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.
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