The Storyteller

New Zealand Tablet, Volume XXXII, Issue 16, 21 April 1904, Page 23

The Storyteller

MOLLY'S EMIGRATION

It was a fortnight now since Maary Grady had come in and told her old motiher that she'd been to see Miss Ails-a at the big house, and that she was going to America with the next shipload of boys and girls who were leaving the glens to the old and infirm. She had told her resolve with a high head, and a crimsom cheek. Even before she spoke the motiher had known that something strange had come to little Molly who for many weeks before had gone about silent and pale, with tight lips anjd all the roundness of her face suddenly shrunken and disappeared. ' Ye couldn't stay and face it ? ' sai,d the old mother. 4 'Twould kill me, so it would,' said Molly, her new color ebbing away, to leave her deadly pale. ' All the neighbors know it. Sure, ,wasn't| it goin' on since we were at the infant school together ? I'll never stay to see them pitym' me.' • 'Tis himself needs to be pitied,' said the mother bitterly. ' A fine lad like him to be sel'lin' him>self for that woman's, money. Sorra mjuch comfort he'll have wid it. Sure, they s>ay her temper is< ' ' Never mind, another,' said the girl qaiietly. ' Don't let us talk about him any more. Sure 'tis little I'M be thinjkin' of him when I'm pickin' up gold in New York, anid sendin' it over to you. There'll be fine letters for you at the post office, mother acushla, and I'll never miss a mail.' The mother threw her apron over her face ttien, and sobbing inarticulately that she was the real gpld that was gDing away from them over the ocean, but :;ure Miss Ailba and the rest of them meant well, God help them, she abandoned herself to her grief. After that sfae made no attempt to keep the girl. It was so much a tradition that the boys and the girls should go and better themselves that she did not think of setting herself against it. And it was true that Molly was leaving behind her the curious glances of the neighbors, all the gossip and tittle-tattle there was about Dan Tobin having tihrown over little Molly Grady far Sarah Gilsenan, the rich spinster who had the fine farm at the cross. She would be no worse off than otiher neighbors who had to let their boys and girls go, although she said in her heart that none of them had a girl as pretty, as clever and hard-working, as kind as her Molly. Yet she had the sense to know that the other mothers would in all probability think the same. It had come now to the last morning of all. The little house by the roadside had never looked so .sweet and comfortable. All the valley and the hillsides were out in May green. The potatoes in the little garden looked flourishing ; the patch of oats beyond had sent up a great nlurwber of little spears. Scarcely any of the sowing had failed. The door of the cottage was open, and snapdragons awd wallflowers looked round the corner of the porch. The room was flooded with sun that caught the jugs of lustre ware on the dresser, and struck dazzling rays from them There was a cake in the pot-oven on the heartih, baking for Molly to take with her. Presently Johnny Maher, a neighbor's boy, would come with the ass-cart to fetch Molly's few things to the cross-roads, where they would meet the mail car for Drumglass. The little box, carefully corded up, stood by the ioor ; a few bundles leant forlornly against it. It might have been noticed that, as the mother and child talked, their eyes the box and the bundles. An old dog Iving in the sun watched his owners with miserable eyes, knowing, as a dog always knows, when a departure is toward. 1 I'll write by every mail,' said the girl for the hundredth time ' I'm not saying I won't be prou,d of the letters,' said the mot/her' heavily 'It won't be the same thing as your face in the door, asthoreen.' ' Sture, I'll be sending for you fine and soon.' ' I'm misdoubtin'. I"d be too old to change. 'Tis yourself will be coming back to me.' ' I'll never come biack,' said the girl passionately. ' Is it to have the finger of scorn pointed at me.' ' None could do that to my little girl. It isn't because another behaves bad that ' ' They wor all pitying me and nudging each other wheln I came in sight. Even in the chapel didn't I see them looking at me to see how I'd take it when the priest called him The glen isn't the same, mother. It 'ud never be the same again.' 1 Yet 'tis a Mnd and comfortable place,' said the mother.

Tfhei sound of the stream bowling met its stones reached them, and the warm scent of flowers came in through the open d oar way.

' I'm glad I'm leaving you now, not in the winter,' said the girl. ' Sure, mpybe before the winter comes I'll be sending you money for the passage. You've enough in the teapot to carry you on till I'll be sending, and it looks all for a good year. I never saw a better promise on the potatoes.' She got up restlessly, went to the doo>r, and looked out. Below her in the valley, around her on the hillsides, slie saw, the white houses, little and big, embowered in their trees and bushes. The valley was as green as the sea. ' I don't know that I ever saw the glen looking better,' she said. ' An' though I'm going of my own free will, 'tis many's the time I'll be thinking of you and it, and seeing it in my mind as it is to-day. 1 She turned away sharply. She had caught sight of the spire of the church, and had remembered that her false lover was to be married there in a week's time. For the time being the treachery arid wrong she had suffered had turned the most sacred associations into a cloud of pam and shame. ' I'll be. Hearing New York by then,' she said to herself, and then she smiled at the boy who had just drawn up his donkey-cart at the little g^te. ' Come, Johnny,' she said, ' we're waiting for you ; sure you know the mail car won't wait for us.' ' Plenty of time, Molly,' Johnny responded imperturbaibly, and indeed Molly had known that there was plenty of time. ' Ye''U have lots of time on the other side, never fear,' he said, as he took one end of the little tin trunk while Molly took the other. Johnny was by way of being a philosopher, and had no idea of how his sage remark made Widow Grady wince. Johnny was honestly envious of all tihose who went to seek their fortunes in America, and was very impatient for tine time to come when he himself should be sufficiently grown up to take that highway to freedom and fortune. Molly and her mother were to take a field path to the cross roads. It skirted a field of vetches, went along tihe bare upland of a turnip field, climbed through a little wood and over the spur of the hiW, and then down through a pasture field io the stile which brought you out at the cross roads. They were at the stile too early. The necessity for doing something had made them, as soon as the griddle cake was baked, lock up the house and start, with Shep at their heels, quite half-an-hour too soon. They sat down on a grassy bank and looked back the way they had come. The field was full of little clumps of cowslips, tall over the white and gold of daisies and buttercups that almost hid the green of the grass. The corn-crake was sawing away in the deep grass, and the little copse close by them was vocal with birds. Mrs. Grady was carrying the griddle cake, and a few fresh eggs in a tin box. She would not allow Molly to take them from her. ' Sure, God knows when I'll be doing anything for you ag|ain, child,' she had said * ' and 'tis tireder I'll be going back without them.' Now she had laid them beside her on the grass, as though she had felt the burden. ' You'll be making yourself an elegant cup of tea when you go back,' said Molly, looking at her uneasily. ' I wouldn't be caring for it much, alone,' said the mother. ' 'Tisn't the same as havin' one to talk to while ye sip it. Shep an' me'll be terrible lonesome. ' You won't be hearing that lad over there,' the motiher said again as the corncrake sawed. ' 'Tisn't likely in New York,' the girl answered. ' But sure maybe when I've made a bit, and yell come out to me, we'd be pushing on where we'd see a field again. I'm misdoubting it 'ud be as green as this.' ' 'Twon't be lonesome for you on the jaurney, Molly. You'll have Biddy Daly an' the Corrigan boys and Ahastasia Doyle and Julia Heffernan, an' the Crowes.' ' Indeed, 'twill be like the glen travelling out,' responded Molly. ; Excepting that 'tis the green ocean we'll have for the green fields. Ye won't be fretting toio much, mother ? ' ' I'll have them six dozen o' handkerchiefs to sprig, 1 said tine mother. ' I won't be able to sit looking at my fingers. And when them's done there'll be more to do. You used to lighten the work, Molly.' ' An' you'll ate your food ? You won't be thinking it too much trouble to be getting a bit to ate for yourself ? ' ' Sure, I'll have your share as well as my own,' said the mother, with a dreary pretence at gaiety. It was almost a relief when they heard the horn of the mail' car, and, standing side by side on the road where Johnny Maher had just arrived in the nick of

time, they saw it colme in sight, with Willie M'Groarty the ourly-haired driver, beaming encouragement at them.

Willie used to say that he'd rather face the devil himself than look on at the parting of the emigrants from those they were leaving behind. It was something he liked to hurry over with the best of intentions. But this time he had very little trouble.

The widow Grady and her daughter clung together for a moment in an lmipassioned embrace. They had the ufudemonstrativeness of their class, and the unustial demonstration did not last long. Molly was up on the car, Willie tucking her in with cushions as a mark of sympathy, in less time than the preliminaries of parting usually took. 4 Cheer up, ma'am,' said Willie to the widow, 'sure she'll be coming back to you hjung down with diamonds in less than no time.'

The horn sounded again. There was a rush and a clatter of hoofs, and the car rattled off along the straight ribbon of road, leaving Mrs. Gradyi and Johnnie alone in the middle of the road.

' I'd be carryin' you back if you like, ma'am,' said Johnnie. ' You seems tired.'

♦ No, thank you, Johnny, I'll walk,' she answered, turning from the urchin's serious gaze. ' I misdoubt,' she muttered to herself, ' that I'll ever be anything hut tired again in this world.' She climbed over the stile into the field. As she did so her foot knocked against something It was Molly's cake. There, too, was the little box of eggs. She lifted her hands in distress. For a moment she had a wild notion of running after the car, but recognising its futility, she just picked up the things and set out on her homeward walk.

The old dog lagged behind her as heavy-footed as she. Once she noticed him.

' 'Tisnt the same as when she was with us,' she said. ' Sure, issi't it a hard thing, Sihep, that the young must go an' only th' ould be left ? ' It was only ten in the morning still, and the day turned, round endlessly long. She had sbut her door with a feeling that she wanted no sympathy as yet. The day was so golden outside tihat enough light came through the little window for her to do her sprigging by. She could not afford to sit idle even though her brain felt dull alnd her neart numbed. She sat there putting in the stitches, and feeling that the light of the house had gone out of it, and would never return. Molly talked of her going out to her, but sure the old people didn't do that. It wouldn't be fair to the girsha, and even if she could do it, she doubted she'd stay long enough in it. She had never been a very strong woman, and of late she had been feeling that the wheels of life ran painfully for her. Woluld they not stop altogether when the spirit had so little will to keep them going ? Some time towards evening the dog came and put his head on her knee. He was Molly's dog ; and had been guven to her a puppy when she was a child. ' The poor beast's hungry and thirsty,' said Ihe mother, getting up and putting away the fine muslin she had been working upon. The day had gone intolerably slowly, yet she hardly seemed to live through it so benumbed she had felt. As she fed the dog she remembered that Molly abdut this hour would be on the big ship. It was to sail some time during the morning hours. To-monow every minute that passed would be taking Molly farther and farther away from her. Was Molly thinking of her now as she was thinking of Molly ? Sure it wouldn't be natural. The child was young and had the worlid before her 1 . She was among boys and girls she knew. They were talking of the grand new country they were going to. Sure she wouldn't have her feel like herself. Hadn't she kept it from her those last days ? .„ She woke with a start in the early morning So vivid had been her dreams that she thought she could yet hear the squish of the waves under the keel of the big ship as she glided out. She could see Molly s face looking at her over the side. Other mothers who had gone to Derry with their children had described it to her She wished now that she had not been said, by Molly, that she had gone too. Why if she had they would have been so many more houTS together. Hut Molly hod forbidden it, saying that she would not have her return alone. It was four o'clock and the sun was up, sparkling in a million dewdrops till the glen was like a sea of diamonds. The birds were all singing and she was desolately awake. It was no use to lie a-bed longer. .low did it come that she had slept daring those last hours of Molly's in Ireland ? Exhaustion, perhaps for she had forgotten to eat. There lay Molly's griddle cake and the box of eggs on the table side by side. She heard the goat crying, and remembered lhat she had forgotten to milk her. Before she did anything else she went out and drew the milk from the creature s

over-laden udders. She brought the milk in and covered it with a clean white cloth, as was her habit. Then she set to work to light the fire.

The habit of work helped her now. If her heart was broken it was no reason for being a sloven. So she swept the little room and dusted it, being conscious all the time of a numb pain which presently would grow more acute. Just now she could hardly ' refrain from speaking to Molly, and missing her, her eye would loam on to the doorway, looking for the bright head that had so often lit it up.

When she had all her preparations made it was still too early for breakfast. She sat down to her sprigging. The dog came and leant his head on her Jknee and looked a mute question at her. ' G«d help the dumb beast,' she said out loud, 'he wants her too.'

About seven o'clock she stood up and toumg her kettle to boil on the hook over the turf fire. She put a clean coarse cloth on the table, a cup and saucer, a little bit of salt butter, and Molly's griddle cake ; brown sugar in a tea-cup and a drop of the goat's milk at the bottom of a jug. She cut a slice of bread and gave it to the dog. ' I wonder if she'll ha' missed it, the creature,' she said. ' She'll be getting out to say now. I wish she'd had the eggs. I'll send them and a drop o' the goat's milk to Mrs. Gallagher at the glen-head. The childer oi her do be poorly, the creatures.' ' The kettle boiled and she made herself a oup of tea. As she lifted her head from putting the brown teapot in the ashes ' to draw ' she saw someone stand in the doorway. The someone hurled herself on to the widow's neck like a catapult, laughing and crying. ' Molly ! Glory be to God, is it Molly Grady is in it this day ? ' sobbed the mother. ' Ay, indeed, I've come back to you like a bad penny. An' I'll never leave you again, you foolish ould woman. I stayed the night in Derry, and I was waiting for Willie by the post office at four o'clock. Sure, his horse was the slowest I ever seen. I thought I'd never get back to you.' ' Ah, what came over you at all at adl ? ' said the motibei, holding her at arm's length to look into the happy face. Could it really be Molly who looked so pinchad since Dan Tobin had thrown her over for the wo imam with the farm. ' Sure it came over me while I heard them cryin and screechin' at the quayside what a great ould fool I was to be goin' on the world for Dan Tobin's sake, and I wid the best little mother in Christendom. Sure he's gone out of my mind this day the same as if I'd never seen him. 'Tis you I want and the little house,. aye, and She^p, th' ould rogue here, that's for atin' me. I'm come home the changedest girl you ever laid eyes on. But sure my box's gone to America.' ' What matter, jewel, so long as I have you ? '

' Glory to goodness the griddle cake's not gone too, an' the eggs. I could ate the boxful. Sure I was on the boat, the great big, ugly contrivance that it is, and whin I heard them screechin' I thought o' your little face, an' says Ito myself, here's one for home, anyhow So I slipped down the ladder again, letting on I wanted to speak to somebody, an' I walked quiet enough as long as they could see me, but the minit I was round the corner I took to my heels. And by the greatest luck in the world who did I knock up again h.ut Wilhe M'Groarty. He was coming to see me off, wid a little pot o' shamrock under his arm. So he took me to a kind woman he knows, an' I slep' there, an' was at the post office by four as he bid me> ' 'Twas the hour I woke and thought I heard the squish o' the water as the big ship moved out.' ' Takin' them poor foolish boys and girls wid it,' said Molly with conscious superiority. ' But I've had my fill of emigration. And now I'm famished. Set another cup, ma'am, for your daughter, and I'll ha^ve two eggs, if you please, Mrs. Grady.' A little later, when the second CUp of tea ha)d been finished and Molly was waiting for a third, she leant back in her chair reflectively, and said :

' T»hat Willie M'Groarty's a terrible nice boy, so he is. He'll likely be lookin' in to see how I got home.' 1 He'll be welcome,' said the widow, and a little light of ioy came into her tired eyes.— Katherine Tynan, in ' M.A.P.'