“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.”