bar will last a wonderful time, and who is to blame you if—your walk in life being a grimy one—you gets into the habit six days out of the seven of going grimy yourself?

Talking of grime, I never see two poor little souls more smothered in it than Them Two.

5Being boy and girl and always together, I took it for granted they was brother and sister, but presently found no relations—and made the story pitifuller in my eyes, which Cheevers jeered at as my woman’s way of taking an interest in anything by the nature of sweethearting.

Bless their poor little hearts! Being not more than seven year old, when first my attention was drew to ’em, what could they know of such a thing? But their being both alone in the world, and both half-naked—for such rags I never did see—and both more than half-starved, brought them together; and, if grown people find it impossible to live without something to love and be loved by, how much more two innocent children?

Seven year old, I should say, when first I began to notice them paddling in the gutter or sitting on the warm, greasy step of the fried-fish shop; and though a Jewess—and 6something unpleasant in a general oiliness—with black ’air you might ’a seen your face in, and garnet rings on yellow, dirty hands—more honour to her for the daily scraps she give ’em.

It was she who told me their names—for Cheevers relished her fried potatoes and eels, though they went against me—and Nick and Nan they were then, and are now, though in such different circumstances, as you might fancy a fairy tale, if not known to be true, and told by an old woman as owes O! many, many prayers for ’em and blessin’s on ’em, more than a grateful heart can ever call down on them two grateful hearts.

So I began by nodding as they passed my door, and them—with their dirty little thumbs in their mouths at first—by and by nodded back; and me, with no more an idea, that they lived by themselves, like two wild animals up in that hole in the roof—which 7I would not insult a decent attic by giving it the name—until Mr. Rumsey called for his rent on a Saturday, the twenty-fourth of one bleak December, being Christmas Eve, and him stopping to pass a remark or two in a friendly way—for me and Cheevers paid our rent regular—gave me a turn, quite surprising by telling me how the land lay.

“The boy was brought here at three year old or thereabouts,” says he, “by a woman, who gave herself out as his mother, and was, I believe, because of a certain likeness between them.

“She had a superior kind of manner, for all her poverty and wretchedness. The attic up at the top of this house she rented of me, on and off, for several years, and I will say kept up to the mark as far as paying rent went.

“One day, about two years ago, she took 8her hook, leaving the boy Nick, as the lodgers call him, and a few bits of things only good for firewood.

“These I had took away, but, there being no lock on the door, the boy still hung about the place, it being the only home he has ever known; and a chimney having broke part of the roof in one windy night, and me—in regard of these hard times—not caring to go to the expense of having repairs done, and no lodgers unparticular enough—even in this unparticular locality—to take the place as it stands—there he has stopped to this hour. How he lives I could not tell you, ma’am, except that poor people are more sinfully prodigal as regards charity, than the rich ones as calls ’emselves philanthropists.”

Mr. Rumsey stopping to take breath, I throwed in a question respecting the girl.

“She’s the child of Nobody, and she 9comes from No Man’s Land,” says Mr. Rumsey, in his joking way. “The boy found her and brought her here, they tell me, and shares whatever he gets with her. And that ain’t enough to grow fat on,” he says, giving me a condescending wink.

“‘Nan’ she has come to be called, because ‘Nan’ was her way of saying ‘No’ when asked if she would like to go away from Nick and be took care of. I have heard, Mrs. Cheevers, that the French are in the habit of employing the same word as a negative.”

Mr. Rumsey was a very superior gentleman in his knowledge and conversation.

“Which shows that nation to be a wasteful nation, Mrs. Cheevers, which takes three letters to spell a word which we can spell with two.”

And he bid good afternoon and a Merry Christmas, and walked off rattling the money 10in his pockets, as his way was, leaving me with the tears in my eyes at the thought of my own baby that was coming, and its ever being left, poor helpless innocent! as Them Two, and O how many others! are left, in this cruel world, under the Eye of Heaven.

And that night, after Cheevers had had his supper, and a poor one at best, though he was as cheerful over it, as if it had been venison with turtle-sauce, I took the candle and said: “Jem, I am a-going on a voyage of discovery.”

And Cheevers followed me up the stairs, till we got to the attic ladder, as was that rotten and crumbly, that he went up first, trying every step for fear of me a-falling, and presently nods back at me through the square hole in the lath and plaster, with cobwebs in his hair like a Bedlamite, and up I comes, him lighting me with the candle, which 11dripped and flared in the draught that came through the holes in the attic roof.

And there we see Them Two a-lying in each other’s arms.

“And there we see Them Two a-lying in each others arms.”

It was a fine, frosty night, and the stars shone, through the big hole in the roof above the fireplace, bigger and brighter than ever I remember to have seen them. And 12now and then a stray flake of snow would flutter down like a feather.

Where the roof sloped down to the rotten floor-boards was, being more sheltered, the place where they had laid themselves down to rest in each other’s arms.

Babes in the Wood couldn’t ’a been more sorrowful nor more innocent than Them Two, and one could hear their teeth chattering with cold as they slept.

I believe if the boy had had anything on, except the upper half of a ragged pair of full-sized trousers, which his thin little bare arms come through the pocket-slits and the bracebuttons was fastened together with bits of old bootlace, an’ so kep’ up about his neck—he’d ’a took it off to cover the gal with.

She lay with her face on his shoulder and her thin little hand in his, quite peaceful, and when a drop of warm candle-grease waked 13her, by falling on her face—Cheevers always held to it, it wasn’t a tear—she clung to him, for protection like. And he was bold for her though afraid for himself, it was plain to see.

“Are you a-goin’ to move us on?” he says, rubbing his big eyes with his poor chilblained knuckles. “We ain’t done nuffin’, not her nor me, and I can’t go away. I’ve got to wait for mother to come ’ome.”

Well, Cheevers and me did what we could. We took ’em down with us and give ’em what we could spare, and hunted up an old tarpaulin, to cover ’em that night; we having but our one small room, and them, poor neglected innocents! not being Christianly clean enough, to keep at close quarters.

The next day, being Christmas Day, we went with a little less, that they might have a little more, and that bit of roast meat was the first they had ever put to their poor 14dear lips, it was plain to see, for they tore at the mouthfuls like raging wolves.

Mr. Rumsey would ’a had something to say about the sinful prodigality of the poor, if he’d ’a seen that sight, but, knowing his feelings, I never breathed my lips to him then or afterwards, that me and Cheevers was doing a friend’s turn for Them Two, and him, being dead many years ago, probably looks upon such things with a different eye, either up or down.

And that night by our fire, while Cheevers was up in the attic, trying to stop up the hole in the roof, with another old tarpaulin—which afterwards led to Mr. Rumsey getting a lodger for the dreadful place, and throwed Them Two altogether on our hands—I did my best to tell ’em, in my own ignorant way, the story of the first Christmas Eve as ever was, when the bright star stood over Bethlehem and the heralding angels sang 15of peace on earth, an’ good will to all men.

That it was a pinch, I will not deny, me and Cheevers being but poor folk, when, as I have said, Mr. Rumsey took the roof, or part of one, from the heads of Them Two and let the attic—Cheevers’ tarpaulin included—to a reduced gentlewoman, who sold matches at the corner of Gracechurch-street.

But we had got ’em clean, meaning Nick and Nan, and a few poor decent things upon ’em, and mention of the workhouse seemed cruel, as the boy had that idea in him, that strong about his mother—a pretty mother too! though I never said as much in his hearing—coming back one day to fetch him.

And so it came to Cheevers starting a barrow, and taking Nick along to mind it, while he did business at hall doors and airy railings. And though in bad weather a 16dreary business, shouting in the muddy streets, with the rain soaking you through and through, they did well.

I could not undertake to say for certain, but it may have been because I lost my own dear baby, after a week of happy mother hood—and he was a boy—that Nick was always my favorite of Them Two.

He had silky hair with a curl in it, that was brownish red, like the colour of a new chestnut, and brave blue eyes, and a white skin, when I had taught him to keep it clean. And he had nice ways, and was grateful for any little thing done for him. And to hear that boy whistle!

I believe the blackbird, at the bird shop at the corner, died of envy and not of old age, as they pretended, Nick’s imitation of him being so much better than himself!

But there! I never know when to stop, when I start talking of my boy—as I used 17to call him—and call him now, for that matter!

“And so it came to Cheevers starting a barrow.”

Cheevers was more soft on the girl: a thin little thing, with great, black eyes and a bush of black, curly hair.

No amount of scrubbing would make Nan’s skin white; it was brown by nature, and brown it is to this day. Foreign blood 18was in her complexion, as in her ways, and her temper, which was loving as lambs when unprovoked, but fiery when crossed.

She proved a deal of help to me, that child.

If it had been in these days, both of Them Two ’ud ha’ been caught and sent to Board School, to learn to be no use to themselves or us. But this was years and years ago, and my boy’s chestnut hair is a handsome grey, and he an upright, portly gentleman of forty-two.

And she bears her years as well as him, though not a white hair, and her eyes as bright as ever. And they love each other, as true and dear to-day, as they did at seven years old; it does my heart good to say it.

As months went on, Nick said less and less, but, it was plain to see, he still kept 19that idea of his wretched mother coming back one day; and come back she did, once, and never no more, for which be thankful, I said to myself, though remembering what was said, concerning the casting of stones at another sinful woman.

My boy came into the room, where I was ironing, with Nan to help me with the heaters—an’ as willin’ an’ cheerful as a little bird, I will ever say—one early twilight on a Saturday in the June of that year, and his eyes was brighter than usual, and he held something in his hand, behind his back.

“Guess what it is,” he told us; and Nan and me guessed all sorts of things to humour him. But at last the cat came out of the bag.

Cheevers had took to taking him round with the barrow, as I have said, and servant girls, who found him obliging, would often give him a penny, for the sake of his pretty face and civil manners—for he’d learned of 20me everything I could teach him, long ago. And their mistresses, too, would notice him, sometimes, and he’d saved the coppers all up and bought—what do you think?—a bright red ribbon for Nan. And now he brought it out, all beaming with pleasure.

But I soon sent the happy look out of his face. I’d been ironing all along through a sultry day, and I was a bit hurt, besides, to think he’d forgotten me, that had been almost a mother to him all these months. Sharp I spoke up—and next minute I could have bitten my tongue off.

“Red ribbons for a child as lives on charity!” I says, “and looks to poor folks who ain’t got too much of their own, for every bit and drop. And you ought to know better, than to throw away good money in that way, being in the same situation and owing the same obligations”—only I spoke coarser than that—“to my husband and me.”

21He blushed up, as red as the ribbon, and I could see his little heart swelling under his little waistcoat, that I’d made myself out of an old bodice of mine.

“Oh, mother!” he says, “it was on’y tuppence, an’ I’d saved this to give you—all your own!” An’ he pulls out a shilling an’ puts it in my hand, and bursts out sobbing, and runs away for dear life, and me after him, full pelt.

Down the passage he shot like a arrow, with his head held down, and the tears blinding him, so that he runs into a woman, as happened to be turning the corner suddenly, and nearly knocked her down.

She was miserably dressed, and handsome in a wild, haggard way, and when she caught at the wall, staggering beneath the shock of Nick’s jostle and her own weakness, for she seemed to be in the last stage of decline, or something—an’ the last ray of 22the smoky London sunset struck full on her face—my heart turned cold inside me, for well I knew it must be Nick’s mother.

Nick knew her too. There was a light in them blue eyes of his, as I’d never seen there before. With that look of joy on his face, and the tears still standin’ on his cheeks, I shall see him to my dying day.

“Oh, mother!” he says. “Oh, mother! You’ve come back!”

At that she stood stock-still, and stared at him. Then she thrust out her hand and caught him by his curls, with a clutch that hurt him—I could see by the quiver of his lips—and dragged his head to her and looked him hard in the eyes.

Then she laughed a deep, hoarse, cracked kind of laugh, and says—but not speaking like a common person at all—

“It is the boy. Why, I thought you were dead long ago, you miserable, little wretch!”

23At which my blood boiled, and I upped and spoke.

“If he ain’t dead,” I says, “it’s no fault of yours, as left him to starve, two years ago.

“Which a natural feeling towards her own flesh and blood, is what I should have looked for, in a woman and a mother, whatever her walk in life might be. And a better and a dearer lad than him, you have treated so cruel, never lived,” I says, “as I can testify, as have took a mother’s place to him, for many a day past and gone.”

She frowned at that and turned upon me fiercely, but her speaking was prevented, by a terrible fit of coughing, that seized her and shook and rent her, like one of the evil spirits in Scripture.

When quite exhausted, she leant against the wall and wiped her face with her torn shawl and tried to set her tattered bonnet 24straight, with a shaking hand; and all her hair—beautiful, chestnut hair like Nick’s—came tumbling about her face. And then—

“Whoever you are,” she says, with a lofty kind of air, “in doing, what you have done by this unfortunate child, you meant well, I daresay.” At which Nick, who had slipped his hand into mine, gave me a grateful squeeze.

“What I did, was done, first for Heaven’s sake, and then for his own,” says I; “so say no more about it. Me and Cheevers asks no thanks.”

“I don’t suppose, you expect me to go down on my knees to you,” says the poor lost soul defiantly, “and if you did, you’d be disappointed.

“I don’t thank you. Nor will the child thank you, when he grows to be a man. Better far, have let him die, and be put away, where shame can never come to him. Better 25far, if he had died, when he was born. Best of all, if I, his mother, had never drawn the breath of life.”

And the wretched creature dropped in a heap on a doorstep nigh by and rocked herself and moaned a bit. And then she pulled herself together, and struggled up.

“I must go,” she says dazedly. “I don’t know what led me back here, if it wasn’t Fate.

“I have walked days and nights to reach this place, driven by the same whip that, now I am here, goads me away. I must be moving—there’s no rest for me!” And she turned away blindly and went down the passage.

“Oh, mother, don’t go!” says Nick, following and pulling at her sleeve.

“Wait till you’ve had something to strengthen you,” I says, as could not help but pity her; “come home with me an’ I’ll make you a cup o’ tea.”

26But I don’t believe she heard a word. She brushed past me and Nick, as if she’d forgotten all about us, and turned out of Lemon’s-passage, and went down the street, walking at a good pace. Nick darted after her in a minute, and I was bound to follow Nick. It’s a mercy, I happened to have my old bonnet on, or I should ha’ been took up for a lunatic.

On we went, Nick following her, and me following him—and turned up by Saint Paul’s, and so went westwards. The streets got bigger and more crowded, the shops grander. I never troubled to wonder where she was leading us, I was so afraid of losing sight of Nick. And, by and by, the woman began to go slower.