LITTLE KING DAVIE

OR

"Kings and priests unto God"

BY

NELLIE HELLIS

Author of "Little Gladness," "Roving Robin," "Bennie, the Bread-Winner," "Martin Drayton's Sin," "Rob and Ralph," etc.

ONE HUNDRED AND NINTH THOUSAND

INTER FOLIA FRUCTUS.

LONDON JARROLD & SONS, 10 & 11, WARWICK LANE, E.C.

[All Rights Reserved]

1897

TO THE

REV. WILLIAM JOHN KNOX-LITTLE.

CANON OF WORCESTER, ETC., TO WHOSE TEACHING SHE OWES MUCH, THE AUTHOR IS GLAD TO DEDICATE THIS LITTLE STORY, WHICH IS FOUNDED ON ONE OF HIS SERMONS. AND ON A CERTAIN INCIDENT IN HIS OWN LIFE.

CONTENTS.

CHAPTER.

I. DAVIE'S HISTORY

II. A DAY'S WORK AND ITS WAGES

III. DAVIE HEARS STRANGE NEWS

IV. IN THE HOSPITAL

V. DAVIE GAINS A NEW NAME

VI. A BITTER DISAPPOINTMENT

VII. THE LONGING REALIZED

VIII. HOME, SWEET HOME

IX. GOOD-BYE TO LONDON

LITTLE KING DAVIE

Or, "Kings and Priests unto God."

CHAPTER I.

DAVIE'S HISTORY.

IT was a cold uncomfortable evening in January. Certainly the frost of the last few days had broken up, but the raw chilliness that had come with the thaw was far more unpleasant than the sharp biting atmosphere of yesterday. To make it worse, a drizzling rain had set in at dusk, which, if not "soaking" in its effect, caused the passengers to feel damp and cold to their very bones, and made them hurry along on their several ways, regretful that the frost was over, and anxious to get home to a warm fireside as quickly as possible.

But it is an ill-wind that blows nobody any good, and this change in the weather was hailed with delight by one class, if by no other. While the frost had lasted, there had been no sweeping to do, and boys and girls (for to become a crossing-sweeper needs no apprenticeship, and age and size are of little consequence) were thankful enough when the thaw turned the hard frosty roads into streams of mud and gave them plenty of work once more.

Among those who had shouldered their brooms that morning, and had gladly gone forth to their old occupation again, was little Davie Scott. To look at him nobody would have thought he was twelve years old, nevertheless that was Davie's age. Poor little fellow! During the greater part of his life he had lived in a close, stifling street in Westminster, and want of fresh air and insufficiency of food had stunted his growth, and given to his face that old, pinched expression which is too common, alas! among the children of the poorer classes in the great metropolis.

With this, there is generally a look of something else—of slyness, of cunning, and of depravity—which comes from a life already inured to sin and hardened in evil doing. It is pitiful to see it; for, ignorant, untaught, often homeless, half-starved, and for the most part wholly uncared for, what wonder is it that our little street Arabs lead the lives they too often do? But Davie, although he swept a crossing, and, in order to gain a few pence, not unfrequently sang in the streets, was widely removed from this class of children. Poor as he was, in one thing he was rich; he was rich in the love of a good mother. There is no greater blessing than that. Indeed, it is such an influence for good that however adverse the surrounding circumstances, it rarely fails to produce a truthful and upright life in the child.

Mrs. Willis had been twice married. Davie was born during the lifetime of her first husband, who was a sober, industrious man, who thought nothing too good for the wife and little son, whom he loved so dearly, and for whom he worked so hard. Looking back upon past times, Mrs. Willis always regarded those four years of married life as a happy dream from which her husband's sudden death had rudely awakened her.

Davie, of course, had no recollection of his own father, but he had a clear, and by no means an agreeable one, of the man whom Mrs. Scott had accepted for her second husband. Poor woman! She never made a greater mistake than when she took James Willis "for better, for worse." It proved to be all "worse" and no "better." He was a drunkard, and the years that followed were such that Mrs. Willis always shuddered when she thought about them. She soon found that if she would not starve, she herself must earn the money for her own and Davie's support.

Indeed, Davie was a sore point between husband and wife. "He was no child of his, and she might keep him," he used fiercely to tell her. As for the boy himself, he was terribly afraid of his step-father—as he had reason to be—and on those rare occasions when James Willis was in the house, poor Davie would creep out and wander for hours in the streets.

It was while thus aimlessly loitering about one evening that he followed a stream of people into Westminster Abbey. That was the beginning of a new life for the boy. He had always been fond of music, a street-organ afforded him untold delight. And he was never tired of humming over the tunes that were thus taught him, for having heard them once, Davie's ear was sufficiently good to enable him to retain them correctly in his memory. But this music in the Abbey was unlike anything that he had ever listened to before. The voices that, clear, and rich, and sweet, rose high at times above the low tones of the organ, and again were all but drowned in the crash and the thunder that vibrated through the grand old building till the very roof seemed to echo to the sounds, thrilled him with delight and awe. Davie had never dreamt there "could" be anything half so beautiful.

After that, Davie, when driven by fear from home, betook himself to the Abbey; or if it were closed, he would walk about the streets till he found some other place of worship into which he could creep to hear the music. That was the chief attraction for Davie, though he often wondered what the preacher "was talking about." But if he tried to listen, he never understood. He knew, of course, in a vague childish way, that it was "all about God," and there his knowledge stopped. He had learnt so much at the school to which his mother, when she had a few pence to spare, would send him for a week or two. This, however, happened only at long intervals, and, to tell the truth, Davie was not sorry—to go with only half a dinner was a misfortune that did cause him grief, but to keep away from school was a matter of rejoicing. This irregular attendance was by no means conducive to rapid improvement, and consequently poor Davie was always drudging away in the lowest class.

Again, he hated to be obliged to sit still; he was so singularly active and lithe, and so accustomed to run wild in the streets, that this forced inaction was irksome in the extreme. The singing was the one thing that made it endurable, of course he liked that, and then, home he would go to sing to the baby the song he had just learnt—that is, if his step-father were not in. For Davie, his mother said, was "wonderful handy with a baby," and, when nothing else would do it, his voice would soothe its wailing cries and hush it to slumber.

So the years passed on until Davie was eleven. During that time two little children had been laid to rest in the cemetery, and their places taken by two others—twins—a boy and girl, who were named respectively Tom and Polly. They were only a few months old, when one day Mrs. Willis was hastily summoned to the hospital to which her husband had been carried, apparently lifeless. He had met with a fearful accident while under the influence of drink, and though severely injured, would doubtless have recovered, but the habit of years had so weakened and enfeebled his constitution, that it had no strength to bear up against the shock. For a week or two he lingered on, then for the second time, Mrs. Willis found herself a widow.

After his death, Mrs. Willis's life, though even harder than before, was, at any rate, peaceful and quiet. Davie did his utmost to help his mother. What she would have done without him, she did not know; she "would just have had to go to the house," she supposed. He "minded" the twins while she was at her work, he swept a crossing, and he sang in the streets. He did anything, in short, that was likely to bring in a penny. And then they loved each other so! Perhaps that was the greatest comfort of all to her, for, poor woman, she had not a friend in the world, and had it not been for Davie's love, she would indeed have felt lonely. Somehow, it gave her heart to struggle on.

Yet it grieved her that he was obliged to work so hard for her, and that she should never again be able to send him to school. He was a very intelligent boy, and she felt sure that if he had proper training, he would be able to earn his living in a very different way from that of sweeping a crossing. She taught him as much as she could, to be honest and truthful, and gentle in his speech and manner—"just as his father used to be," she would say to herself with a sigh—but more she could not teach him. "She" thought it was very little, but in reality it was a great deal; of a still higher and holier life she could tell him nothing, for she did not know herself.

So mother and son struggled on together until a year had passed since James Willis's death. During the summer months they had the greatest difficulty to make both ends meet, but now, in the depth of winter, it was terribly difficult to find the wherewithal to live. For days and days they were obliged to go with little food and less fire. Piece by piece the furniture had been taken to the pawnshop, and on that morning when Davie had gone to his crossing, with broom in hand, matters were so bad that it seemed impossible they could be worse. And that brings us back to the beginning of the story. But the history of that particular day, or rather evening, shall have a chapter to itself.

CHAPTER II.

A DAY'S WORK AND ITS WAGES.

ALL day long Davie had swept a crossing in Harley Street—he knew better than to sweep in a neighbourhood where the inhabitants were not rich—and in that long day's work had only earned fivepence-halfpenny. It was very little, less than he usually had, but there seemed no hope of getting more. The passengers were few on such a wretched night as this, and as it was eight o'clock, Davie came to the conclusion that he had better make his way home, and hope for better luck to-morrow.

Had he been more fortunate, he would have run quickly through the streets, but Davie's heart was heavy, and light feet never keep company with a heavy heart. So he went slowly on his way, wishing that he had more than four-pence-halfpenny in his pocket—he had been obliged to buy some bread with one of the pennies—and wondering what they "should" do if his mother had not been able to finish and take back the four pairs of trousers which she had had from a wholesale tailors' firm.

It was her business to sew on the buttons, make the button-holes, put in the lining and pockets, and, in fact, do everything except the machine work, which had been done before they were given to her. For the four pairs she would have one shilling and four pence. If she had taken back her work there would be a fire and a supper awaiting him on his return, but Davie doubted very much that any such pleasure was in store for him. His mother had been so ill during the last few days that she had often been obliged to put aside her work and lie down for an hour or two.

That morning she had been worse than usual, Davie could hardly bear to look at her, she seemed so weak and poorly. And forcing himself to speak cheerfully, he had told her "she wasn't to fret if she couldn't finish the trousers, for that he was sure he should come home with a heap of coppers in his pocket—enough to last them for ever so long." After such a speech it was dreadful to go back with only fourpence-halfpenny.

As Davie went slowly down Regent Street, his attention was attracted by the brilliant light that streamed from the windows of a church. It was not in Regent Street, but a few yards down a narrow turning that opened out into that main thoroughfare. Davie felt that he should like to go inside for a little while, away from the damp and the cold, but he doubted whether he should be allowed to do so, because of his broom. He might, however, be permitted to sit in the porch. It would be better than nothing, and perhaps he would hear some music. That would be something quite new again, for since Davie had regarded himself as a "family man,"—that is, that he had a mother and a baby brother and sister to think about and care for,—he had almost entirely given up going to the Abbey. To creep into the porch then and listen to the music would be quite a treat.

The outer door stood open, and stepping inside, Davie found himself in a large porch. There was a bench running round the walls, and upon this he seated himself, resolving that if nobody turned him out, he would remain to hear the hymn which, he had no doubt, would be sung at the close of the service. But he had not been there very many minutes before he became aware of another sound, the sound of a voice so clear and ringing that at times Davie almost caught the sense of the words as he sat there with the wall between him and it. Then it was so sweet that it quite fascinated him, and he forgot everything in listening intently to the musical vibrations that, from being scarcely distinguishable, rose and swelled till they thrilled him through and through. So absorbed was he in listening, and so bent upon catching every echo of the voice, that he was unconscious of the entrance of an old gentleman, who, on catching sight of the little crossing-sweeper, stopped abruptly in his hurried passage across the porch.

To creep into the porch and listen to the music would be quite a treat.

"My child, what are you doing there?"

The voice was not in the least sharp, nor was Davie an individual to be easily frightened, nevertheless he was considerably startled. The fact was, that for the moment he had almost forgotten his own existence. The question suddenly awoke him to a recollection of who he was, and where he was.

Starting to his feet, he gasped, "Please, sir, I was only a-listening to what the preacher was a-saying."

"But you can't hear out here, can you?"

"Yes, sir."

"What! Hear every word he says?"

"No, sir, not the words, 'tis the sound of it, the roll of it like, that I was a-listening to." Then emboldened by the kind look that was bent upon him, he added, "Please, sir, I may stay, mayn't I?"

"If you like, you may, but why don't you go inside?"

"I've got my broom, sir, and I thought as how they wouldn't let me go in with that!"

"Well, then, leave it outside."

Leave it outside! No, that would be most unwise. It might be stolen or get lost in some way. Davie's broom was his friend. Once lose it, and he did not know how he should get another, for brooms cost money, and money was very, very scarce. The gentleman saw that he and his property were not to be parted.

"Would you really like to come inside?" he asked kindly.

"Yes, sir, just," and Davie having now thoroughly recovered his self-possession, raised a pair of bright brown eyes to the questioner. Perhaps they, even more than his words, told the gentleman that he was in earnest.

"Come in with me then. If you behave yourself properly, there is no reason why you should not, broom or no broom."

And with that, he turned towards the door, while Davie, in a state of eager expectation, followed closely behind.

What a crowd, to be sure! Nothing but heads, heads, heads, and above the heads, far away at the other end of the church, looking down upon the people from the pulpit, was the preacher. His face was very pale, almost as white as the surplice he wore, and he had large black eyes that fixed themselves upon his hearers as if he would read their very thoughts. All this Davie took in at a single glance, and it seemed to the boy that as he came into the church the black eyes fixed themselves upon him and watched him as he followed his guide—with difficulty, for every available space was crowded with listeners—to a corner under the gallery.

"If you like to stand, you will be able to see as well as hear," whispered the old gentleman, pointing to a vacant seat upon a bench. It was a great wonder that it was vacant, but it was just in the corner, and in such a dark corner too that no doubt it had been overlooked.

"Now, if you'll give me your broom," he continued, "I'll put it under here for you; you won't inconvenience anybody with it then."

So saying he put the broom under the bench, and giving a hand to Davie, assisted him to mount.

CHAPTER III.

DAVIE HEARS STRANGE NEWS.

AND now Davie, instead of being below, was above the heads of most of the congregation, and from his little dark corner under the gallery had a capital view of the whole scene—of the brilliantly lighted church, of the great organ with its golden pipes far away out yonder, of the crowds of people, some standing, some sitting, and above all, of that wonderful face in the pulpit, with the large black eyes that looked straight and full into his. They made Davie feel quite uncomfortable; he was glad when, after a minute or two, they removed their gaze to some other part of the church, for then, free from their fascination, he could listen with delight to the musical tones of the voice that rang from one end of the building to the other.

Then gradually his attention was drawn to the subject of the preacher's sermon. So simple was the language in which it was couched, that, to his surprise, Davie found that he understood almost everything that was said. In that discovery, he forgot the "music" of the voice—except inasmuch as its sweetness made him feel happy in a half-unconscious manner—and began to follow the words. Then by degrees he grew breathless with interest, and listened eagerly to every syllable.

The words that the preacher repeated most constantly were these: "Unto Him that loved us and washed us from our sins in His own blood, and hath made us kings and priests unto God and His Father; to Him be glory and dominion for ever and ever. Amen."

As Davie not unnaturally and correctly supposed, they were the text. He knew too who was meant by "Him that loved us and washed us from our sins in His own blood," though as for understanding it, or in any way thinking that it had a personal reference to him or to any of his acquaintances, Davie did not. "Religion" was a mystery which no doubt the rich people who had money to spend and time to spare, could comprehend easily enough. It was not for "the likes of him," he thought, and consequently he had never troubled himself with the subject.

But this clergyman was talking as nobody else had ever done. He made Davie feel somehow as if he had known Him—the gentle, patient "Man in God," who had been poor, and friendless, and homeless, who had suffered hunger and thirst, who had remained night after night on the cold, bleak mountain top, and who had finally been put to a cruel and painful death.

"And all this He would have done," went on the preacher, "to purchase the life of any single one of us here to-night, ay, for the poorest, most wretched man, or woman, or child, in this vast city of London. But He did not rest satisfied with having bought us with the price of His own blood, with having spent long years of poverty and toil that He might know our sorrows and understand our griefs. No, He did more than that—He made us 'kings and priests unto God!' O think of the grandeur of it, think of the greatness!