“You don’t know, Barry—you can never know how good that woman has been to me; indeed all of them—and all for nothing. They’ve asked nothing of me, and now that they know I’m dying, I’m sure they expect nothing from me. She has enough; but I wish to leave something to Martin, and the girls;” and a slight pale blush covered her wan cheeks and forehead as she mentioned Martin’s name. “I will leave him five hundred pounds, and them the same between them. It will be nothing to you, Barry, out of the whole; but see and pay it at once, will you?” and she looked kindly into his face.
He promised vehemently that he would, and told her not to bother herself about a will: they should have the money as certainly as if twenty wills were made. To give Barry his due, at that moment, he meant to be as good as his word. Anty, however, told him that she would make a will; that she would send for a lawyer, and have the matter properly settled.
“And now,” she said, “dear Barry, may God Almighty bless you—may He guide you and preserve you; and may He, above all, take from you that horrid love of the world’s gold and wealth. Good bye,” and she raised herself up in her bed—“good bye, for the last time, my own dear brother; and try to remember what I’ve said to you this day. Kiss me before you go, Barry.”
Barry leaned over the bed, and kissed her, and then crept out of the room, and down the stairs, with the tears streaming down his red cheeks; and skulked across the street to his own house, with his hat slouched over his face, and his handkerchief held across his mouth.
Anty was a good deal exhausted by her interview with her brother, but towards evening she rallied a little, and told Jane, who was sitting with her, that she wanted to say one word in private, to Martin. Jane was rather surprised, for though Martin was in the habit of going into the room every morning to see the invalid, Anty had never before asked for him. However, she went for Martin, and found him.
“Martin,” said she; “Anty wants to see you alone, in private.”
“Me?” said Martin, turning a little red. “Do you know what it’s about?”
“She didn’t say a word, only she wanted to see you alone; but I’m thinking it’s something about her brother; he was with her a long long time this morning, and went away more like a dead man than a live one. But come, don’t keep her waiting; and, whatever you do, don’t stay long; every word she spakes is killing her.”
Martin followed his sister into the sick-room, and, gently taking Anty’s offered hand, asked her in a whisper, what he could do for her. Jane went out; and, to do her justice sat herself down at a distance from the door, though she was in a painful state of curiosity as to what was being said within.
“You’re all too good to me, Martin,” said Anty; “you’ll spoil me, between you, minding every word I say so quick.”