Chapter XV (7)

“Possibly some of the Earl’s frigid reserve towards him was
occasioned by the cordial terms of intimacy which had existed
between him and the late Countess—an excellent personage, who,
living in comparative retirement at Milverstoke, while her lord was
immersed in political life, had consulted Mr Hylton constantly on
the early education of her two children. The Earl had married late
in life, being nearly twenty years older than his Countess, who had
brought him one son and one daughter. The former partook largely of
his father’s character, but in a somewhat mitigated form; he was
quicker in taking offence than his father, but had not his
implacability. If he should succeed to that father’s titles and
estates, he would be the first instance of such direct succession
for nine generations, the Earl himself having been the third son of
a second son. The family was of high antiquity, and its noble blood
had several times intermingled with that of royalty.”

On one of the more advanced days of the Christmas week, we are told there took place a kind of military banquet at the Castle, in compliment to the officers of a dragoon regiment, one of whose out-quarters was at the barracks at some two miles distance. Lord Alkmond was present at this banquet. During its progress his lordship quitted the company to stroll in the woods—wherefore none knew; but during his evening walk he was barbarously murdered. Young Ayliffe, under fearfully suspicious circumstances, is arrested for the crime. He had been discovered near the body—his sleeves were covered with blood—he had been hunted and tracked to his home. The cup of misery was full.

A coroner’s inquest is held—a verdict of wilful murder returned against Adam Ayliffe, who is formally committed by the magistrate. He is held in custody, and must await his trial. He is _not_ guilty. The reader feels it in spite of the damning evidence that will be brought against the accused on the day of his solemn trial: the father is aware of it, and sustains his manly soul with the consciousness, dreadful as may be the unjust and as yet unspoken sentence. Old Adam has gone to his child in prison. Behold the miserable pair! Listen to the pathetic appeal.

“They were allowed to be alone for a short time, the doctor and
nurse of the prison being within call, if need might be. The
prisoner gently raised his father’s cold hand to his lips and kissed
it, and neither spoke for a few minutes; at length——

“‘Adam! Adam!’ said the old man in a low tremulous whisper, ‘art
thou innocent or guilty?’ and his anguished eyes seemed staring into
the very soul of his son, who calmly replied,—

“‘Father, before God Almighty, I be as innocent as thou art, nor
know I who did this terrible deed.’

“‘Dost thou say it? Dost thou say it? I never knew thee to lie to
me, Adam!’ said his father eagerly, half rising, from the stool on
which he sate. ‘Dost thou say this before God, whom thou art only
too likely,’ he shuddered, ‘to see, after next Assizes, face to
face?’

“‘Ay, I do, father,’ replied his son, fixing his eyes solemnly and
steadily on those of his father, who slowly rose and placed his
trembling arms around his son, and embraced him in silence: ‘How is
Sarah?’ faltered the prisoner, faintly.

“‘Ask me not, Adam,’ said the old man; who quickly added, perceiving
the sudden agitation of his son, ‘but she is not dead; she hath been
kindly cared for.’

“‘And the lad?’ said the prisoner, still more faintly.

“‘He is well,’ said the old man; and the prisoner shook his head in
silence, the tears running down his cheeks through closed eyelids.”

There is another too, who, in spite of the circumstances which carry conviction to the minds of others, is morally certain of the innocence of Adam Ayliffe. At the beginning of the narrative we are informed that, “as father and son would stand suddenly uncovered, while the reverend vicar passed or met them on his way into the church, his heart yearned towards them both: he thoroughly loved and respected them, and was in a certain way proud of two such specimens of the English yeoman; and, above all, charmed with the good example which they set to all his other parishioners. Now the vicar had from Adam’s boyhood entertained a liking for him, and had personally bestowed no inconsiderable pains upon his education, which though plain, as suited his position, was yet sound and substantial.” This vicar trusted the manhood of the blood-guiltless Adam as he had affectionately attached himself to his youth. To suppose him guilty of the crime was to have implicit faith in circumstantial evidence, treacherous and deceitful at the best, and to spurn the actual knowledge gained from the decided tenor of a life which could NOT speak false. Adam Ayliffe could not become a murderer and still be Adam Ayliffe. He was himself, rational and sane; he was therefore guiltless. So argued the minister of God: so must the good and pious always argue, similarly placed. A world in arms against the miserable prisoner would not have moved the vicar from his strong conviction, or frightened him from the prisoner’s side. Providence, the just, so willed it!

The trial came. The fiend of circumstance for the hour triumphed over the as yet invisible spirit of truth. Mortal men could do no other than they did. Seeing through a glass darkly, they pronounced judgment, with the veil still undrawn. Adam Ayliffe, the innocent, the well-meaning, the sorely-tried, but the still upright, was condemned to die the death of a malefactor, for the shedding of blood which he had never spilt. The wretched convict is removed at once from the bar of the Court to the condemned cell. He is scarcely there before Mr Hylton, the incredulous clergyman, is at his side. The interview is long, and deeply interesting. The frantic despair of the hapless prisoner is gradually softened, and his mind turned to God by the pious counsels and arguments of his indefatigable pastor. Mr Hylton leaves the cell more than ever satisfied of the innocence of poor Adam Ayliffe.

He is sentenced, not yet hanged. The word has gone forth but the decree is not yet executed. God is just, but as merciful as just, and may interpose and save the long-suffering for His glory and their happiness. Mr Hylton, leaving the prison, is summoned to the neighbouring barracks. Arriving there, he is ushered into a private room, and introduced to one Captain Lutteridge. What has the captain to say to the minister? What does he know of the murder? You shall hear. During the trial, the judge remarked that it was very strange that Lord Alkmond should go out into the woods on the fatal night, and wondered that no one knew the reason. Now Captain Lutteridge did not know the reason, but he had possibly, only possibly, a clue to it. A subject had been mentioned during the dinner on the memorable night, which had evidently distressed his lordship, and, it may be, called him forth. What that subject was, he, the captain, knew, but, without permission from the Earl of Milverstoke, would not state,—he being a soldier, a man of honour, and incapable of betraying confidential intercourse, as it were, spoken at the table of his noble host. It was a case of life and death. Adam Ayliffe had an advocate with the captain more anxious and impressive than the paid counsel who had served him on his trial, and Mr Hylton did his duty faithfully. Before he quitted Captain Lutteridge, that officer had undertaken to wait upon the Earl of Milverstoke, and to obtain, if it might be, his permission to communicate the secret. The captain kept his word, but to little purpose. The Earl forbade all mention of the melancholy scene, and gave his visitor no encouragement. But Mr Hylton waited not for encouragement or aid. Before Captain Lutteridge returned from Milverstoke Castle, the indefatigable minister was already on his road to London, to obtain an interview with the Secretary of State, to inform that functionary that there was a secret, and to entreat a respite upon that ground; but not upon that ground alone. Another gleam of sunshine, thin as hair, stole through the stormy sky. A letter had been received by Mrs Hylton, that hinted at guilt elsewhere, removing it from Ayliffe’s stainless cottage. Fragile as the document was, the ambassador of the condemned relied upon it as though it had been a rock. And not in vain! From the Home Secretary, he was referred to the judge who tried the cause: the judge listened long and patiently to all that Mr Hylton had to urge upon the miserable man’s behalf, and finally ordered a fortnight’s respite, with the view of giving time for confirmation of the important letter’s intimations.

The unconquerable Mr Hylton returned to Milverstoke. He sees the Earl, who spurns him from his door as a reward for his unjustifiable interference between justice and the murderer of his son: he sees the Earl’s daughter, and pleads with her on behalf of the doomed: he sees Captain Lutteridge,—he leaves no stone unturned, to secure, if not the pardon of his client, at least the remission of the punishment to which, in his inmost heart, he believed him most unjustly sentenced. His success is far from equal to his zeal. The proud Earl’s heart is obdurate. Who can wonder at it? The gentle daughter would do much, but has the power to do little; and Captain Lutteridge, a gentleman and a soldier, is disinclined to save a murderer from the gallows, even if he had the ability, which he has not.

The fortnight is coming quickly to an end, and there is no arrival of favourable news. Shortly before its close, Mr Hylton receives a brief message from the unhappy occupant of the condemned cell, which he dares not disregard. It is this—“_I go back into darkness while you are away._” Mr Hylton mounts his horse and sets off. It is a melancholy errand, but we will take courage and accompany him. The scene is grand as it is awful:—

“As he rode along, his mind lost sight almost entirely of the
temporal in the spiritual, the present in the future, interests of
the condemned; and by the time that he had reached the gaol, his
mind was in an elevated frame, befitting the solemn and sublime
considerations with which it had been engaged.

“A turnkey, with loaded blunderbuss on his arm, leaned against the
cell door, which he opened for Mr Hylton in silence, as he
approached; disclosing poor Ayliffe sitting on his bench,
double-ironed, his head buried in his hands, his elbows supported by
his knees. He did not move on the entrance of Mr Hylton, as his name
had not been mentioned by the turnkey.

“‘Adam! Adam!—the Lord be with you! Amen!’ solemnly exclaimed Mr
Hylton, gently taking in his hand one of the prisoner’s.

“Ayliffe suddenly started up, a gaunt figure, rattling in his irons,
and grasping in both his hands that of Mr Hylton, carried it to his
heart, to which he pressed it for some moments in silence, and then,
bursting into tears, sunk again on his bench.

“‘God bless you, Adam! and _lift up the light of His countenance
upon you_! Put your trust in him: but remember that he is the
all-seeing, the omniscient, omnipotent God, _who is of purer eyes
than to behold iniquity_!’

“Ayliffe wept in silence, and with reverent affection of manner
pressed to his lips the still-retained hand of Mr Hylton.

“‘Come, Adam! speak! Speak to your pastor—your friend—your
minister!’

“‘You seem an angel, sir!’ said Ayliffe, looking at him with a dull,
oppressed eye, that was heart-breaking.

“‘Why an angel, Adam? I bring you,’ said Mr Hylton, shaking his
head, and sighing, ‘no earthly good news whatever; nothing but my
unworthy offices to prepare you for hereafter! Prepare! prepare to
meet thy God, for he draweth near! And who may abide the day of his
coming!’

“‘I was readier for my change when last I saw you, sir, than now,’
said Ayliffe, with a suppressed groan, covering his face with his
manacled hands.

“‘How is that, poor Adam?’

“‘Ah!—I was, so it seemed, half over Jordan, and have been dragged
back. I see not now that other bright shore which made me forget
earth! All now is dark!’

“His words smote Mr Hylton to the heart. ‘Why is this? why should it
be? Adam!’ said he, very earnestly, ‘have you ever been, can you
possibly ever be, out of God’s hands? What happens but from God? And
if He hath prolonged this your bitter, bitter trial, what should
you, what can you do, but submit to His infinite power and goodness?
_He doth not afflict willingly, nor grieve the children of men, to
crush under his feet all the prisoners of the earth! He will not
cast off for ever; but though he cause grief, yet will he have
compassion according to the multitude of his mercies!_’

“‘Oh, sir! oft do I think his mercy is clean gone for ever! Why—why
am I here?’ he continued, with sudden vehemence. ‘He knoweth my
innocence—yet will make me die the death of the guilty! That cannot,
_cannot_ be just!’

“‘Adam! Adam! Satan is indeed besieging you! Even if, in the awful,
inscrutable decrees of Providence, you be ordained to die for what
you did not, have you forgotten that sublime and awful truth and
fact on which hang all your hopes—the death of Him who died, _the
just for the unjust_?’

“Ayliffe’s head sunk down on his knees.

“‘Ah, sir!’ said he, tremulously, after a while, during which Mr
Hylton interfered not with his meditations, ‘these words do drive me
into the dust, and then raise me again higher than I was before!’

“‘And so they ought, Adam. Is there a God? Has he really revealed
himself? Are the Scriptures true? Am I the true servant of a true
master? If to all this you say _yea_—speak not again distrustfully.
If you do—if you so think—then are you too like to be beyond the
pale of mercy. I am free, Adam,—you are bound,—yet are both our
lives every instant at the command and absolute disposal of Him who
gave them, that we might be on trial here for a little while. For
aught I know, I may even yet die before you, and with greater pain
and grief; but both of us must die, and much of my life is gone for
ever. As your frail fellow-mortal, then, I beseech you to listen to
me! Our mode of leaving life is ordered by God, even as our mode of
living in it. To some he hath ordained riches, others poverty; some
pleasure, others misery, in this life; but all for reasons, and with
objects best known, nay, known only to himself! Adam, you have now
been four days here beyond that which had been appointed you—now
that we are alone, have you aught to confide to me, as the minister
for whom you have sent? What saith my Master? If you confess your
sins, he is faithful and just to forgive you; but if you say that
you have no sin, you deceive yourself, and the truth is not in you.
And if that last be so, Adam, what shall be said of you, what can be
hoped for you?’

“‘If you be thinking of that deed for which I am condemned,’ said
Ayliffe, with a sudden radiant countenance, ‘then am I easy and
happy. God, my maker, and who will be my judge, knoweth whether I
speak the truth. Ay! ay! innocent am I of this deed as you!’

“‘It is right, Adam, that I should tell you that all mankind who
know of your case, from the highest down to the lowest, do believe
you guilty.’

“‘Ah, sir, is not that hard to bear?’ said Ayliffe, with a grievous
sigh, and a countenance that looked unutterable things.

“‘It is, Adam—it is hard; yet, were it harder, it must be borne.
Here is Lord Milverstoke, who hath lost his son—his only son—the
heir to his title and his vast possessions—lost him in this
mysterious and horrid way: is not _that_ hard to be borne? Have you,
Adam,—I ask you by your precious hopes of hereafter,—animosity
towards him who believes you to be his son’s murderer?’

“There was an awful silence for nearly a minute, at the close of
which Ayliffe, with an anguished face, said—

“‘Oh, sir! give me time to answer you! Pray for me! I know whose
example I ought to imitate; but’—he suddenly seemed to have sunk
into a reverie, which lasted for some time, at the end of
which,—‘Sir—Mr Hylton,’ said he desperately, ‘_am_ I truly to die on
Monday week? Oh, tell me! tell me, sir! Life is sweet, I own!’

“He sprung towards Mr Hylton, and convulsively grasped his hands,
looking into his face with frenzied earnestness.

“‘I cannot—I will not deceive you, Adam,’ replied Mr Hylton, looking
aside and with a profound sigh. ‘My solemn duty is to prepare you
for death! But—‘

“‘Ah!’ said he, with a desperate air, ‘to be hanged like a vile
dog!—and every one cursing me, who am all the while innocent! and no
burial service to be said over my poor body!—never—_never_ to be
buried!’ With a dismal groan he sunk back, and would have fallen
from the bench, but for Mr. Hylton’s stepping forward. ‘Sir—sir,’
said Ayliffe presently, glaring with sudden wildness at Mr Hylton,
‘did you see the man at the door with the blunderbuss? There he
stands! all day! all night! but never comes in!—never speaks!—Would
that he would put it to my head, and finish me in a moment!’

“‘Adam! Adam! what awful language is this that I hear?’ said Mr
Hylton, sternly. ‘Is this the way that you have spoken to your pious
and venerable father?’

“‘No! no! no! sir!‘—he pressed his hand to his forehead—‘but my poor
head wanders! I—I am better now! I seem just to have come out of a
dream. But never should I dream thus, if you would ever stay with
me—till—all is over!’

“Feeling it quite impossible to ask the miserable convict such
questions as Mr Hylton had wished, he resolved not to make the
attempt, but to do it as prudently and as early as might be, through
old Ayliffe, or the chaplain or governor of the gaol. He was just
about to leave, and was considering in what terms he could the most
effectually address himself to Ayliffe, when, without any summons
having issued from within, the door was unlocked, and the turnkey,
thrusting in his head, said,—

“‘I say, my man, here’s the woman come with thy child, that thou’st
been asking for. They’ll come in when the gentleman goes.’

“Ayliffe started up from his seat with an eager motion towards the
door, but was suddenly jerked down again, having forgotten in his
momentary ecstasy that his irons were attached to a staple in the
floor.

“‘Come, come, my man,’ said the turnkey, sternly, ‘thou must be a
bit quieter, I can tell thee, if this child is to come to thee.’

“‘Give me the lad! give me the lad! give me the lad!’ said Ayliffe,
in a hoarse whisper, his eyes straining towards the approaching
figure of the good woman, who, with a very sorrowful and
apprehensive look, now came in sight of the condemned man.

“‘Lord bless thee, Adam Ayliffe!’ she began, bursting into tears,
‘Lord love thee and protect thee, Adam!’

“‘Give me the lad!—show me the lad!’ he continued, gazing intently
at her, while she tremblingly pushed aside her cloak; and behold
there lay, simply and decently clad, his little boy, awake, and
gazing, apparently apprehensively, at the strange wild figure whose
arms were extended to receive it!

“‘Adam, father of this thy dear child,’ said Mr Hylton, interposing
for a moment between Ayliffe and the child, not without some alarm,
‘wilt thou handle it tenderly, remembering how feeble and small it
is?’

“On this, poor Ayliffe gazed at Mr Hylton with a face of unspeakable
agony, weeping lamentably; and still extending his arms, the passive
child, gazing at him in timid silence, was placed within them. He
sat down gently, gazing at his child for some moments with a face
never to be forgotten by those who saw it. Then he brought it near
to his face, and kissed incessantly, but with unspeakable
tenderness, its tiny features, which were quickly bedewed with his
tears.

“‘His mother!—his mother!—his mother!’ he exclaimed, in
heart-rending tones, still gazing intently at its face, which was
directed towards his own with evident apprehension. Its little hand
for a moment clasped one of the irons that bound his father, but
removed it immediately, probably from the coldness of the metal. The
father saw this, and seemed dreadfully agitated for some moments;
and Mr Hylton, who also had observed the little circumstance, was
greatly affected, and turned aside his head. After a while,—

“‘How easily, my little lad, could I dash out thy little brains
against these irons,’ said Ayliffe, in a low desperate tone of
voice, staring into the child’s face, ‘and save thee from ever
coming to this unjust fate that thy father hath!’

“Mr Hylton was excessively alarmed, but concealed his feelings,
preparing, however, for some perilous and insane action, endangering
the safety of the child. The gathering cloud, however, passed away,
and the manacled father kissed his unconscious child with all his
former tenderness.

“‘They’ll tell thee, poor lad, that I was a murderer! though it be
false as hell! They’ll shout after thee, There goes the murderer’s
son!’ He paused, and then with a sudden start said—‘There will be no
grave for thee or thy mother to come and cry over!’

“‘Adam,’ said Mr Hylton, very anxiously, ‘weary not yourself
thus—alarm not this poor child, by thus yielding to fear and
despair; but rather, if it can hereafter remember what passeth here
this day, may its thoughts be of thy love and of thy gentleness! If
it be the will of God that thou must die, and that unjustly, as far
as men are concerned, He will watch over and provide for this little
soul, whom He, foreseeing its fate, sent into the world.’

“Ayliffe lifted the child with trembling arms, and pressed its
cheeks to his lips. The little creature did not cry, nor appear
likely to do so, but seemed the image of mute apprehension. The
whole scene was so painful, that Mr Hylton was not sorry when the
Governor of the gaol approached, to intimate that the interview must
cease. The prisoner, exhausted with violent excitement, quietly
surrendered his child to his attendant, and then silently grasped
the hand of Mr Hylton, who thereupon quitted the cell; the door of
which was immediately locked upon its miserable occupant: who was
once again _alone_!”

From the prison let us to the great Earl’s house. His lordship has become morose and almost vindictive against the supposed murderer of his son, from the very efforts that have been made to save him from the gallows. Had Adam Ayliffe been suffered to die the unpitied death of any other heinous criminal, no one, perhaps, would have more pitied the wretched malefactor than the Earl of Milverstoke himself. The interest taken in the convict, not only by the minister, but by his own daughter, and, as he suspected, by the very widow of the murdered lord, his daughter-in-law, seemed cruel forgetfulness of the dead, and wanton injury to the living. He upbraided the minister who preached the virtues of mercy and forgiveness; he looked with anger and violent impatience when others dared to take up the thread of the clergyman’s unauthorised discourse. During an interview with Lady Alkmond, the Earl had heard the syllables _forgive!_ dropping from the widow’s mouth; he made no answer, but repaired to his library, in which he walked to and fro for some time, meditating with sternness and displacency upon the word. Let us open the door gently and carefully, and, using our lawful privilege, look in.

“On taking his seat at length, his lordship opened with some
surprise a Testament which lay before him, and guided by the
reference written by the trembling fingers of his daughter, he read
as follows:—‘So likewise shall my heavenly Father do unto you, if ye
from your hearts for give not every one his brother their
trespasses.’ This verse the Earl read hastily, then laid down the
book, folded his arms, and leaned back in his seat, not with subdued
feelings, but very highly indignant. He now saw clearly what had
been intended by the faint but solemn whisper of Lady Alkmond, even
could he have before entertained a doubt upon the subject. Oh, why
did not thoughts of the heavenly temper of these two loving and
trembling spirits melt his stern heart? ’Twas not so, however: and
even _anger_ swelled within that FATHER’S breast of untamed
fierceness—anger almost struggling and shaping itself into the
utterance of ‘Interference! intrusion! presumption!’ After a long
interval, in which his thoughts were thus angrily occupied, he
reopened the Testament, and again read the sublime and awful
declaration of the Redeemer of mankind; yet smote it not his heart.
And after a while, removing the paper, he calmly replaced the sacred
volume on the spot from which it had been taken by Lady Emily. Not
long after he had done so, he heard a very faint tapping at the
distant door, but without taking any notice of it; although he had a
somewhat disturbing suspicion as to the cause of that same meek
application, and the person by whom it was made. The sound was
presently repeated, somewhat louder; on which, ‘Who’s there?—enter!’
called out the Earl, loudly, and in his usual stern tone, looking
apprehensively towards the door—which was opened, as he had thought,
and perhaps feared it might be, by Lady Emily.

“‘It is I, dear papa,’ said she, closing the door after her, and
advancing rather rapidly towards him, who moved not from his seat;
though the appearance of—NOW—his only child, and that a daughter,
most beautiful in budding womanhood, and approaching a FATHER with
timid, downcast looks, might well have elicited some word or gesture
of welcoming affection and tenderness.

“‘What brings you hither, Emily?’ he inquired coldly, as his
daughter, in her loveliness and terror, stood within a few feet of
him, her fine features wearing an expression of blended modesty and
resolution.

“‘Do you not know, my dearest papa?’ said she, gently; ‘do you not
suspect. Do not be angry!—do not, dear papa, look so sternly at me!
I come to speak with you, who are my father, in all love and duty.’

“‘I am not stern—I am not angry, Emily. Have I not ever been kind to
you? Why, then, this unusual mode of approaching and addressing me?
Were I a mere tyrant, you could not show better than your present
manner does, that I am such.’

“His words were kind, but his eye and his manner were blighting. His
daughter’s knees trembled under her. She glanced hastily at the
table in quest of the little book which her hands had that morning
placed there; and not seeing it, her heart sunk.

“‘Be seated, Emily,’ said her father, moving towards her a chair,
and gently placing her in it immediately opposite to him, at only a
very little distance. She thought that she had never till that
moment seen her father’s face, or at least had never before noticed
its true character. How cold and severe was the look of the
penetrating eyes now fixed on her—how rigid were the features—how
commanding the expression which they wore—how visibly clouded with
sorrow, and marked with the traces of suffering!

“‘And what, Emily, would you say?’ he inquired, calmly.

“‘Dearest papa, I would say, if I dared, what my sister said to you
so short a time ago—_Forgive!_’

“‘Whom?’ inquired the Earl, striving to repress all appearance of
emotion.

“‘Him who is to die on Monday next—Adam Ayliffe. Oh, my dearest
papa, do not—oh, do not look so fearfully at me!’

“‘You mean, Emily, _the murderer of your brother_!’ He paused for a
moment. ‘Am I right? Do I understand you?’ inquired her father,
gloomily.

“‘But I think that he is not—I do believe that he is not.’

“‘But how can it concern _you_, Emily, to think or believe on the
subject? Good child, meddle not with what you understand not. Who
has put you upon this, Emily?’

“‘My own heart, papa.’

“‘Bah, girl!’ cried the Earl, unable to restrain his angry impulse,
‘do not patter nonsense with your father on a subject like this. You
have been trained and tutored to torment me on this matter!’

“‘Papa!—my papa!—I trained! I tutored! By whom? Am I of your blood?’
said Lady Emily, proudly and indignantly.

“‘You had better return, my child, to your occupations’——

“‘My occupation, dearest papa, is here, and, so long as you may
suffer me to be with you, to say few, but few words to you. It is
hard if I cannot, I who never knowingly grieved you in my life.
Remember that I am now your only child. Yet I fear you love me not
as you ought to love an only child, or you could not speak to me as
you have just spoken.’ She paused for moment, and added, as if with
a sudden desperate impulse—‘My poor sister and I do implore you to
give this wretch a chance of life, for we both believe that he is
innocent!’

“For a second or two the Earl seemed really astounded; and well he
might, for his youthful daughter had suddenly spoken to him with a
precision and distinctness of language, an energy of manner, and an
expression of eye, such as the Earl had not dreamed of her being
able to exhibit, and told of the strength of purpose with which she
had come to him.

“‘And you both believe that he is innocent!’ said he, echoing her
words, too much amazed to utter another word.

“‘Yes, we do! we do! in our hearts. My sister and I have prayed to
God many times for His mercy; and she desires me to tell you that
she has forgiven this man Ayliffe, even though he did this dreadful
deed, and so have I; wife and sister of the dear one dead, we both
forgive, even though the poor wretch be guilty; but we believe him
innocent, and if he be, oh, Heaven forbid that on Monday he should
die!’

“‘Emily,’ said the Earl, who had waited with forced composure till
his daughter had ceased, ‘do you not think that your proper place is
in your own apartment, or with your suffering sister-in-law?’

“‘Why should you thus treat me as a child, papa?’ inquired Lady
Emily, scarcely able to restrain her tears.

“‘Why should I not?’ asked her father calmly.

“Lady Emily looked to the ground for some moments in silence.

“‘Does it not occur to you as possible that you are meddling?
meddling with matters beyond your province? Is it fitting, _girl_,’
he continued, unable to resist an instantaneous but most bitter
emphasis on the word, ‘that you should be HERE, talking to me at
all, for one moment even, on a matter which I have never thought of
naming to you—a child?’

“‘I am a child, papa but I am _your_ child, and your only one and
love you more than all the whole world.’

“‘Obey me, then, as a proof of that love: retire to your chamber,
and there wonder at what you have ventured—presumed this morning to
do.’

“Lady Emily felt the glance of his eye upon her, as though it had
lightened; but she quailed not.

“‘My dear, my only parent, I implore you send me not away; let me—’

“‘Emily, I cannot be disobeyed; I am not in the habit of being
disobeyed by any one; it is very sad that I should see the attempt
first made by a child.’

“‘Oh papa! forgive me! forgive me!’ She arose, and, approaching him
hastily, as she observed him about to advance, sunk on one knee
before him, clasping her hands together. ‘Oh, hear me for but a
moment. Never knelt I before but to God, yet kneel I now to my
father. Oh, have mercy! nay, be JUST!’

“‘Why, Emily, verily I fear that long confinement, and want of
exercise, and change, and air, are preying upon your mind; you are
not speaking rationally. Rise, child, and do not pursue this
folly—or I may think you mad!’ He disengaged her hands gently from
his knee, which they had the moment before clasped, and raised her
from her kneeling posture, she weeping bitterly.

“I am not mad, papa, nor is my sister; but we fear lest God’s anger
should fall upon you, nay, upon us all, if you will not listen to
the voice of compassion.’

“‘Be seated, Emily,’ said the Earl. ‘Excited as you are at present,’
he continued, with rapidly increasing sternness of manner, ‘no words
of mine will be able to satisfy you of the grievous impropriety, nay
the cruel absurdity of all this proceeding. You talk to me like a
parrot about mercy, and compassion, and God’s anger, and so forth,
as though you understood what you were saying, and I understood not
what I am doing, what I ought to do, and what I have done. Child,
you forget yourself, me, and your duty to me. How dared you to
profane yonder Testament, and insult your father by placing it
before him as you did this morning? Did you do so?’

“‘I did,’ she answered, weeping.

“‘You presumptuous girl! forgetful of the fifth commandment!’

“‘Oh, say not so! say not so! I love, reverence you—and I FEAR you,
now!’ said Lady Emily, gazing at him with tears running down her
cheeks, her dark hair partially deranged, her hands clasped in a
supplicatory manner. ‘I prayed to God, first, that I might not be
doing wrong; that you might not be angry with me, that if angry, you
might forgive me!’

“‘Angry with you? Have I not cause? Never dared daughter do such
thing to father before! You presume to rebuke and threaten
me—_me_—with the vengeance of Heaven, if I yield not to your sickly
dreaming, drivelling sentimentality. Silence!’ he exclaimed,
perceiving her about to speak very earnestly. ‘I have not had my
eyes closed, I tell you now, for days past—I have observed your
changed manner: you have been deliberating long beforehand how to
perpetrate this undutifulness! As though my heart had not been
already struck as with a thunderbolt from Heaven—you, forsooth, you
idle, unthinking child! must strive to stab it—to wound me! to
insult me! This is not your own doing: you dared not have thought of
it! You are the silly tool of others. Silence! hear me, undutiful
girl!

“‘Papa, I cannot hear you say all this, in which you are so wrong.
No tool am I of any body! Twice have you said this thing!’ Her
figure the Earl perceived involuntarily becoming erect as she spoke,
and her eye fixed with steadfast brightness upon his. Had he been
sufficiently calm and observant, he might have seen in his daughter
at that moment a faint reflection of his own lofty spirit—intolerant
of injustice. ‘And even you, papa, have no right whatever thus to
talk to me. If I have done wrong, chide me becomingly; but all that
you have said to me only hurts me, and stings me, and I cannot
submit to it—’

“‘Lady Emily, to your chamber!’ said the Earl, with a stately air,
rising; so did his daughter.

“‘My Lord!’ she exclaimed magnificently, her tall figure drawn up to
its full height, and her lustrous eyes fixed unwavering upon his
own. Neither spoke for a moment; and the Earl began, he knew not
why, to feel great inward agitation, as he gazed at the erect figure
of his silent and indignant daughter.

“‘My child!’ said he, at length, faintly, with a quivering lip; and
extending his arms, he moved a step towards her; on which she sprang
forward into his arms, throwing her own about his neck, and kissing
his cheek passionately. His strong will for once had failed him; his
full eyes overflowed, and a tear fell on his daughter’s forehead.
She wept bitterly; for a while he spoke not, but gently led her to a
couch, and sat down beside her.

“‘Oh, papa, papa!’ she murmured, ‘how I love you!’

“For a moment he answered not, struggling, and with partial success,
to overcome the violence of his emotions. Then he spoke in a low
deep tone—

“‘The voices of the dead are sounding in my ears, Emily! the
tranquil dead! ’Tis said, my Emily,’ he paused for some moments, and
his agitation was prodigious,—‘that stern was I to your sweet
mother—’

“‘Oh, dear, dearest, best beloved by daughter, never!’ she cried
vehemently, struggling to escape from his grasp, for beheld her
rigidly while gazing at her with agonised eyes.

“‘And I now fearfully feel—I fear—that stern I was, as stern I have
this day been to you. Forgive me, ye meek and blessed dead!‘—his
quivering lips were, closed for a moment, as were his eyes. ‘Oh,
Emily! she is looking at me through your eyes. Oh, how like!’ he
remarked, as if speaking to himself. Lady Emily covered her eyes,
and buried her head in his bosom. ‘Do you, my Emily, forgive me?’

“‘Oh, papa! no, no; what have I to forgive? Every thing have I to
love! my own, sweet papa! Much I fear that I may have done what a
daughter ought not to have done! I have grieved and wounded a father
that tenderly loved me—’

“‘Ay, my child, I do,’ he whispered tremulously, gently drawing her
slender form nearer to his heart. ‘Emily,’ said he, after a while,
‘go, get me that Testament which you placed before me; oh, go, dear
child!’ She still hung her head, and made no motion of going. ‘Go,
get it me; bring it to me!’

“She rose without a word, and brought it to him; and while he
silently read the verse to which she had directed his attention, she
sat beside him, her hands clasped together, and her eyes timidly
fixed on the ground.

“‘It was in love, and not presumption, my Emily, that you laid these
awful words before me!’

“‘Indeed, my papa, it was,’ said she, bursting into tears.

“He appeared about to speak to her, when words evidently failed him
suddenly. At length—‘And when that sweet soul’—he paused, ‘this
morning whispered in my ear, did she know of this that you had
done?’ Lady Emily could not speak. She bowed her head in
acquiescence, and sobbed convulsively. Her father was fearfully
agitated. ‘Wretch that I am!—I am not worthy of either of you!’ Lady
Emily flung her arms round him fondly, and kissed him. ‘I am
yielding to great weakness, my love,’ said he, after a while, with
somewhat more of composure. ‘Yet, never shall I—never can I—forget
this morning! I have long felt, and feared, that I was not made to
be loved: I have seen it written in people’s faces. Yet can I love!’

“‘I know you can! I know you do, my own dear papa! Do you not
believe that I love you? that Agnes loves you?’

“‘I do, my Emily—I do! Yet till this moment have I felt alone in
life. In this vast pile, to me how gloomy and desolate! with these
woods, so horrible, around me, I have been alone—utterly alone! And
yet were you with me—you, my only daughter—who, I suppose, dared not
tell me how much you loved me!’

“‘Oh, do not say so, papa! I knew your grief and suffering. They
were too sacred to be touched—I wept for you, but in my own
chamber!’

“‘You stand beside me as an angel, Emily!’ said the Earl fondly, ‘as
you have ever been: yet I now feel as though my eyes had not really
seen and known you!’”

The gentle Lady Emily quits her father’s room with leave to speak again of Christian mercy, but with no further gain. Still there is time to save the unoffending, and it is not lost. When every hope seemed gone, impelled by an irresistible impulse, and fortified by an unwavering conviction of the prisoner’s innocence, Mr Hylton, on the Friday evening preceding the Monday fixed for Ayliffe’s execution, as a last resource, had, relying on the king’s well-known sternly independent character, written a letter to his Majesty, under cover to a nobleman then in London attending Parliament, and with whom Mr Hylton had been acquainted at college. Mr Hylton’s letter to the King was expressed in terms of grave eloquence. It set out with calling his Majesty’s attention to the execution, six months before, of a man for a crime of which three days afterwards he was demonstrated to have been innocent. Then the letter gave a moving picture of the exemplary life and character of the prisoner, and of his father; pointed to testimonials given in his favour at the trial; and added the writer’s own, together with the most solemn and strong conviction which could be expressed in language, that whoever might have been the perpetrator of this most atrocious murder, it was not the prisoner doomed to die on Monday. It then conjured his Majesty, by every consideration which could properly have weight with a sovereign intrusted with authority by Almighty God, to govern according to justice and mercy, to give his personal attention to the case then laid before him, and act thereon according to his Majesty’s own royal and element judgment. The letter suggested by heaven, written by heaven’s minister, and read by heaven’s intrusted servant, achieved its mission. The King read, and commuted the sentence of death to that of transportation. Upon the morning fixed for the execution a reprieve arrived, almost as the doomed man was walking from his cell to the gallows.

The convict departs; his wife follows him; his child and father remain behind. The former is cared for by the daughter of the Earl of Milverstoke, the latter has still the abiding friendship and regard of Mr Hylton. Twenty years elapse. Perpetual banishment was Adam Ayliffe’s sentence, and he is still abroad. His misshapen child has given evidence of commanding abilities, and under another name has been sent, at Mr Hylton’s instigation, to the university of Cambridge, where he is maintained still at the charges of the sweet-hearted Lady Emily. We arrive at the season when the annual contest takes place in the university for its most honourable prizes. The dignity of Senior Wrangler is contested by a young nobleman and a humpbacked youth, of whom little or nothing is known. The rivals, representing as it were the aristocracy and the democracy of the ancient seat of learning, have no unworthy envyings, one against the other; they are friends and friendly co-labourers. The battle comes, the representative of the people is victorious: Viscount Alkmond—for it is he—the son of the murdered man, is beaten by Adam Ayliffe, the offspring of the supposed murderer. The Earl of Milverstoke lives to hear the news!

He lives to hear more! A man in a distant part of the country is executed for a robbery. Before he dies he makes a confession. His name is Jonas Handle. He tells the world, for the relief of his own soul, that he, and none but he, twenty years before, did kill and murder my Lord Milverstoke’s son, for which one Ayliffe was taken and condemned to die, but afterwards was transported, and is since possibly dead. He explains minutely how he proceeded to his work; who was his accomplice. He had determined to kill one Godbolt, the head keeper, and, mistaking the young lord for his intended victim, he struck him dead with the coulter of a plough, which coulter he thrust into the hole of a hollow tree hard by. The confession reaches Mr Hylton; the coulter of the plough is sought and found: the exiled innocent is recalled—returns: this also the Earl of Milverstoke lives to hear!

He lives to hear more! Mr Hylton has not suffered twenty years to elapse without appealing to the proud and uncrucified heart of the great Earl, who seemed to have forgotten, in the midst of his transitory splendour, that the great God of heaven himself became a humble man, the eternal pattern of humility _to_ man on earth. The faithful minister knocked at the soul of the arrogant and overbearing lord, until he shook its hardness, and made it meet for heaven and its blessings. When he brought tidings of the murderer’s confession, he came to one who had heard from the same lips often before happier tidings, and promises bright with celestial splendour. In former days Mr Hylton had approached the Lord of Milverstoke as a meek martyr would have dared the violence of a savage beast; now he comes with his intelligence to one rendered, at the close of his long life, docile as a lamb. He speaks, and the Earl asks tremulously, and with many sighs, whether his reverend monitor tells him of the murderer’s death in judgment or in mercy.

“‘In mercy, dear my Lord! in mercy!’ answered Mr Hylton, with a
brightening countenance and a cheerful voice: ‘in you, spared to
advanced age, I see before me only a monument of mercy and goodness!
Had you continued till now, deaf to the teaching of His Holy
Spirit—dead to His gracious influences—hateful, relentless, and
vindictive—this which has now occurred would, to my poor thinking,
have appeared to speak only in judgment, uttering condemnation in
your ears, and sealing your eyes in judicial blindness! But you have
been enabled to hear a still small voice, whose melting accents have
pierced through your deaf ear, and broken a heart once obdurate in
pride and hopelessly unforgiving. Plainly I speak, dear my Lord, for
my mission I feel to be now no longer one of terror, but of
consolation! It is awful, but awful in mercy only, and
condescension!’”

The Earl is old; but there lives another still older, who must be visited without delay. The Saxon patriarch, who, when we first saw him, a man “of simple and stern character” clung to his Bible as to the rock upon which the poor of this world, the sorely beset and the heavily tried, can alone repose in peace, and who referred simply, believingly, and lovingly to that sacred volume, as the cup of sorrow grew fuller and fuller, until at length it overflowed and could hold no more,—this aged man, Ayliffe the grandfather, still lives and owns the cottage which he never would give up. What is the Earl of Milverstoke to do, but to ask pardon from the gray hairs of the man whom the law so much offended, and he still more, by the cruel harshness of his once impenitent spirit? See how he totters to the unpolluted gate!

“Mr Hylton was moved almost to tears at the spectacle which was
before his mind’s eye, of these two old men meeting for the first,
and it might be for the only, time upon earth; and his offer to
accompany his Lordship at once to the cottage, the Earl eagerly
accepted, and they both took their departure. As the carriage
approached, the Earl showed no little agitation at the prospect of
the coming interview.

“‘Yonder,’ said Mr Hylton exultingly, ‘yonder is the humble place
where dwells still, and but a little longer, one whom angels there
have ministered to; with whom God hath there ever communion; and it
is a hallowed spot!’

“The Earl spoke not; and in a few minutes’ time he was to be seen,
supported by Mr Hylton and a servant, closely approaching the
cottage door, another preceding him to announce his arrival, and
standing uncovered outside the door as the Earl entered it; his
lordly master himself uncovering, and bowing low as he stepped
within, accompanied by Mr Hylton, who led him up to old Ayliffe,
saying, ‘Adam, here comes one to speak with you—my Lord
Milverstoke—who saith that he hath long, in heart, done to you and
yours injustice; and hath come hither to tell you so.’ The Earl
trembled on Mr Hylton’s arm while he said this, and stood uncovered,
gazing with an air of reverence at the old man, who, when they
entered, was sitting beside the fire, leaning on his staff beside a
table, on which stood his old Bible, open, with his spectacles lying
upon it, as though he had just laid them there. He rose slowly as Mr
Hylton finished speaking.

“‘My Lord,’ said he solemnly, and standing more erectly than he had
stood for years, ‘we be now both very old men, and God hath not
spared us thus long for nothing.’

“‘Ay, Adam Ayliffe, indeed it is so! Will you forgive me and take my
hand?’ said the Earl faintly, advancing his right hand.

“‘Ay, my Lord—ay, in the name of God! feeling that I have had
somewhat to forgive! For a father am I, and a father _wast_ thou, my
Lord! Here, since it hath been asked for, is my hand, that never was
withheld from man that kindly asked for it; and my heart goes out to
thee with it! God bless thee, my Lord, in these thine old and feeble
days—old and feeble are we both, _and the grasshopper is a burthen
to us_.’

“‘Let me sit down, my friend,’ said the Earl gently. ‘I am feebler
than thou; and be thou seated also!’ They both sat down opposite to
each other, Mr Hylton looking on in silence. ‘God may forgive me
(and _may_ He, of His infinite mercy!)—thou, my fellow-creature,
may’st forgive me; but I cannot forgive myself, when I am here
looking at thee. Good Adam! what hast thou not gone through these
twenty years!’ faltered the Earl.

“‘Ay, twenty years it is!’ echoed Ayliffe solemnly, sighing deeply,
and looking with sorrowful dignity at the Earl. ‘Life hath, during
these twenty years, been a long journey, through a country dark and
lonesome; but yet, here is the lamp that hath shone ever blessedly
beside me, or I must have stumbled, and missed my way for ever, and
perished in the valley of the shadow of death!’ As he spoke, his
eyes were fixed steadfastly on the Earl, and he placed his hand
reverently upon the sacred volume beside him.

“‘Adam, God hath greatly humbled me, and mightily afflicted me!’
said the Earl; ‘I am not what I was!’

“‘The scourge thou doubtless didst need, my Lord, and it hath been
heavily laid upon thee; yet it is in mercy to thee that thou art
here, my good Lord!’ said Ayliffe, with an eye and in a tone of
voice belonging only to one who spoke with authority. ‘It is in
mercy, too,’ he continued, ‘to me, that I am here to receive and
listen to thee! I, too, have been perverse and rebellious, yet have
I been spared!—And art thou then, my Lord, in thy heart satisfied
that my poor son hath indeed suffered wrongfully?’

“‘Good Adam,’ said the Earl sorrowfully, and yet with dignity, ‘I
believe _now_ that thy son is innocent, and ought not to have
suffered; yet God hath chosen that we should not see all things as
He seeth them, Adam. The law, with which I had nought to do, went
right as the law of men goeth; but, alas! as for me, what a spirit
hath been shown by me towards thee and thine! Forgive me, Adam!
There is one here that knoweth more against me’—the Earl turned
towards Mr Hylton with a look of gloomy significance—‘than I dare
tell thee, of mine own awful guiltiness before God.’

“‘He is merciful! he is merciful!’ said Ayliffe.

“‘Wilt thou give me a token of thy forgiveness of a spirit most
bitter and inhuman?’ said the Earl presently. ‘If thy poor son Adam
cometh home while I live, wilt thou speak with him that he forgive
me my cruel heart towards him?—that he accept amends at my hands?’

“‘For amends, my Lord,’ said Ayliffe, ‘doubtless he will have none
but those which God may provide for him; and my son hath no claim
upon thee for human amends. His forgiveness I know that thou wilt
have, for aught in which, my Lord, thou may’st have wronged him by
uncharitableness; or he is not son of mine, and God hath afflicted
him in vain.’

“Here Mr Hylton interposed, observing the Earl grow very faint, and
rose to assist him to the door.

“‘Good day, friend Adam, good day,’ said Lord Milverstoke feebly,
but cordially grasping the hand which Ayliffe tendered to him. ‘I
will come hither again to see thee; but if I may not, wilt thou come
yonder to me? Say yes, good Adam! for my days are fewer, I feel,
than thine!’

“‘When thou canst not come to me, my good Lord, I will come to
thee!’ said Ayliffe, sadly, following the Earl to the door, and
gazing after him till he had driven away.”