BILLY’S MESSAGE
There were few London households in which Christmas had been “merry,”
and the lack of festive doings had necessarily extended to those who
are of the roofless household of the streets. Billy of Mayfair, in
his brief career, had had some “well-fed” Christmases--the roast beef
of old England, solid slabs of plum pudding, with oranges and nuts to
follow. Thanks to the spasmodic attention of kindly people, the boy’s
digestive machinery, which usually had very little to work upon, on
those special occasions had been taxed to its utmost capacity. He had
had one specially happy Christmas in hospital, and there lingered in
his memory a song of goodly fare which all the little patients had been
taught to sing in unison:
“Apple pies in Autumn,
Currant pies in June;
Mince pies at Christmas,
Coming very soon!”
The poetry of pie!
The staff-nurse said Billy had the sweetest voice in the ward. It
had won him--coupled with his one-legged agility--great popularity
with the young family of Joe the stableman, and he was the sole guest
at their Christmas gathering in their rooms at the end of the mews.
There was a goose for dinner--provided by Aldwyth Westwood--and other
fare both rich and succulent. The savour thereof filled the small and
inconvenient apartment, and with it was blended the odour proper to the
mews itself. The preparation of such a meal taxed Mrs Joe’s time and
temper to the uttermost. She cooked the repast with an infinite amount
of clatter, and then sat down to share it, nursing the while their
youngest born, one Francis Joseph, of whom mention has been already
made. Francis Joseph was fretful, and dominated the whole company--a
truly imperial and imperious infant.
Joe, in his shirt-sleeves--he was never happy in a coat--expounded to
Billy his strong objections to the motor-car. “Give me ’osses,” he
growled; “when you’ve got an ’oss to deal with you know how to go to
work; but them machines, snortin’, and smellin’, and tearin’ all over
the place--why, it’s disgustin’!” Billy cordially agreed. “What’ll
happen when there ain’t no ’osses left in London, that’s what I want to
know,” said Joe. Billy was unable to say. He didn’t know, and he said
so.
But they were in full sympathy these two, always the best of friends.
They were out together on Bank Holiday, and in the procession to
Trafalgar Square were to be seen marching side by side.
None in that miscellaneous multitude sang more lustily than Joe and
Billy. The stalwart stableman, card in hand, roared forth the glories
of the Better Land, and Billy also, hopping through the snow and slush,
trilled out in his clear boyish voice the wonders of the Golden City.
Here, in the grim and sombre wilderness of bricks and mortar, they sang
of heaven-built walls and pearly gates, of halls of Zion jubilant with
praise, of mansions bright with saints and angels and all the martyred
throng. Here, in the fading afternoon of London streets, they sang of
a land where daylight is serene. Here, with no glimpse of the fadeless
flowers of Paradise, they sang of the pastures of the blessed. Here,
in the miserable garments of the poor, they sang of robes of white and
crowns of glory.
Raggett, momentarily silenced by the swelling notes of the triumphant
hymn, turned round and glared upon the priest as the procession passed
between him and the National Gallery. Half his meeting melted away,
but, with gleaming eyes and fantastic gestures, he renewed his harangue
and poured abuse and scorn upon the Church and all her works.
His violent language and gesticulations met with some success in
stirring up the latent hostility of the baser sort among his hearers.
Faces full of hate and brutality looked towards those who were gathered
round the shining cross upon the steps of St Martin’s. The fire was
smouldering, and Raggett fanned it into flame.
“There’s one of them,” he shouted, with left hand extended; “one of
’the unco’ guid!’ Plenty to eat and drink; purple and fine linen to
wear--all the good things of life to call his own. What does he care
about Lazarus and his sores! They come into the streets singing about
the heavenly kingdom. But, as I’ve told you in the Park, it’s the rich
who are to have it both ways--a good time here and the best places up
above. Where do you come in? They give you stones, my friends, instead
of bread--the stones of London. They’ve got their cellars full of wine,
but they want to rob a poor man of his beer; yes, even on Bank Holiday.
That’s one of them that wants to do it. Why don’t you go and tell him
what you think of him?”
A storm of groans and hisses burst from his hearers. A sodden-faced
woman, passing a black bottle to her companion--a towering navvy, whose
eyes were glazed with drink--yelled to Raggett between her raised
hands: “Right you are, mate! right you are!” The navvy took a great
pull at the bottle, and then swore freely and at large.
The hymn was ended with a sonorous “Amen,” and only one voice was
heard from the church steps--the voice of Father Francis, vibrant and
clear. He was not preaching; he was simply speaking to the people. The
peculiar timbre and modulation of his voice made him audible to great
numbers of the crowd, which now was growing denser and denser over the
square and the converging streets. In simple language he carried on
the theme of the finished hymn, telling the multitude of the Celestial
City, the house not made with hands eternal in the heavens. There,
he said, the tired traveller would find a sweet and blessed country,
the home of the elect; the pastures of that country lay in glorious
sheen, amid still waters and eternal bowers. There men would rest from
their labours. Ended would be the dull, deep pain of earthly life and
its constant anguish of patience. But the happy people of that land
would have high service to perform, tasks suited to an ennobled human
nature. The land of the saints had its capital, a great, a glorious
city, and the existence of a city implied community of life, activity,
achievement. They, if they so willed, might become citizens of that
wonderful capital. The gates were open and all might enter in whose
names were written in the book of life. The nations of them that were
saved would walk in the light of it. On the banks of the crystal river
that flowed through the city there was the tree of life, and the leaves
of that tree were for the healing of the nations. Healed by the leaves
of that most blessed tree, the mortal would have put on immortality,
henceforth to be a perfect being with a perfect life triumphant over
sin and hell and death. That would be life indeed!--life for evermore;
gladness without sorrow, health without a pang, light without darkness.
The vigour of age would know no decay; beauty would not wither, nor
would love grow cold. Such was the inheritance that humankind might
enter into or reject--incorruptible, undefiled, never to fade away.
He paused, and with enraptured face gazed into the western sky,
where now the sun was sinking amid vast ragged clouds. The towering
masses, fringed at first with silver, slowly broke and parted, taking
the shapes of ramparts, towers, and pinnacles. A rose-red glow was
spreading over all, and shafts of amber light seemed to stretch onward
in the infinite, towards heavenly gates of pearl.
Aldwyth Westwood, gazing upward from the lower steps, saw in the face
thus lighted from the west a look that awed her--a look she never could
forget. Well might the witnesses of St Stephen’s death have seen the
face as of an angel when the Eastern mob ran with one accord upon the
proto-martyr and took the life he valued but as dross. And, in some
sort, the same passions that animated the people of two thousand years
ago found expression in the London mob to-day. Raggett had not spoken
in vain. Scowling men and unsexed women had been steadily forcing their
way towards the church while Father Francis was speaking. Some of them
threw stones and bits of mortar at the priest, and opprobrious cries
came from every side. The crowd surged and swayed in fierce excitement.
But Father Francis, his eyes still fixed upon the western light, seemed
quite unconscious of attack or danger.
Joe steadied Billy as the pressure increased around them, and both
looked round indignantly when the man and woman with the bottle came
pushing and lurching through the crowd behind them. Once more Father
Francis was speaking.
“The promise,” he cried, “is to you and to your children, and to all
that are afar off.”
“’Ere, Bob, you have a shy,” said the reeling woman to her companion.
She handed him the now empty bottle, and the man, grasping it by the
neck, in a half drunken frenzy whirled it round his head. Women began
to shriek and men to swear.
“It is written here--in this Book,” cried the priest in thrilling
tones, as he held a Bible high above his head; “_and this is the Word
of God_!”
Then the huge navvy, urged by the woman, “had a shy”; the bottle flew
from his hand with deadly force; the Bible fell, and the face of Father
Francis, ghastly and bleeding, sank back amongst those who stood
around him on the steps. Billy saw it all, and, in an access of fury,
balancing himself unaided for an instant, raised his crutch and struck
the shoulder of the ruffian with all his force. With a savage oath the
man half turned, and grasping the boy’s neck, hurled him forward with
terrific violence upon the steps. In haste to escape, the people close
at hand made a sudden rush. Some fell, their dead weight crushing the
unhappy child against the granite edge. Joe, with a tiger’s swiftness
and a loud cry of wrath, had sprung upon the boy’s assailant. They
wrestled, swayed, and fell, the woman clawing at the stableman, the
crowd parting right and left in terror at the fury of the struggle.
But Billy of Mayfair lay very still at Aldwyth Westwood’s feet.
Some one raised the boy a little, and they laid him gently on the
stones. His face was pale with a pallor that Aldwyth had never seen
before; his eyelids fluttered very faintly.
“My Gawd!” said a woman, peering forward, “the boy’s done for. Where’s
a doctor? Ain’t there no doctor here?”
“Stand back, can’t you,” cried another. “Give ’im some air.”
Some one elbowed his way through the people, and bending over Billy,
made a swift examination of his injuries. “Lungs,” he said, tersely.
“He’s bleeding internally. Nothing to be done.”
“Take ’im to the ’orspital,” shouted a voice.
“He’ll die before you get him there,” muttered the doctor.
Aldwyth was kneeling now. Her left arm supported Billy as he lay; her
right hand held his twitching fingers.
Azrael, Angel of Death, was drawing near.
“Billy,” she said softly, “Billy.” The boy’s eyes opened, and he
smiled a startled smile.
Then, stooping, her face almost as white as his, she whispered in his
ear the Sacred Name. The child gazed at her fixedly, questioningly.
“He died for you, Billy, and you are going to live with Him.”
“Say it again,” he panted, eagerly. Once more she said it.
The child sighed faintly. Had he heard? Azrael, Angel of Death, was
very near.
“Dear Billy,” she whispered once more, “He died for you, and you are
going to live with Him.”
Again his face was eager. “Please thank Him for me, mum. Please----”
The voice had died away.
Billy of Mayfair would speak no more. But, perchance, the Angel heard,
and bore the message to Him who loves the children of our race.