CHAPTER IX
The vision tarried. Anne never woke to another lonely day; always there was Sebastian sitting by her, Sebastian holding her hand, Sebastian bending over her, wise and tender.
Whenever the fever left her, Anne was trying to tell him something—something he would not listen to then. But at last one day, lying still and white, Anne suddenly spoke.
‘Listen to me, Sebastian,’ she said, ‘for I’m not long for this world; you can’t refuse to hear me now.’ And with that she told him all her story. Sebastian sat beside her, his head bowed upon his hands, listening without word or comment.
‘Now that I be come to death’s dear, I’ve but the one thought. Dick, he’s a man to look out for hisself—and you was ever straight, my man; but w’at’s to come of Phil? Lord, I’d turn in my grave to think on him! for sure he’s gotten part o’ my soul, Sebastian—he hath truly.’ Sebastian did not speak, and Anne went on—
‘Dick’ll fend for him an’ no fear—make a fine gentleman of him most like—as fine as hisself, and then teach him lyin’ ways an’ false dealin’s, an’ my boy as hath half my soul he’ll go down into hell with all the liars as find their place there, and who’s to help?’
Still Sebastian did not speak.
‘Eh!’ cried Anne, half rising on her pillows. ‘This once I seen you hard, Sebastian! ’Tis no fault o’ the child’s—no, nor mine neither, as he’s there.’
‘You can scarce expect me to love him, Anne,’ said Sebastian at last. ‘And what help can I give the child?’
‘Eh! none, none, my man; maybe Heaven’ll help him,’ sobbed Anne, then she turned and laid her hands in Sebastian’s.