“Yes—yes,” the doctor answered; “but never mind him. You should not have interfered with me, Fanny. He was delirious,—outrageous. I was obliged to hold him down.”
“He said something about my father,” observed Fanny in a faint voice. “I heard him say it.”
“Nothing—nothing, I assure you!” the doctor exclaimed. “He was delirious. Now, quiet yourself, and do not talk any more tonight. Say nothing about it; and another day, when you are better, you shall convince yourself, for Mrs. Rowel shall take you all over my house—you shall see everybody in it—and I will prove to you that your father cannot be there. As I told you some time ago, I know something about you, and will take care to see you righted as far as I can; but then you must not listen to the wild nonsense of a man who did not know what he was talking about: it ruins everything.”
Fanny was silent; but she still beheld, as in a vivid picture, the corpse-like figure of the lawyer sitting up in bed, its glazed eyes upon her, and its finger pointing towards that man. She heard the rattle of its horny tongue as it articulated those last words, “In his madhouse!—his madhouse!” And she thought of the words of Colin's mother, which had been told to her only a few hours previously, that dying people always speak the truth. But, was he dying? “Is he dead?” asked she.
“My dear,” answered Rowel, “do not alarm yourself: but he is dead.”
“O God! what have I seen!” cried the affrighted young woman, as she hid her head beneath the bed-clothes, for a spirit seemed to pass before her when she heard those words,—it was that of her dead master!
The doctor departed; but in that house there was no sleep that night.