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."
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