Part 23

“‘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!’