“No, Barry,” said she; “I’ll not do that; as they’re so very, very kind as to let me stay here, I’ll remain till—till God takes me to himself. But they’re not my flesh and blood”—and she turned round and looked affectionately in the face of her brother—“there are only the two of us left now; and soon, very soon you’ll be all alone.” Barry felt very uncomfortable, and wished the interview was over: he tried to say something, but failed, and Anty went on—“when that time comes, will you remember what I say to you now?—When you’re all alone, Barry; when there’s nothing left to trouble you or put you out—will you think then of the last time you ever saw your sister, and—”
“Oh, Anty, sure I’ll be seeing you again!”
“No, Barry, never again. This is the last time we shall ever meet, and think how much we ought to be to each other! We’ve neither of us father or mother, husband or wife.—When I’m gone you’ll be alone: will you think of me then—and will you remember, remember every day—what I say to you now?”
“Indeed I will, Anty. I’ll do anything, everything you’d have me. Is there anything you’d wish me to give to any person?”
“Barry,” she continued, “no good ever came of my father’s will.”—Barry almost jumped off his chair as he heard his sister’s words, so much did they startle him; but he said nothing.—“The money has done me no good, but the loss of it has blackened your heart, and turned your blood to gall against me. Yes, Barry—yes—don’t speak now, let me go on;—the old man brought you up to look for it, and, alas, he taught you to look for nothing else; it has not been your fault, and I’m not blaming you—I’m not maning to blame you, my own brother, for you are my own”—and she turned round in the bed and shed tears upon his hand, and kissed it.—“But gold, and land, will never make you happy,—no, not all the gold of England, nor all the land the old kings ever had could make you happy, av the heart was bad within you. You’ll have it all now, Barry, or mostly all. You’ll have what you think the old man wronged you of; you’ll have it with no one to provide for but yourself, with no one to trouble you, no one to thwart you. But oh, Barry, av it’s in your heart that that can make you happy—there’s nothing before you but misery—and death—and hell.” Barry shook like a child in the clutches of its master—“Yes, Barry; misery and death, and all the tortures of the damned. It’s to save you from this, my own brother, to try and turn your heart from that foul love of money, that your sister is now speaking to you from her grave.—Oh, Barry! try and cure it. Learn to give to others, and you’ll enjoy what you have yourself.—Learn to love others, and then you’ll know what it is to be loved yourself. Try, try to soften that hard heart. Marry at once, Barry, at once, before you’re older and worse to cure; and you’ll have children, and love them; and when you feel, as feel you must, that the money is clinging round your soul, fling it from you, and think of the last words your sister said to you.”
The sweat was now running down the cheeks of the wretched man, for the mixed rebuke and prayer of his sister had come home to him, and touched him; but it was neither with pity, with remorse, nor penitence. No; in that foul heart there was no room, even for remorse; but he trembled with fear as he listened to her words, and, falling on his knees, swore to her that he would do just as she would have him.
“If I could but think,” continued she, “that you would remember what I am saying—”
“Oh, I will, Anty: I will—indeed, indeed, I will!”
“If I could believe so, Barry—I’d die happy and in comfort, for I love you better than anything on earth;” and again she pressed his hot red hand—“but oh, brother! I feel for you:—you never kneel before the altar of God—you’ve no priest to move the weight of sin from your soul—and how heavy that must be! Do you remember, Barry; it’s but a week or two ago and you threatened to kill me for the sake of our father’s money? you wanted to put me in a mad-house; you tried to make me mad with fear and cruelty; me, your sister; and I never harmed or crossed you. God is now doing what you threatened; a kind, good God is now taking me to himself, and you will get what you so longed for without more sin on your conscience; but it’ll never bless you, av you’ve still the same wishes in your heart, the same love of gold—the same hatred of a fellow-creature.”
“Oh, Anty!” sobbed out Barry, who was now absolutely in tears, “I was drunk that night; I was indeed, or I’d never have said or done what I did.”