The next morning Mr McQueen went to Mr Conroy and paid the rent. Then
he said, "This is the last rent I'll be paying you, Mr Conroy!"
Mr Conroy was surprised. "What do you mean by that?" he said.
"I mean that I'm going to leave old Ireland," said Mr McQueen.
"Well, now!" cried Mr Conroy. "To think of a sensible man like
yourself leaving a good farm to go off, dear knows where! And you not
knowing what you'll do when you get there as like as any way! I thought
you had better sense, McQueen."
"It's because of my better sense that I'm going," said Mr McQueen.
"Faith, do you think I'd be showing the judgment of an old goat to stay
where every penny I can get out of the land I have to pay back in rent?
I'm going to America where there'll be a chance for myself."
"I thought Michael Malone would be sowing the seeds of discontent in
this parish, with his silk hats and his grand talk," said Mr Conroy
angrily, "but I didn't think you were the fish to be caught with fine
words!"
"If the seeds of discontent have been sown in this parish, Terence
Conroy," said Mr McQueen, "'tis you and the likes of you that have
ploughed and harrowed the ground ready for them! Do you think we're
wishful to be leaving our old homes and all our friends? But 'tis you
that makes it too hard entirely for people to stay. And I can tell you
that if you keep on with others as you have with me, raising the rent
when any work is done to improve the farm, you'll be left in time with
no tenants at all. And then where will you be yourself, Terence
Conroy?"
Mr Conroy's face was red with anger, but he said, "While I'm not
needing you to teach me my duty, I will say this, McQueen. You're a
good farmer, and I hate to see you do a foolish thing for yourself. If
you'll stay on the farm, I'll not raise the rent on you."
"You're too late, altogether," said Mr McQueen; "and as you said
yourself I'm not the fish to be caught with fine words. I know better
than to believe you. I'll be sailing from Queenstown in two weeks'
time."
And with that he stalked out of the room and slammed the door, leaving
Mr Conroy in a very bad state of mind.
All that Larry and Eileen could remember of the next two weeks was a
queer jumble of tears and good-byes, of good wishes and blessings, and
strange, strange feelings they had never had before. Their Mother went
about with a white face and red eyes, and their Father was very silent
as he packed the few household belongings they were to take with them to
their new home.
At last the great day came. The McQueens got up very early that
morning, ate their potatoes and drank their tea from a few cracked and
broken dishes which were to be left behind. Then, when they had tidied
up the hearth and put on their wraps ready to go, Mrs McQueen brought
some water to quench the fire on the hearth. She might almost have
quenched it with her tears. And as she poured the water upon the ashes
she crooned this little song [see Note 1] sadly to herself:--
"Vein of my heart, from the lone mountain
The smoke of the turf will die.
And the stream that sang to the young children
Run down alone from the sky--
On the doorstone, grass--and the
Cloud lying
Where they lie
In the old country."
Mr McQueen and the Twins stood still with their bundles in their hands
until she had finished and risen from her knees, then they went quietly
out the door, all four together, and closed it after them.
Mrs McQueen stooped to gather a little bunch of shamrock leaves which
grew by the doorstone, and then the McQueen family was quite, quite
ready for the long journey.
Mr Maguire had bought Colleen and the cows, and he was to have the few
hens that were left for taking the McQueen family to the train.
Larry and Eileen saw him coming up the road, "Here comes Mr Maguire
with the cart!" they cried, "and Dennis is driving the jaunting-car with
Michael and Grannie on it."
They soon reached the little group by the roadside, and then the luggage
was loaded into the cart. Mrs McQueen got up with Grannie on one side
of the jaunting-car and Eileen sat between them. Michael and Mr
McQueen were on the other side with Larry. The small bags and bundles
were put in the well of the jaunting-car.
"Get up!" cried Dennis, and off they started. Mrs McQueen looked back
at the old house, and cried into her new shawl. Grannie was crying,
too. But Michael said, "Wait until you see your new home, and sure,
you'll be crying to think you weren't in it before!" And that cheered
them up again, and soon a turn in the road hid the old house from their
sight forever.
The luggage was heavy, and Colleen was slow. So it took several hours
to reach the railroad. It took longer, too, because all the people in
the village ran out of their houses to say good-bye. When they passed
the schoolhouse, the Master gave the children leave to say good-bye to
the Twins. He even came out to the road himself and shook hands with
everybody.
But for all that, when the train came rattling into the station, there
they all were on the platform in a row ready to get on board. When it
stopped, the guard jumped down and opened the door of a compartment. He
put Grannie in first, then Mrs McQueen and the Twins. They were
dreadfully afraid the train would start before Mr McQueen and Michael
and all the luggage were on board.
It was the first time Grannie had ever seen a train, or the Twins
either. But at last they were all in, and the guard locked the door.
Larry and Eileen looked out of the window and waved their hands to Mr
Maguire and Dennis. The engine whistled, the wheels began to turn, and
above the noise the Twins heard Dennis call out to them, "Sure, I'll be
coming along to America myself some day."
"We'll be watching for you," Eileen called back.
Then they passed the station, and were soon racing along over the open
fields at what seemed to poor Grannie a fearful rate of speed.
"Murder! murder!" she screamed. "Is it for this I left my cabin? To be
broken in bits on the track like a piece of old crockery! Wirra, wirra,
why did I ever let myself be persuaded at all? Ochanee, but it is
Himself has the soothering tongue in his mouth to coax his old Mother
away for to destroy her entirely!"
Michael laughed and patted her arm, and "Whist now," he said, "sure, I'd
never bring you where harm would come to you, and that you know well.
Look out of the window, for 'tis the last you'll be seeing of old
Ireland."
Grannie dried her eyes, but still she clung to Michael's arm, and when
the train went around a curve she crossed herself and told her beads as
fast as she could.
The Twins were not frightened. They were busy seeing things. And
besides, Larry had Grannie's piece of coal in his pocket. From the
window they caught glimpses of distant blue hills, and of lakes still
more blue. They passed by many a brown bog, and many a green field with
farmers and farmers' wives working in them. The hillsides were blue
with blossoming flax, and once they passed a field all spread with white
linen bleaching in the sun.
They flew by little towns with queer names, like Ballygrady and
Ballylough, and once when they were quite near Cork they saw the towers
of Blarney Castle.
At last the train rattled into a great station. There was so much noise
from puffing engines and rumbling trucks and shouting men, that the
Twins could only take hold of their Mother's hands and keep close behind
their Father as he followed Michael, with Grannie clinging to him, to
another train. Then there were more flying fields, and a city and more
fields still, until they reached Queenstown.
The next thing they knew they were walking across a gangplank and on to
a boat. The Twins had never seen anything larger than a rowboat before,
and this one looked very big to them, though it was only a lighter.
This lighter was to carry luggage and passengers from the dock to the
great steamer lying outside the harbour in the deep water of the main
channel.
When they were all safely on board the lighter, and Michael had counted
their bundles to be sure they had not lost anything, the Twins and their
Father and Mother, with Michael and Grannie, stood by the deck rail and
looked back at the dock. It was crowded with people running to and fro.
There were groups of other emigrants like themselves, surrounded by
great piles of luggage--waiting for the next lighter, for one boat would
not carry all who wanted to go.
There were many good-byes being said and many tears falling, and in the
midst of all the noise and confusion the sailors were loading tons of
barrels and bags and boxes and trunks on board the ship.
There was no friend to see them off, but when they saw people crying all
about them, the Twins cried a little, too, for sympathy, and even Mr
McQueen's eyes were red along the rims.
At last the gangplanks were drawn in, and the cables thrown off. The
screws began to churn the green water into white foam, and the boat
moved slowly out of the harbour.
The Twins and their Father and Mother, with Grannie and Michael, stood
by the rail for a long time, and watched the crowd on the pier until it
grew smaller and smaller, and at last disappeared entirely from sight
around a bend in the Channel.
They stood there until the lighter reached the great ship that was
waiting to take them across the water to a new world.
And when at last they were safely on board, and the lighters had gone
back empty into the harbour, they stood on the wide deck of the ship,
with their faces turned toward Ireland, until all they could see of it
in the gathering dusk was a strip of dark blue against the eastern sky,
with little lights in cottage windows twinkling from it like tiny stars.
Then they turned their faces toward the bright western sky.
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Note 1. Copyright of this poem by Herbert Trench, held by John Lane.