Wee MacGreegor (The Idler, 1903)/Heart's Desire

ACGREGOR had slept in, but he entered his grandparents' kitchen without hesitation or apology, for he knew the lenient ways of the old people.

They had finished breakfast, and were seated on either side of the hearth, Mr. Purdie beaming gaily at his spouse, and she smiling back at him happily, though with wet eyes. Mr. Purdie held a letter in his right hand and a telegram in his left, and as the boy appeared he was saying:—

"Dod, ay, auld wife; I'll read them again to please ye."

"Oh, here Macgreegor!" said Mrs. Purdie, hastily wiping her eyes. "Come awa', dearie. I thocht I wud let ye get yer sleep oot, so I didna wauken ye."

"Ay, here he comes wi' as mony feet 's a hen!" cried the old man, jovially. "Guid mornin' to yer nicht-cap, Macgreegor!"

Greetings over, Mr. Purdie drew his grandson close to him, and, smiling broadly, said:—

"I've a fine bit o' news fur ye, ma mannie. Whit dae ye think it is, eh?"

"I'm to get an egg to ma breakfast, Granpaw?"

"'Deed, ay; ye're gaun to get an egg, dearie," put in his grandmother. "I'm jist gettin' yer breakfast ready fur ye. But yer Granpaw's got some rale nice news fur ye." And Mrs. Purdie, tremulous with partly suppressed excitement and emotion, set about preparing the youngster's place at table.

"Whit is it, Granpaw?" inquired Macgregor. "Am I to get the wee dug hame wi' me?" He referred to a puppy which a friend of the Purdies had offered him a couple of days before, the offer being subject to his parents' approval, for which his grandfather had promised to write. "Am I to get the wee dug?" he repeated eagerly. "Dis Paw say I can tak' it hame to Glesca?"

"Ah, we'll see aboot the wee dug anither time," said the old man. "It's faur finer news that I've got fur ye the day. Ye've got a wee brither, Macgreegor!" Mr. Purdie chuckled with delight and lay back in his chair to watch the effect of the announcement.

"I hivna," said Macgregor, not understanding. "Ay, but it's true, laddie. Ye—ye jist got him yesterday. Here a letter frae yer Paw tellin' us aboot it, an' at the end yer Paw says: 'Tell Macgreegor he's got a wee brither noo.'"

"Is't a new baby ye mean?" asked Macgregor at last.

"Jist that—a baby brither," Mr Purdie replied.

"A baby brither," echoed Mrs. Purdie in a voice of softened jubilation. "Ye'll be a prood laddie noo, Macgreegor!"

The boy did not reply immediately. He broke the silence with the curt question—"Is't an awfu' wee yin?"

His grandfather laughed. "I suppose it'll jist be the usual size, ma mannie."

"Usual size!" cried Mrs. Purdie, suddenly indignant. "Dis John no' say in his letter that the doctor said he never seen a splendider baby?"

"So he did," admitted her husband humbly. "He's a fine big yin ye're wee brither, Macgreegor," he added, as if to reassure the youngster.

"Hoo big?"

"Aw, I canna tell ye that. But yer Granmaw's gaun to Glesca the day, an' she'll be comin' back the morn's nicht wi' a' the news aboot yer wee brither."

"I hope it's bigger nor Jeannie wis when she wis new. She wis awfu' wee—an' when she grat, she wis jist like a wee monkey wi' a rid face."

"Ye wis like that yersel' yinst," interposed Mrs. Purdie, endeavouring to conceal her annoyance at her grandson's lack of appreciation. "Come awa' an' tak' yer breakfast noo, fur I maun get ready fur the road."

"Did ye bile ma egg herd?" inquired Macgregor as he seated himself at the table. "I dinna like egg when it's driddly."

"Ay; I biled it herd. Are ye no' gaun to ask a blessin' afore ye tak' the tap aff?"

Macgregor continued tapping the top of the egg with his spoon until the fragments of shell could be removed. Then he dug out a spoonful of white and peered in at the yolk.

"Ay; it's herd," he observed in a tone of satisfaction, and, bowing his head, remained still and silent for about ten seconds. Looking up, he inquired, "D'ye think I'll get takin' hame the wee dug, Granpaw?"

"We'll see, we'll see," Mr. Purdie returned evasively.

His grandmother looked at him reproachfully ere she left the kitchen to make some preparations for the journey from Rothesay to Glasgow. "I thocht ye wud ha'e been thinkin' mair o' yer wee brither nor a bit dug, dearie," she said gently.

Macgregor looked uncomfortable, but continued eating, casting an occasional glance at his grandfather, who had taken up the morning paper.

"Granpaw," he began at last, "did Paw no' say onythin' aboot the wee dug in the letter?"

Mr. Purdie shook his head.

"Nor in the—the telegraph?"

"Na, na, laddie. Ye see, yer Paw wud be that tooken up wi' yer wee brither, he wudna be mindin' aboot the wee dug. Ye can speir at him an' yer Maw aboot it when ye gang hame."

"But I ken they baith like dugs. I wis to ha'e gotten yin last year, but it got rin ower when the man wis bringin' it to wur hoose."

"That wis an unco peety," Mr. Purdie remarked sympathetically, from the midst of a violent letter to the editor on the fiscal question. "An unco peety," he repeated absently.

"D'ye no' think Paw an Maw wud be rale pleased if I wis takin' the wee dug hame wi' me? It wud gi'e them a nice surprise, an' it wud gaird the hoose fine. Eh?"

"Whit wis ye sayin', ma mannie?" said the old man, without impatience, laying the newspaper on his knee.

Macgregor put a spoonful of egg in his mouth, and repeated his query and argument, adding: "An' I wud ca' it Joseph."

"Efter Maister Joseph Chamberlain?" said Mr. Purdie, looking amused.

"Wha's he? I dinna ken him. I meant wee Joseph—him that's lyin' badly. He's the laddie that thocht there wis monkeys at Rothesay, an' wantit me to bring him hame some partins frae the shore. D'ye no' mind aboot him?"

"Fine, fine. An' is the puir laddie nae better yet?"

"Naw. But he wud be gey prood to ha'e ma wee dug ca'ed efter him. He yinst ca'ed a wheen white mice efter me. But I wisna heedin' muckle aboot that."

"It wis maybe no' vera complimentary."

"Whit?"

"I said it wis may be no' vera complimentary, Macgreegor. But never heed that. Ha'e ye had plenty to eat?"

"Ay. I'm dune noo," Macgregor replied, leaving the table. "Are we gaun ootbye noo?"

"Rest ye a wee, an' then we'll gang an' see yer Granmaw awa' in the boat?"

"An' efter that we'll gang an' see the wee dug. Eh, Granpaw?"

Before Mr. Purdie could reply, his wife returned and set to work to tidy the kitchen. "Mistress McTavish'll luk efter the hoose till I get back," she said to her husband. "Leave yer check-key wi' her at nicht, an' she'll come in in the mornin' an' licht the fire an' mak' the breakfast." "An obleegin' neebour's a mercy," remarked Mr. Purdie. "Macgreegor an' me'll mind aboot the key."

"See, dearie," said Mrs. Purdie to her grandson, who was busy twisting out the button of a hassock on which he sat by the hearth, "ye micht cairry the dishes frae the table to the jaw-box, fur it's gaun to tak' me a' ma time to catch the boat."

Macgregor sprang up, and did his best to assist his grandmother, for he had a feeling that he had offended her in some way. Moreover, he was going to ask a favour of her.

But, somehow, when, half-an-hour later, he was bidding her good-bye on the pier, he could not manage to put his desire into words, and she sailed away without the urgent message he had intended sending to his parents.

"Weel, whit wud ye like to dae noo?" inquired Mr. Purdie, as they moved shorewards. "It's ower cauld the day fur sittin' ootbye, but we micht tak' a wee walk afore we gang hame. In the efternune we'll hap wursel's weel, an' tak' a ride in the caur to Port Bannatyne. Wud ye like that, Macgreegor?"

"Ay, Granpaw. But wull we no' gang an' see Joseph noo?"

"Wha?"

"Joseph—ma wee dug."

"Toots, laddie, ye're gaun ower quick!" said the old man, good-humouredly.

Macgregor slackened his already easy pace. "I furgot ye wisna as soople as me," he said kindly.

"I didna mean walkin' ower quick, ma mannie," returned Mr. Purdie, touched by the youngster's consideration. "I meant ye wis makin' up yer mind ower quick aboot the dug."

"Whit wey that?"

"Aweel, ye see, I'm no' jist shair ye can get takin' the beastie hame wi' ye. Wud it no' be best to wait till ye get word frae yer Paw?"

"But I want to gi'e him an' Maw a fine surprise. I tell't ye they liket dugs. An' if they didna want the wee dug they wud ha'e pit it in the letter."

"Weel, weel, that's dootless yin wey o' lukin' at it," admitted Mr. Purdie, feeling rather perplexed. "But—but, ye see, laddie, ye—ye've got a wee brither noo."

"But he'll ower wee to hurt the dug, an' I wudna let Joseph bite him, Granpaw."

"I'm shair ye wudna. But a' the same, I doot it wudna dae to ha'e a beast in the hoose the noo."

"We had a cat when Jeannie wis new."

"Had ye?"

"Ay, had we!"

"But a cat disna mak' a noise, laddie," said Mr. Purdie, groping for arguments; "an' ye canna keep a dug quate—can ye?"

"A dug disna mak' near the noise a new wean dis. I'm shair I wud keep Joseph quate, Granpaw. Wull we gang an' see him noo?"

"Aweel, we'll gang an' see him fur twa three meenits; but, mind, ye mauna set yer hert on the beastie, laddie, fur I doot ye'll no' get takin' him hame to Glesca."

"Wait, an' ye'll see," returned Macgregor, to whom a happy thought had just occurred. "I'm gaun to write a letter to Paw."

"'Deed, ay. He'll be prood to get a letter frae his big laddie," said the old man heartily.

"Wull ye help me to spell it, Granpaw?" the other asked, at the end of a longish silence.

"I'll dae ma best, but ma spellin's no' whit it used to be."

In a little while they reached the house of Mr. Purdie's friend, and Macgregor fell deeper in love than ever with the puppy, being quite convinced that it answered to Joseph."

Whenever the obliging Mrs. McTavish had cleared the kitchen table of the remains of the simple dinner, Macgregor perched himself on a chair and laid several sheets of paper before him.

"Are ye gaun to write it wi' a pincil!" asked his grandfather.

"Ay. I've got a bew pincil. Paw'll like that fine. The last time I wrote to him, I dune it wi' a rid yin. It wis when I was bidin' wi' you. But I can write faur better noo, an' I dinna need to kneel on the chair. Hoo dae ye spell fayther? I ca' him that in writin'."

Mr. Purdie spelt that word and several others to the best of his ability; and the boy, whose tongue made nearly as many movements as his fingers, completed—after several abortive attempts—an epistle which gave him the highest satisfaction, and caused his elderly companion to pat him on the back and to say, in the kindliest voice: "Weel dune, weel dune, Macgreegor!"

Omitting the address and the date, the letter read as follows:—

",—I am quite well and hope you are and so is mother and Jeeny and the litle new baby. There is a we dog. I want it. Can I get takeing him home. It is a beutifull dog and he will gard the house for theifs. It is a fine day. He ansers to Joseph. Please right soon.
 * "Your dear sun,

As speedily as Macgregor could hurry Mr. Purdie forth—the old man missed his accustomed nap—the letter was taken to the post, after which the twain took the car to Port Bannatyne.

Next evening Mrs. Purdie was home again, full of thankfulness for her daughter and overflowing with pride in her new grandson.

"They're baith jist daein' splendid," she exclaimed again and again, while her husband nodded his head and beamed his satisfaction.

Macgregor, waiting for the evening post—for his grandmother had delivered no message, save that of love, to him—listened patiently to the eulogies on his newest near relation, and promised half-a-dozen times to be a shining example and unwearying protector to the latter.

But when the post came at last, there was no letter for him.

It was not until bedtime that Mrs. Purdie recollected that she had a message from his father after all.

"I'm unco vexed I furgot to tell ye it the first thing, dearie. Yer Paw wis rale pleased and prood to get yer letter, but he hadna time to write back. He's gey thrang the noo. But ye're to gang hame the morn, so ye'll see him then, dearie. Ye're needit to help them in the hoose, an', furbye that, they're missin' ye sair. Wee Jeannie's wi' Mistress McFaurlan. So yer Granpaw'll tak' ye to Glesca the morn's mornin'. Noo, it's time ye wis in yer beddy-ba', or wud ye like a piece first?"

Macgregor shook his head. "Did—did ma Paw no' say onythin' aboot Joseph?"

"Wha, dearie?"

"Joseph—ma wee dug."

Mrs. Purdie looked at her husband for help.

"Macgreegor, ma mannie," said Mr. Purdie gently, "I'm near as vexed as ye cud be yersel', but yer Paw says ye mauna tak' the beastie hame wi' ye."

The youngster restrained himself—at anyrate [sic], until he was alone.

Mr. Purdie had a decidedly sulky travelling companion the following forenoon, and was genuinely grieved as well as surprised when the latter refused his offer of a bottle of lemonade on board the steamer.

"Never heed, Macgreegor, never heed," he repeated frequently, but the boy did not seem to hear him.

After a dismal journey they reached the Robinson's abode, and, it being the dinner hour, John himself opened the door to them.

Possibly Macgregor remembered his home-coming after the first appearance of his little sister Jeannie, but on that occasion he had returned very home-sick and without a regret after an absence of several weeks, and had dropped into the free arm of his mother with a sob of relief. But now, he had been away but a few days, and

"Weel, Maister Purdie! Weel, Macgreegor!" said John, cordially, but not boisterously. "Come ben, come ben. Yer Maw's wearyin' fur ye, laddie," he whispered to his son.

"Whit wey" began the boy, and halted, for there seemed to be something unfamiliar about his father. "Whaur's Maw?" he asked, suddenly, as he caught a glimpse of a strange elderly woman walking across the kitchen with a white bundle in her arms. "Whaur's Maw?" he repeated, anxiously.

John whispered something to his father-in-law, who nodded gravely, and stepped softly into the kitchen.

"Come wi' me, Macgrcegor, ma son," said his father, taking his hand.

And presently Macgregor was in the parlour, which now looked so queer as a bedroom that he clean forgot everything else and stared amazed till he saw somebody on the bed smiling and beckoning to him.

"Canny noo, ma mannie," whispered his father, "canny noo."

With a sore lump in his throat and a half-choked cry at his lips, Macgregor reached his mother's arms.

"Are ye no' weel, Maw?" he sobbed. Never in his life had he felt so sad.

"Ma dear wee laddie," murmured Lizzie, and began to comfort him.

John tried to smile on his wife and first-born, but failed miserably, and stole noiselessly from the room.