CHAPTER VI.
A BITTER DISAPPOINTMENT.
SIX weeks had passed away, and Davie was still in the hospital. He had not at first made the rapid improvement that the doctors had anticipated. After a while, however, he had mended, and seemed to be going on fairly well, when again there came a relapse, and his recovery was considered doubtful. The broken leg had progressed satisfactorily; indeed he was able to use it a little, and had on one or two occasions sat up for half an hour. But it seemed as if the shock of the accident had been too much for the feeble body of the poor child, weakened by a long period of insufficiency of food and scanty clothing.
Dr. Scott feared that rapid consumption would set in, and that his little namesake would never go alive from his care. He was sorry, for he had quite an affection for the gentle boy who rendered such willing obedience, and had never been known to be discontented or impatient.
Nor was he the only one to whom Davie had endeared himself. He had been removed to another ward, but his singing was in as great request here as it had been in the other, and every day at a certain hour, he gladly did his best to impart the pleasure that the sweet tones of his voice never failed to afford to his hearers.
The name, "King Davie," had stuck to him, and all over the hospital he was known by it.
"After all, there is a good deal in a name, isn't there?" Dr. Scott had said to him one day, when it so happened that he had a spare moment in which to chat to his little favourite.
"I don't know that there is," Davie had answered with that usual pleased expression of countenance which any attention from the doctor was sure to call forth.
"There is in yours, any way. First, we find out that it is the same as mine, and then somebody goes and gives you a pet name that even I have adopted. Don't you think that a good deal?"
This talk had taken place not long after that evening when Davie's music had charmed away the evil spirit from the poor sufferer, and when, in the rush of feeling, caused by the recollections awakened by the name that had been given him half in fun and half in earnest, Davie had made a certain resolution. It had been carried out, and over and over again he had been told "the old, old story," and again and again had been explained to him the words that had puzzled him so much. But though he knew it with his head, he did not feel it in his heart. It was still a matter in which he had no "personal" interest, or rather, it seemed to him so vast and infinite a subject that the part of a poor little crossing-sweeper, destitute of learning, of money, and of everything else that is of value in the world's eye, was swallowed up and "lost" in it.
So the old longing to understand remained, and the cry of his spirit was still, "Oh! How I wish I understood." It troubled the child that it was so. Sometimes, for two or three days together, he would forget about it. He was very comfortable in the hospital, he had nice things to eat and plenty of them; everybody was good and kind; his mother often came to see him, and Lady Cloudesley had been on more than one occasion since her first visit. So that Davie seemed to have no want unsupplied, and he would feel happy and at peace, till suddenly the old thought would occur to him, "Supposing I was to die!"
Again had come back that grave look on Dr. Scott's face whenever he bent over him to feel his pulse and ask him how he did. Davie determined at last that he would beg the doctor to tell him honestly and candidly what his opinion was.
"Please, sir," he began rather hesitatingly, "I want you to tell me whether you think I ever 'shall' get well? It seems to me that I ain't very much better now than I was ever so long ago."
"Well, my boy, I 'hope' you will get well again some day."
Davie's brown eyes had a look of reproach in them, as he said, "I'd like to know 'really.' If I've got to die, I'd sooner be told."
"Then I will tell you," replied the doctor in a graver tone than he had ever yet used in addressing his little patient. "What I said a minute ago is perfectly true; we 'do' hope that you will get well, but the improvement is very slow, and you seem to gain very little strength, so that it is really impossible to say how it will end."
That meant—for Davie knew that the doctor even then was treating the subject in its lightest aspect—that of the two he was more likely to die than get well. He shut his eyes, and save for the slight quivering of his under lip, lay perfectly still for a minute or two.
Then looking up, he laid one little thin hand on the doctor's large and healthy one, and said simply and gratefully, "Thank you for telling me. I 'wanted' to know."
The doctor was touched.
"Is there anything you would like, Davie?" he asked. "'Anything' that I can get or do for you, I will."
His "face" said "No." Then suddenly the expression changed, and the cheeks that had been so white a moment before, grew flushed and rosy.
"There 'is' something, I can see, King Davie. What is it? Don't be afraid to tell me."
"Oh! If I might, if I could, I should 'so' like to see the gentleman as was a-preaching in the church I went into that night I got run over."
"Do you know his name?"
No, Davie did not; then he told the whole story, while the doctor listened patiently and attentively.
"I will try to find out who the clergyman was, and perhaps I may write to him and ask him to come and see you," he said, when the tale came to an end.
"Oh! Thank you, sir, I—"
But Dr. Scott dared not allow himself to linger any longer, and Davie's thanks did not reach the ear for which they were intended. He had, however, seen the look of joy that had lighted up the boy's face at his words, and he resolved to go to the church and make the necessary inquiry on the very first opportunity.
He went that evening. The church was open, and a few inquiries of the verger quickly put him in possession of the desired information.
Alas for Davie! It was by no means such as seemed likely to tend to a realization of his hopes. The preacher on the night of the accident was a Mr. Kilmarnock, one of the most noted preachers of the day. He had come from his parish in the north of England for the express purpose of preaching in that particular church on the evening in question, and, the verger said, he believed it would be some time before he would again visit London.
Dr. Scott felt very sorry for Davie. He could not forget the glad smile of delight which had illumined his face on hearing that at least an endeavour should be made to bring the clergyman to him. He knew the poor little fellow would be bitterly disappointed at the result of his inquiries at the church, and he quite disliked the idea of carrying the bad news to his bedside.
On his way thither, he chanced to meet the head nurse of the ward into which Davie had been carried, when first brought into the hospital. She had been much interested in his case, and now stopped the doctor to inquire for his little patient. Having a few minutes to spare, he told her of Davie's wish and of his own disappointment.
The lady looked grave.
"Years ago I knew Mr. Kilmarnock," she said. "I think he should be told of the boy's desire."
Dr. Scott laughed.
"Pardon me, but what good would it do?" he asked. "Consider the distance. If he were in London and knew the particulars of the case, he might come. Though even then, I doubt whether the numerous calls upon his time would permit it. After all, you know, it is only a little crossing-sweeper who wants to see him."
With that remark the conversation ended, but the subject still remained in the lady's mind. In vain she tried to put it aside. Again and again it returned, and always with a deepened conviction that it was her duty, at any rate, to let the clergyman "know" of the effect that his words had taken upon the boy, and of his earnest wish—probably a dying wish—to see him.
At last she could bear it no longer, and getting pen and paper, she sat down and related the circumstances as concisely as possible. She did not beg Mr. Kilmarnock to come. She merely told him of the child's desire. The letter written, she felt greatly relieved, and she was glad, now it "had" been done, that it was in time for the evening's post.
Early on the following day a telegram was put into her hand. A distressing case had come in during the night, and she had been kept so constantly in attendance that she had not so much as once thought of Davie. When she opened the telegram, however, he and his wish flashed to her memory in a thrill of joy and thankfulness.
These were the words that met her eyes:
"Thank you for letting me know. I hope to be at the hospital to-night."
CHAPTER VII.
THE LONGING REALIZED.
IT was dusk, and Davie was lying restless and in pain upon his bed. He had not been so well ever since that talk with the doctor, when he told him of his wish. The doctor saw how excited and feverish he was from the eager way in which he questioned him when next he came to his bedside.
"Have you found out who the minister was, sir? Do you think he'll come to see me?"
It was really the kinder thing to tell him the worst at once. Suspense was bad for the boy.
"Yes, Davie, I know who it was, but he doesn't live in London. He lives two or three hundred miles away, and so you must give up all hope of having a visit from him. Why, you don't mean to say you are going to cry about it! That isn't like our King Davie."
"Oh! It don't signify. It ain't of much consequence. I—"
Evidently he did not wish his tears to be seen. He had shed very few since he had been in the hospital—just on one or two occasions when he had been in intense pain that was all. By the manner, therefore, in which he received the news, Dr. Scott knew he felt the disappointment keenly, and he hurried away that the boy might have his cry out alone and in secret. When he returned, the subject was not resumed, and Davie managed to give him a parting smile.
The next day, however, on visiting his little patient, Dr. Scott was concerned to find him in a highly feverish state. He would allow no talking, and at once ordered a composing draught.
The medicine took prompt and good effect, but even in his sleep Davie was restless, frequently moaning, and talking rapidly and incoherently. But as the hours passed, he slumbered more quietly, and from the happier expression upon his face, his nurse knew that less harassing thoughts were passing through his brain.
That was true, for Davie was dreaming he was in that place of delight—Westminster Abbey. The organ, he thought, was pealing out a grand triumphant march, and the voices of the choir boys sang out an answering response. Then, as the music died away, a minister got up in the pulpit and began to preach. It was the same gentleman, who, during the last six weeks, had been so frequently in Davie's waking thoughts. Very attentively he listened to hear what he said, but he was far away and could not catch the words. This distressed him so much that he called out in a shrill, eager voice,—
"Please speak louder. I can't hear what you say."
"What is it, my poor child? What can't you hear?"
Davie opened his eyes and—"had" he been dreaming, or "hadn't" he? For there, leaning over him, was the face he had seemed to see in his dream—the face of the clergyman who had preached that wonderful "real" sermon in the church near Regent Street. It wore just the old earnest, loving look, only now, as it bent down so near to his, it appeared to Davie that the dark eyes were full of yet deeper compassion and tenderness than they had been on that night many weeks ago. And it was for "him," there could be no mistake about that now. Davie felt somehow as if he had known him all his life. He raised himself in a sitting position, and cried out eagerly,—
"Oh! I am so glad you are come. I've been wanting you ever so. I want 'you' to tell me how I can be a king."
He did not ask in vain.
Just for a moment Mr. Kilmarnock failed to comprehend the child's meaning. Then the remembrance of his sermon flashed across his memory. One brief earnest prayer went up from his heart that his words might be blessed to the poor little fellow, and sitting down by his bedside, he told him—without troubling Davie to answer any questions—the story of man's disobedience, of man's condemnation, and of man's redemption.
Davie, listening, understood it as he had never understood it before, for the Holy Spirit directed the words, and "now" they "entered his heart" with a new and marvellous meaning. It was for "him" then that Christ had died. He had suffered that "he" might live a life of endless joy and happiness; He had shed His blood that his sins—and Davie "felt" now that they were many—might be washed away. And all for "love"; for love of "him," poor, ragged, ignorant Davie!
"And so, dear child, you see that whether you live or die, you are Christ's. You are not afraid to die, 'now,' are you?"
"No."
The word came after a moment's pause, and then Davie lay for a while with closed eyes, and with a look of "restfulness" and peace upon his face that it had not worn for many a day. Presently he went back to the old question.
"Please, will you tell me now," he asked, as he looked eagerly at Mr. Kilmarnock, "how I can be a king? You said I could be a king that night, you know."
"'Kings and priests unto God and His Father.' Davie, do you know what is the chief duty of a king?"
He thought a moment before replying. A king did so many things that it was puzzling to specify any particular one or even a few of them.
"He's got to wear a crown, and ride in a grand carriage. Then he makes laws, and everybody must do as he tells them, and he can do just what he likes."
"No, a king cannot do just what he likes any more than anybody else can, and he has to obey the laws himself, as well as see that his people obey them. But I didn't mean that exactly. A duty is not something we may or can do, but something we 'ought' and 'must' do, and a king's chief duty is to serve others, not to be served himself. He has to live for his people; to see that they are ruled by just and wise laws; to take care that their health and education receive proper attention. In fact, to study every day of his life how to make them happy, and healthy, and prosperous. A king's whole life, therefore, is spent in service for others.
"Now, Davie, if you really love Christ, you will want to prove it by serving Him, and you will feel so happy and glad in doing it. That is what it means by 'kings and priests unto God.' A priest, you know, is the same as a minister, and if they do their duty, both kings and ministers spend their lives in working for, and serving others. When we love God then, and serve Him, we are kings and priests unto Him. Ah! Davie, that's a grand and blessed thought, and it should make us try very earnestly to please Him. We can never 'pay back' anything that God has done for us, but we 'can' try to keep His commandments, we 'can' be gentle, and loving, and patient, and we need never let a day pass without doing something to help others and make them happy."
"But supposing—"
"Yes, Davie."
"Supposing I was to die. I couldn't be a king then, because I couldn't serve God. I couldn't do 'anything' for 'anybody' then."
"But Davie, don't you know that in heaven you will be able to serve God far more and far better than you could here?"
"Shall I, sir? I didn't know it. I thought as how there wouldn't be nothing to do up there."
"That is a great mistake. I can't say exactly what will be given you to do, but it will be sure to make you happy and keep you always busy. Then, Davie, it will be 'perfect' service. Here, you know, it is so natural for us to be selfish, and impatient, and discontented that no service of ours is quite free from evil of some sort. But in heaven there is no sin, and so it will be a perfect service, holy and acceptable unto God."
Again there came a pause in the conversation, and again Davie broke it.
"I'm glad I shall be able to serve God in heaven," he said simply and heartily, "because, now I come to think of it, perhaps after all there wouldn't be anything much that I could do for Him here."
"I was in the hospital some time before you awoke, Davie," said Mr. Kilmarnock, with a slight change in his voice, "and the lady who was so kind as to let me know that you wished to see me, told me many things about you. She told me how hard you used to work to help your mother; how bravely you have borne pain since you have been here; and how patient and obedient you have been. She told me another thing, too, though perhaps it was such a pleasure to yourself, that you will scarcely believe me when I tell you that God would accept it as a service done to Him. I mean the delight you take in singing in order to please others and soothe away their pain. You see I have learned a great deal about you, 'King' Davie."
The child muttered something about being "so glad," but the excitement, caused by the clergyman's visit, and the long talk were beginning to tell upon him, and he lay back upon the pillow, pale and exhausted.
The nurse was quick to observe it, and brought him some light and nourishing food. That revived him, and he was able to give Mr. Kilmarnock, who had left his bedside for a little while, a bright and affectionate smile of welcome on his return.
"Davie," he said, "I have been to beg to be allowed to remain with you all night. It is against the rules for a visitor to do such a thing, but in this case it will be permitted. So I shall sit by you and watch you till you go to sleep."
That was very nice. It seemed to Davie that he had nothing left to wish for now. For a while he lay quite quietly; then certain uneasy movements of his limbs, and long-drawn breaths, gave token of the return of another fit of restlessness.
"Is there nothing I can do for you, my poor boy, to make you more comfortable?"
Davie shook his head in answer to the low-toned, compassionate inquiry of his new nurse.
"Poor little laddie! I wish I could just take you up in my arms and bear all the pain for you myself."
"Oh! Will you?—If I might—I—"
"What Davie?"
"If only you'd take me up and nurse me. Nobody has, ever since I wasn't much bigger than a baby, and mother—"
He did not finish the sentence, for a swift, interrogatory glance at the nurse in charge had been answered in the affirmative. How could she do otherwise when the doctor had said that very probably this would be the child's last night on earth, and when the clergyman, in order to get to him without delay, had travelled hundreds of miles in the greatest haste? So Davie was lifted from his bed, wrapped in a blanket, and lay happy and content in the strong arms of the clergyman, against whose breast the curly head nestled in perfect confidence and love. Then the eyelids drooped and Davie slept, but so quietly that, as the hours went by, Mr. Kilmarnock frequently put his cheek close to the boy's lips, for it was only by the slight wave of air he then felt, that he knew he yet lived.
So, motionless he sat with the child in his arms. For, though his limbs ached with the cramped position, he took care that no movement should disturb him. And all the while he was offering up silent prayer and praise—prayer that Davie might be accepted in God's sight as one of His children redeemed by the precious blood of Christ, and praise and thanksgiving that he himself had been permitted to come to the wandering lamb, and direct him home to the fold and the Good Shepherd.
And Davie still slept—slept on till day-dawn, when he awoke with a wonderful look of "renewed life" upon his face.
As the nurse took him from Mr. Kilmarnock's arms and laid him in his bed again, she whispered, "There is a change for the better, I feel sure."
And she was right. Davie had been to the very borderland of death, but that long sleep was the turning-point. He awoke, not to die, but to live, not yet to join that glorious company of "kings and priests unto God," in heaven, but to render on earth, for a while at any rate, that greatest and most blessed of work which consists of service done to God and man.
CHAPTER VIII.
HOME, SWEET HOME.
FROM the hospital, Davie was sent to a Children's Convalescent Home, a few miles distant from London. Never before had he been in such a place, and he was very happy there. It seemed quite like a palace to him, with its large rooms and many appliances for the comfort and health of its inmates. Then, how bright it was with flowers! For it was spring time now, and the earth was beginning to bring forth her loveliest and fairest blossoms. They made the large garden sweet with fragrance, and beautiful beyond description.
One corner of it was an especial favourite with Davie. It was a corner where the lily of the valley grew in rich profusion. Of all the flowers, he thought this was the loveliest, and he never wearied of looking at the tiny nodding bells and dark green leaves, a charming contrast both in size and colour to the dainty, spotless blossoms that leant against them for support.
From this corner, too, Davie was the witness of another of God's marvellous works—and it afforded him even more pleasure than the lilies—the soaring lark, which in its upward flight towards the blue sky overhead, warbled forth such melody that the boy listened in wonder and delight, yet always with a feeling that the bird was but giving utterance to its joy that the earth was so fair and beautiful, and to its praise to God for the creation of the world and itself. And many deeper lessons yet did Davie learn from the lark. Doubtless they came home with all the more power because they were given in a language that was full of meaning to him—the wonderful language of music.
Many pleasant events served to mark that happy time at the Convalescent Home, but perhaps the proudest and happiest day of all to Davie was that on which he received a letter from his dear friend—for as such, though with the deepest respect, he always thought of Mr. Kilmarnock.
It was a beautiful letter, full of wise counsel and affectionate encouragement, and ended with the promise of another at no very distant date.
After a month's visit—but even that was all too short for Davie—came his last day at the Home. Although it was long ere the benefit had made itself apparent, the strengthening food, the care, and the attention he had received ever since his accident, brought about a good result in the end, and he now looked a very different boy from the pale, half-starved little crossing-sweeper of three months ago, or even from the feeble invalid who had been sent from the hospital to gain strength and vigour in the pure country air.
His mother came to fetch him, and quite a crowd collected to wish him good-bye, for Davie had made many friends among his young companions of the past month, and it is difficult to say whether they were the more sorry to lose him, or he to go. The name he had won for himself in the hospital had followed him to the Home. And now they all called out in chorus, "Good-bye, King Davie, good-bye, good-bye."
He was very silent during the journey, and his mother, thinking he was tired, drew him up close to her side and made him lean upon her. Her shoulder made a comfortable resting-place for his head, and as he sat with closed eyes and perfectly still, Mrs. Willis quite believed he was asleep.
But Davie was not asleep. He was thinking of what he had to do—of the future that lay before him. It was by no means a bright picture. It meant hard and disagreeable work, and for 'home,' the bare room at the top of a high house in a dirty street in Westminster, where he and his mother, and the "little 'uns" "had" lived, and "would" live till the end of the chapter, as Davie supposed. True, it had not been so very dreary and uncomfortable once. He remembered that on those days when they could afford to have a fire, it had seemed to him cheerful and cosy enough. But lately he had enjoyed far pleasanter quarters, and he shrank from the bareness of the room, with its two or three dingy pieces of furniture.
But that was wrong, as Davie knew right well, as Mr. Kilmarnock would have told him had he been there. Then he recalled certain passages of the clergyman's letter, for it had been read to him so often that he now almost knew it by heart.
"Remember," Mr. Kilmarnock had said, "that you have resolved henceforth
to serve God. You must never go back from that; and don't be afraid of
what lies before you. You must expect troubles, but God will help you
through them all. Recollect for your comfort, that though He sometimes
sends 'as much' as we can bear, yet He never sends 'more' than that.
Just go steadily on doing your duty; live for 'others,' not for
'yourself,' and it will make you happy both in this world and the next."
Such thoughts as these did good, and though his heart was still heavy, it was with quite a bright face that Davie stepped out of the train at Westminster. Some marks of the accident yet remained, a slight limp was one of them, and his mother was anxious that they should take a cab from the station to their home. She had more than one reason for her proposal, but that Davie should not be over-fatigued was the chief. He would not hear of it, however, declaring stoutly that he was quite equal to the walk.
"But, mother, this isn't the right way," he said, as she took a turning that was certainly not in the direction of what for a long time had been "home" to him.
"We don't live in Brock Street now, Davie," was her reply. "I've taken a couple of rooms in Ringdon Road."
"In Ringdon Road! But that's quite a nice street. The rent's ever so much higher there, isn't it?"
"Yes, but you see I'm better off now than I have been for years. Lady Cloudesley, she's been that kind that I declare I've often felt quite queer about taking all the things she's sent me. Then better than that, she's given me plenty of needlework, and recommended me to other ladies, and Dr. Scott, he's done the same. I get well paid for it, too. How much do you think I earned last week, Davie?"
"I don't know, mother."
"Thirteen shillings. What do you say to that?"
She was delighted with the look of incredulity with which this piece of information was received. "Ah! Home isn't the same place as it used to be, I can tell you," she went on cheerfully. "That's 'one' reason why I wanted a cab; I thought, perhaps, as how you wouldn't notice the way we went then, and so you wouldn't know anything about the change till we got to Ringdon Road.
"However, I may as well go on and tell you all about it now. We've got a good big room, furnished quite pretty with some things that Lady Cloudesley sent me. It's got a bed in it for the twins and me, but you wouldn't know it in the day-time, for there's a curtain to draw right across, and then you'd take it for a regular sitting room. Then just opposite, so that if you were bad and called out in the night, I could hear you in a minute, there's a nice little room that you're to have for your very own, Davie. It ain't very big, of course, but it holds a bed, and a chair, and a bit of a table. And, as if that wasn't enough, Lady Cloudesley sends a beautiful picture—leastways, 'tisn't a picture exactly, it's a text done in gold and coloured letters, and framed,—
"'He that is faithful in that which is least is faithful also in much.'
"Those are the words. Lady Cloudesley said as how she thought they'd be just the sort that you'd like. And there are the twins! They're grown so that I expect you'll hardly know them."
Mrs. Willis stopped for sheer want of breath.
Davie waited till she had recovered it.
"I am sure I shall be able to go to work to-morrow," he said bravely, though his heart sank still lower at the near and by no means enchanting prospect of a day's sweeping in the streets. "I am quite well now, you know, and I can stand for a good long time without feeling tired."
"There, Davie, don't go saying nothing about that," rejoined Mrs. Willis hastily. "You aren't going to work at anything just yet, I can tell you, and then I hope it won't be at the sweeping business. Perhaps you won't mind seeing to the twins a bit, but that's as much as you'll do at present. Time was—" and now from being husky, Mrs. Willis broke down completely, and went on in a voice choked with sobs—"time was when I couldn't help myself, but was obliged to let you go on slaving and starving for me. That's all altered now, I hope. If it's months and months before you get to work again, you needn't fret. Never fear, but I shall be able to earn enough for all."
There was no time for any reply from Davie, for they had now arrived at the house where Mrs. Willis lodged. And there, on the door-step, standing hand-in-hand and anxiously awaiting their arrival, were the twins.
As their mother had said, they were very much grown. They were wonderfully improved too, in looks, being quite fat and rosy now. And then they could walk quite quickly, whereas when Davie saw them last, Polly could only stand with the help of a chair, while Tom went from place to place on all fours.
But when Davie, led by the twins, entered the room of which his mother had been telling him, he could scarcely believe his eyes. It more than answered the description. It had two windows, and was most comfortably furnished, even to a square of carpet in the middle of the floor beneath the little centre table. This same little table was just now groaning beneath the weight of a feast that was tempting to behold, as was evidently the opinion of the twins, for no sooner had they reached the door than they left their long absent and sorely-missed brother, and rushing towards the more fascinating goodies, clambered on their chairs with simultaneous shouts of—
"Can din now, moder, can din now Dadie's tome."
They were good children, however, for when they found that their patience was to suffer a yet further trial, they submitted quietly, and sat sucking their thumbs with a relish that doubtless owed much to the anticipated richness of the plum-cake, the centre of attraction to their longing eyes and watering mouths.
"Now, Davie, just you look here."
He followed his mother across the passage and into another room—a very tiny one this time.
"Why, it's 'beautiful!' You don't mean to say it's for 'me' to sleep in!"
"Yes, Davie, it's your very own. You're going to have it all to yourself, dear, and if you feel bad from the children's noise, you can just come in here and be quiet a bit. You don't know what a pleasure it's been, to get it all nice and comfortable for you, against you come back."
Davie tried to speak but he couldn't, and his mother, seeing how matters were, and knowing his thoughts, perhaps, almost as well as he did himself, put her arms around him, and folded him in a close and warm embrace. At that, the tears that he had been struggling to keep back, burst forth, and for a few minutes he sobbed upon his mother's breast as though his heart would break.
"Oh! Mother, I've had such bad thoughts. I didn't want to come home, and now it's all so nice and so comfortable. I don't deserve it—I don't deserve it."
She soothed and comforted him, calling him her "own Davie," her "best of boys," and many other loving names.
Then, his tears having ceased, they went back to the other room. It was quite a merry tea-drinking. The twins were brimming over with happiness—as they were with plum-cake, before the meal came to an end—and said such queer things that Davie had no sooner finished laughing at one than he went off into a fresh peal at another. Smiles and tears kept close company with him that night, but after all, there were more of the former than of the latter, and Davie felt strangely happy when his mother came to tuck him up in his little bed in his tiny room.
Left alone, his thoughts turned into a more serious channel. How good, how "very" good, God had been to him! He would never be fearful again; he would trust Him for the future. And had he not cause? Out of what had seemed at first nothing but a terrible misfortune had come the greatest blessings both to him and his mother. How could he "prove" his gratitude and love? He knew well enough, though passively by faith yet actively by "service."
Looking up at that moment, he saw the illuminated text on the wall at the foot of his bed; a moonbeam fell upon it, and by its light he was able to read the words:
"He that is faithful in that which is least is faithful also in much."
They seemed wonderfully applicable to his case, and somehow they reminded him of the "other" text he loved so dearly. With the words of that upon his lips, Davie fell asleep.
CHAPTER IX.
GOOD-BYE TO LONDON.
THE next morning, Davie again pleaded to be allowed to go forth with broom in hand to his old quarters in Harley Street. His mother, however, would not hear of it, nor would she allow the subject to drop till she had received a promise from him that he would take a whole week's holiday before attempting to do anything.
"By the end of that time, Davie," she said with a peculiar smile, "who knows but what something may have turned up for you?"
The week was not over when Lady Cloudesley came. Doubtless Mrs. Willis had her reasons for hinting at the chance of "something turning up" for Davie, for the lady had not been seated many minutes before, turning to him, she said,—
"Davie, I have a proposal to make to you."
He had not the least idea what she meant, but he answered readily,—
"Yes, my lady."
"I have been talking about you to a friend of mine—the Vicar of St. Mary's in Foster Street. I have been telling him how nicely you can sing, and he says he shall be glad to have you in his choir. You would like to go, wouldn't you?"
"What, go and sing on a Sunday in the church, do you mean?"
"Yes, and on other days too, when there are services. Of course you will get paid. You are to have five shillings a week."
Five shillings a week, and all for doing what would be the greatest pleasure to him! Davie's eyes sparkled.
"And then your voice will be properly trained," went on Lady Cloudesley, "and you will be taught to sing by note. In time, I shouldn't wonder if you became quite a great singer, and able to earn ever so much money."
That was rather too much to believe, but it was not surprising that Davie's face was radiant with delight. Lady Cloudesley's words had taken a great weight from his mind. He had feared, though he had not said a word to his mother, that his limping gait would be a serious drawback in the sweeping business. Now, if he could earn five shillings a week regularly, there need be no thought of going back to street work. But Lady Cloudesley was speaking again, and if he would hear what she was saying, he must put other matters aside.
"I have made one other arrangement for you," she said. "I did it without consulting your mother, but I feel sure she will not object; indeed, I think she will be very glad that you should do what I propose. I have arranged that you should attend the St. Mary's Schools. There you will learn so many things that I cannot even tell you what they will be. You will like that too, won't you, Davie?"
He said "yes," but there was no quick response, and no sudden light of joy flashed into his eyes as it had done when he had heard that he was to become a chorister. Recollections of certain wearisome days of long ago took away all charm from the prospect of a return to school routine, and he had so long enjoyed the freedom of the streets that he disliked the idea of any kind of enforced restraint. Nevertheless, he felt very grateful to Lady Cloudesley for taking so much trouble on his account. He remembered, too, that he was lame now, not to any great degree certainly, but enough to take away the "keen" pleasure that he had once experienced in active employment.
"I hoped you would like it 'very' much, Davie."
"I daresay I shall after a bit, my lady," he replied, "and thank you for getting me into the school, but just at first it's a bit startling to think of."
Lady Cloudesley smiled. She understood quite well all that he had left unsaid, and liked her little protégé the better for his honesty.
From that time a new life began for Davie, a wonderful life, and such a happy life that looking back upon the "last year," he quite pitied the poor little Davie Scott he had then been. Instead of something very much like a prison, as Davie had foolishly imagined the school would be, it proved a delightful place. Very soon he could read quite fluently, and that step gained, learning was no longer a task but a pleasure. Of course with his heart in his work, he made rapid progress, and the faith Mrs. Willis had always had in Davie's intellectual powers, "if only he had the chance," proved to be of good foundation.
As soon as he could write in a manner which he considered "well enough," he sent a long letter to Mr. Kilmarnock.
If his week-days were pleasant to him, his Sundays were still more so. Then to sit in the chancel, and join in psalm, and hymn, and anthem, was to Davie a delight indescribable. It was not in his nature to do anything by halves, but when it came to "singing," every effort was strained to produce a good and finished result. And it was for "the service and glory of God"—in that to Davie lay the greatest joy of all.
Many a bright bit of pleasure, too, broke the regular daily work of the boy's life. On two different occasions he spent a whole day in the country. The beautiful things he saw there served for talk for many an evening afterwards.
Then, at intervals of three or four weeks, he would pay Dr. Scott a visit. He was sure to be welcomed with a smile and a hearty hand-shake, and there were always kind inquiries as to what he was doing, and how he was getting on. The boy would go away feeling all the happier for the encouraging, "Bravo, King Davie!" which never failed to greet the announcement of his last achievement at school or in the choir.
******
It was just about a year after Davie's accident that one morning Mrs. Willis received a letter. As he was now the better scholar of the two, it was passed over to him to read. He recognised the handwriting in a moment.
"Oh mother!" he cried. "It's from Mr. Kilmarnock. I am 'so' glad. I was beginning to think that he'd forgotten his promise to write again some day."
There was pride mixed with the pleasure with which he unfolded that letter. Before, when he had received one, he had been obliged to have it read to him, now he could make it out for himself, and, thanks to the care with which it had been written, it was so legible and clear that he did it without difficulty. The nature of its contents was startling in the extreme.
Mr. Kilmarnock wrote to ask Mrs. Willis whether it would be pleasant to her to remove into the country? If so, he could offer Davie a post as chorister in W— Cathedral.
"I shall for the future," said the writer, "reside at W— during certain months of the year, and as I take a great interest in your son, it will be a satisfaction to me to be able to see him frequently. I think, too, that country air will be better for his health. As regards yourself, my recommendation would keep you well supplied with plain needlework, and as Davie would receive a larger sum at W— for his services than he does in London, you would, at any rate, be no worse off than you are now. Talk it over with your son, and let me know your decision."
There were a few more sentences, but Davie did not stop to read them.
"Oh, mother, shall we go?" he cried.
"I don't know, Davie," she said. "It's all come so sudden that I can't seem to get my thoughts together. 'You'd' like it, wouldn't you?"
"Oh! I should. Just think what it must be to 'live' in the country. Then there would be Mr. Kilmarnock! Fancy seeing him as often as I see Mr. Crawford."
Mr. Crawford was the vicar of St. Mary's.
"It seems to me that you care more for Mr. Kilmarnock than for anybody," said Mrs. Willis in a tone that betrayed jealousy, though she did not intend that it should.
Davie looked up.
"No, mother, I love you better than anybody in the whole world, but I can't help loving Mr. Kilmarnock too. Even now I can't think of him a-coming all that long way to see me in the hospital without feeling choky-like. And then to sit as he did a whole night long with me on his lap, and never moving an inch for fear of waking or hurting me. I don't think there's many would have done that for a poor little chap like me, as everybody thought was a-dying. And there's other things besides that, mother."
"I know, Davie. I don't mind, and if you like we'll say no more about it, but pack up and start off at once."
Of course the question was not settled in quite such a hurry as that, but the early spring found Mrs. Willis's lodgings empty, and she, and Davie, and the twins comfortably settled at W— in a cottage not far from the Cathedral.
Perhaps Mrs. Willis went all the more willingly because Lady Cloudesley told her that she usually spent the summer months at W—, and that when next there she would not fail to use her influence to get her work.
But after all, London had not been left without regret. Saying good-bye to St. Mary's and the school, Davie declared to be "horrid work," and when it came to bidding Dr. Scott farewell, he half wished that they had never decided to go away.
But once at W—, Davie no longer regretted that they had come. His joy at seeing Mr. Kilmarnock was unbounded. The clergyman was greatly concerned to see him so lame, but he did not doubt that fresh air and country diet would soon effect an improvement. And good medicines they proved.
When Mrs. Willis perceived how well he was beginning to look, how the old limp was gradually leaving him, and how light-hearted and merry he always was now, she too felt glad that they had exchanged the city for a country life.
And when a year or two had passed, she could not imagine how she could have been so foolish as "ever to have minded" giving up her lodgings in the close, dirty street in London, for the pretty ivy-covered cottage that was her pride to keep the picture of order and cleanliness.
So "all things worked together for good" to Mrs. Willis and her children. The twins grew apace, and Davie was so happy that his life seemed one never-ending joy. The new school was as delightful as the old, and oh! how great a happiness and honour it was to him to contribute his part towards that glorious music in the beautiful old cathedral.
Fresh, and clear, and sweet, rang out the young voice of the chorister, and by the tone of deep feeling with which the words of prayer and praise were sung, it was evident that Davie uttered them with his heart as well as his lips.
Nor did he forget to whom his happiness was owing. "God has been so good to me. If only I could love Him more, if only I could serve Him more!" was often his inward cry. Then he would remember one of the lessons that the lark had taught him. "What" it could do, it did with all its strength. It took wing, and getting as near to its Maker as it could, simply warbled forth its burst of joy and praise.
So in his home, in his work, and in his heart, Davie strove to render "kingly" service—to be "faithful in the least." And though, of course, he often fell short of his desires, yet it was but to persevere the more earnestly in his onward and upward journey.
His mother, noting him, began to think "that after all there must be something in religion." So curiosity first led her to search into the matter, and that led to something deeper—to a trust in Christ as her Saviour.
Once when Mr. Kilmarnock paid her a visit—a rare event, for it was seldom he had a spare half-hour—she told him about it, and how Davie—though he had never known it—had been the means, under God, of leading her to the knowledge of "Christ and Him crucified."
On his way to his home, it so happened that the clergyman met Davie returning from school. Doubtless it was the recollection of that conversation with his mother which caused Mr. Kilmarnock's eyes to rest upon him with even more affection than usual, and to say at parting—and what memories the words awoke in the boy's mind!
"Good-bye, King Davie. Remember that is a name which need not end with this life. God grant that you may be worthy of it."