“‘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.