“I stood petrified, the word ‘murderer’ twittering on my shaking lips in fragments.
“‘Yes,’ he said, ‘come in, come in—bolt that door; the other is already cared for. Francis, you know how my Lillah died; there was no disease—she slept away as a drugged victim. Now, listen. During this last night I was awoke by the restlessness of Amelia. I heard her leave my side, and rise from the bed’—that on which you are now lying.—‘The rush-light burned on the mantelpiece, and I could see my wife, as she rose and began to pace the floor. I called out gently, “Amelia;” but got no answer. Her eyes, I saw, were fixed; and she moved her arms, as if she were addressing some imaginary being. I concluded she was sleep-walking, and immediately she began to speak, as she paced backwards and forwards. Part of what she said I lost, but I could join together enough for conviction.
“‘“She stood between me and my love,” she said, as she stopped for a moment, laying one hand upon another, “and it was necessary she should be put out of the way. A Grierson was never a waverer when a deed of blood was to be done.” “How did you do it?” “How did I do it? Poison! I made her sleep the long sleep, which the sun never breaks, nor the moon, nor time.” “What poison did you say?” “The sleepy poison. I made for her a draught, that I might draw the sweet life away; and”—
“‘She stopped and laughed, as a sleep-walker laughs—hollow and distant.
“‘“And get into the Temple she occupied. Was you still kind to her while you watched the effect of your draught?” “Was I, did you say? Yes, very kind. Oh! I nursed her dying spirit, that he might think me a ministering angel to his wife, whom I wanted to succeed. He was deceived. Yes, yes; simple fool, he was deceived. Ay, and not deceived, for I loved him.”
“‘She began to walk again to and fro, sometimes slowly, sometimes quickly, then of a sudden turned and stood—“She was fair,” she continued, as she kept looking at the wall; “but so am I. He got as good a bargain in me as in her.” Then she made devious movements, turning and returning, muttering to herself, but so thickly that I only caught words much disjointed—“Remorse!—yes, yes!—no, no!—not till I am to be hanged; but that cannot be; no one saw me. Say nothing, nothing!—mix the draught—away to bed. ’Tis late, late! and I am cold.”
“‘She came to bed, Francis, cold and shivering. My mind began to regain some form of thinking, after having been tossed about by the effect of her horrible monologue, or rather part of a dialogue. The conviction was instant, unavoidable, and certain. I never thought of awakening her to question her, but lay distant from her as from a reptile. I slept none. In the morning she turned to kiss me. I drew back my head in horror, and saw that she too was horrified at my manner. I bade her begone for a murderer, and, committed thus by my agony, told her she had confessed the whole story in a fit of somnambulism. Then she flew from me, crying she was innocent, tearing her hair in good acting—and there she walks by the passages under the sting of her guilt. Oh! she dare not face me, even were I to allow a meeting, which I wont. Francis, I am convinced.’
“My master,” continued Francis, addressing me as I lay listening and thinking of the old brochure, “was always moody, as I have said—ay, and crotchety; no one had any power to drive from him a settled opinion or resolution. After I had listened to him I said—
“‘Master, permit me, your poor servant, to say that this is not evidence on which I would beat a dog.’
“‘I am convinced,’ he replied sternly and unkindly, and he moved his hand as a sign that I should leave him. I retreated, grieved to the heart, for I knew master’s nature. When I got to the top of the stair, I saw my lady beckoning me from the door of the library. I went to her.