Part 22

“‘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.