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Updated: May 13, 2025
"If you go on talking that way," his mother said to him, "people'll think you're demented mad!" "I wouldn't change my Uncle Matthew for the whole world," John stoutly replied. "No one's asking you to change him," Mrs. MacDermott retorted. "All we're asking you to do, is not to go about imitating him with his romantic talk!"
It was the life and death of Mary Queen of Scots. Not only was the tense, fidgety, over-American Mary Fuller transformed into a being who was a poppy and a tiger-lily and a snow-queen and a rose, but she and her company, including Marc Macdermott, radiated the old Scotch patriotism. They made the picture a memorial. It reminded one of Maurice Hewlett's novel The Queen's Quair.
He wished only to sit by his Uncle's bed and hold his Uncle's hand. "I'll go downstairs now for a wee while," Mrs. MacDermott said. "I have a few things to do, and John can call me if you need me, Matt!" "Aye, Hannah!" said Uncle Matthew. John looked up at his mother, but she had turned to leave the room, and he could not see her face.
MacDermott, drawing on her gloves in the hall before starting, noted with gratification that her nephew's breeches were well-cut and his stock neatly fastened. Johnny Gafferty could be heard outside the door speaking to the horses which he held ready. A telegraph boy arrived on a bicycle. He handed the usual orange envelope to Mrs. Mac-Dermott.
And I'm not going to deny myself the pleasure of a talk for the sake of an extra day or two!..." "Wheesht, Uncle Matthew!" John begged. "Why, son, what's there to cry about? I'm not afeard to die. No MacDermott was ever afeard to die, and I won't be the first to give in. Oh, dear, no!" "But you'll get better, Uncle Matthew, you will, if you'll only take care of yourself!..."
"Och ... busy!" he had explained. She had called to John, sitting with his mother in the stern, and demanded an explanation of the causes which prevented Uncle William from taking holidays like other people. "Sure, he likes work!" said John. "Nobody likes work to that extent," Eleanor replied, and then Mrs. MacDermott gave the explanation. "There's no one else but him to do it," she said.
I want it to be born at home!" "Och, what does it matter where it's born," John impatiently demanded, "so long as it is born?" "You fool!" said Mrs. MacDermott, and there was such scorn in her voice as John had never heard in any voice before. She turned away and would not speak to him again.
"What bothers me," she went on, "is how ever you get to know your neighbours!" "We don't get to know them," Hinde replied. "I've lived in this house for several years, but I don't know the names of the people on either side of it!" "My God," said Mrs. MacDermott, "what sort of people are you at all! Are you all fell out with each other?" "No. We're just not interested!"
There was a strange quietness in the house before the day of the burial, which was natural, but it was maintained after Uncle Matthew had been put in the grave where John's father lay. Uncle William's quick, loud voice became hushed and slow and sometimes inaudible, and Mrs. MacDermott went about her work with few words to anyone.
There are times when I long to throw up everything and run away into the country and meditate. Meditate! But one can't escape from the bonds of the body, Mr. MacDermott!" "Oh, no," John vaguely answered. "The world is too much for us ... poor, bewildered idealists, searching for the gleam and so often losing it.
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