Part 24

“‘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.”

That time came soon. The Earl grows ill; his end approaches. Exquisitely beautiful is the description of that end. Remembering the old man’s plighted word, the sick nobleman sends his servant to the cottage, and demands fulfilment of the promise given. The old man hears and trembles; but with a solemn countenance he gets his hat and stick, puts his Bible under his aged arm, and answers, “Ay, I will go with thee to my Lord.”

“When the Earl saw him it was about evening, and the sun was setting, and its declining rays shone softly into the room.

“‘Adam, see—it is going down!’ said Lord Milverstoke in a low tone, looking sadly at Adam, and pointing to the sun.

“‘How is thy soul with God?’ said the old man, with great solemnity.

“The Earl placed his hands together, and remained silent for some moments. Then he said, ‘I would it were, good Adam, as I believe thine is!’

“‘Nay, my good Lord, think only of thine own, not mine; I am sinful, and often of weak faith. But hast thou faith and hope?’

“‘I thank God, Adam, that I have some little! Before I was afflicted, I went astray! But I have sinned deeper than even thou thinkest, good soul!’

“‘But His mercy, to whom thou art going, is deeper than thy sins!’

“‘Oh, Adam! I have this day often thought that I could die more peacefully in thy little cottage than in this place!’

“‘So thy heart and soul be right, what signifies where thou diest?’

“‘Adam,’ said the Earl, gently, ‘thou speakest somewhat sternly to one with a broken spirit—but God bless thee! thy voice searcheth me! Wilt thou make me a promise, Adam?’ said the Earl, softly placing his hand in that of Ayliffe.

“‘Ay, my Lord, if I can perform it.’

“‘Wilt thou follow me to the grave? I would have followed thee, hadst thou gone first?‘

“‘I will!’ replied Adam, looking solemnly at the Earl.

“‘And now give me thy prayers, dear Adam! Pray for him that—is to come after me—for I go—and in peace—in peace—’

“Lady Alkmond, who was on the other side of the bed, observed a great change come suddenly over the Earl’s face, while Adam was opening the Bible and adjusting his glasses to read a Psalm. She hastened round, she leaned down and kissed the Earl’s forehead and cheek, grasped his thin fingers, and burst into weeping. But the Earl saw her not, nor heard her: he was no longer among the living!”

It need not be said that the Earl of Milverstoke does what justice he may to the falsely banished man and his family, by making such provision for them in his will, as his circumstances allow and his dignity requires. It need scarcely be mentioned that the close of the career of the Ayliffe family is as serene and happy, as it was stormy and disastrous in its beginning. They are not _compensated_ for long-suffering by the money of his lordship; but they are made to _see_ that the ways of God are unsearchable and past finding out, and that now, indeed, men see through a glass darkly, though hereafter they shall see face to face, and know even as they are known. Knowledge and consolation rightly understood, is cheaply purchased, though even with a life of trouble, such as Adam Ayliffe saw.

There remains but a word or two more to say concerning this history, and the tale is told. It has been hinted that Lord Alkmond quitted the banqueting room on the night of his murder on account of the discussion of a subject which seemed greatly to annoy him. That subject, as appears in the course of the story, was DUELLING. Let the author explain the mystery. It might have had much to do with the tragical catastrophe. Explained, it has nothing to do with it whatever.

“Among several letters which come to the Castle shortly after the Earl’s sudden illness, was one marked ‘Immediate’ and ‘Private and Confidential,’ and bore outside the name of the Secretary of State. From this letter poor Lady Emily learnt the lamentable intelligence that her brother, the late Lord Alkmond had, when on the Continent, and shortly before his marriage, slain in a duel a Hungarian officer, whom, having challenged for some affront which had passed at dinner, he had run through the heart, and killed on the spot: the unfortunate officer leaving behind him, alas! a widow and several orphans, all of them reduced to beggary. The dispute which had led to these disastrous results, had been one of really a trivial nature, but magnified into importance by the young Lord’s quick and imperious temper, which had led him to dictate terms of apology so humiliating and offensive, that no one could submit to them. Wherefore the two met; and presently the Hungarian fell dead, his adversary’s rapier having passed clean through the heart. It was, however, an affair that had been managed with perfect propriety; with an exact observance of the rules of duelling! All had been done legitimately! Yet was it MURDER; an honourable, a right honourable, murder: murder as clear and glaring, before the Judge of all the earth, as that by which Lord Alkmond had himself fallen. When thus fearfully summoned away to his account, the young noble’s own hand was crimsoned with the blood which he had shed: and so went he into the awful presence of the Most High, whose voice had ever upon earth been sounding tremendous in his ears,—_Where is thy brother? What hast thou done? The voice of thy brother’s blood crieth unto me from the ground._ Unhappy man! well might his heart have been heavy, when men expected it to be lightest! Well might his countenance darken, and his soul shudder within him, under the mortal throes of a guilty conscience! From his father’s splendid banqueting table he had been driven by remorse and horror; for his companions, unconscious that they were stabbing to the heart one who was present, WOULD TALK of duelling, and of one sanguinary duel in particular, that bore a ghastly resemblance to his own. Such poor amends as might be in his power to make, he had striven to offer to the miserable family whom he had bereaved, beggared, and desolated, to vindicate an honour which had never been for one instant really questioned, or compromised; and if it _had_ been tarnished, could BLOOD cleanse and brighten it? All the money that he could ordinarily obtain from the Earl, had from time to time been furnished by Lord Alkmond to the family of his victim. For them it was that he had importuned his father for a sum of money sufficient to make for them an ample and permanent provision. Only the day before that on which he had quitted London, to partake of the Christmas festivities, had he written an earnest letter to the person abroad with whom he had long communicated on the subject, assuring him that within a few weeks an ample and satisfactory final arrangement should be made. And he had resolved to make a last strenuous effort with the Earl; but whom, nevertheless, he dared not, except as a matter of dire necessity, tell the nature of his exigency. And why dared not the son tell his father? And why had that father shrunk, blighted, from the mention, by Captain Lutteridge and Mr Hylton, of the conversation which had driven his son out into the solitude where he was slain? Alas! it opened to Lord Milverstoke himself a very frightful retrospect; through the vista of years his anguished, terror-stricken eye settled upon a crimsoned gloom—

“Oh, Lord Milverstoke!—and then would echo in thy ears, also, those appalling sounds,—_what hast_ THOU _done_?

“For THY—Honour! also, had been dyed in blood!”

We have told as well as we may, but very imperfectly as we feel, the story of “Now and Then.” It is not for us to advise the reader to get the volume and to read it for himself. For this he will, as he should, use his own discretion; but we will, as a faithful Mentor, and a long-tried friend, entreat him, grave, intelligent, and responsible Christian man as he is, should he peruse the volume, to consider well at its close the actual frame of mind in which the book has left him. We hold this to be the true test of all literary metal, whosoever be the coiner, wheresoever be the mint. If the solemn elements brought into the light and pleasant texture of this simple narrative, do not elevate the spirit and brace the heart of all but the thorough sceptic—whom nothing will elevate but liquor, and nothing brace but a good three-inch oak stick—we are content to be set down as the mere slavish flatterer of Mr Warren, and not as his calm and uninfluenced, though warm and devoted counsellor. The organs of public opinion in London have dwelt upon the contrast which “Now and Then” affords to the current literature of the day. We are not surprised at the impression these critics have received. Whether we regard the tendency and object of the story, its conception and execution, the style of the language, or the construction of the plot, we are bound to confess, that between this production and the heap of Christmas and other tales that drop uselessly, and worse than uselessly, into the world, there is all the difference of the bright, fresh, vigorous mountain air, and the thick fusty atmosphere of the lanes.

The current of piety that flows so equably on through the whole of the work, is lucid as a stream, polluted by no admixture of rank weeds or earthly dirt. It has been justly remarked, by the leading journal of the world, that “Now and Then” “is a vindication in beautiful prose of the ways of God to man.” Every actor in the history vindicates these ways: every fact as it arises does the same. The old Saxon Ayliffe, who, from his entrance till his exit, maintains the justice of God’s doings, and walks peacefully and unruffled over burning plough-shares, because he sublimely feels the practical influence of his faith, is one champion. Hylton, the indefatigable clergyman, doing good for his Master’s sake, reproving the high-born, sympathising with the lowly, preaching and acting reconciliation everywhere, is another champion. The Earl of Milverstoke is a champion too. If he be not, our soul has been moved in vain by the childlike piety and humble self-denial of his broken-hearted latter days.

There is one thing more to note, and then we have done. We have said, at the commencement of this article, that there are certain folks in London and the provinces, who, thinking themselves remarkably fine fellows, and quite above the cant of religion and all that sort of thing, will pooh, pooh the noble tendency of “Now and Then,” and talk about “stupid old times,” “superstition,” “humbug,” and the necessity of going a-head in these enlightened days, whereby they mean going to the devil headlong, though they know it not. These worthies, however, will do something more than pooh, pooh. They will retire to their tap-rooms, and fill their little souls with gin in sheer envy and disgust. Mr Warren, in the delineation of the Ayliffe family, has beaten the bilious discontented democrats on their own ground. He has taken for his hero a man of the people, but he has sustained the heroism with ample justice to all the world besides. Although the author of “Nature’s Aristocracy,” and “The Godlike Bricklayer,” may be a paragon of benevolence, yet he has not all the benevolence which this huge world of benevolence contains. We will not venture to hint that there lives a human being better than himself, but perhaps there live a few nearly, if not quite as good.

Mr Warren does justice to the masses: but he is much too honest and too upright—being himself one of the masses—to uphold their privileges at the sacrifice of other men’s lawful and just rights. He does not do it; and the English people, who love fair play, will honour him for his work.

We honour him too, and cordially shake him by the hand! He has not done worse than Maga expected from his industry and genius. Had he done worse, by our immortality! much as we love him, much as he has done for us, and we for him, much as we have done together, he should have felt the force of her frown, and been tapped—gently, perhaps, for the first offence—with the crutch that, ere now, with a blow has dealt death to the charlatan and impostor.

_Printed by William Blackwood and Sons, Edinburgh._

Transcriber’s Notes:

Missing or obscured punctuation was corrected.

Typographical errors were silently corrected.

Spelling and hyphenation were made consistent when a predominant form was found in this book; otherwise it was not changed.

Text in italics is enclosed by underscores (_italics_).