“How feeble you are, dear father,” said Harry: “your arms tremble when you attempt to raise me. I will kneel by you all this night, and pray to God to give you strength. You say there is none loves you. I love you; and Collingwood loves you; and many, many more. So do not leave us.”—“And I love you too, dear, dear Harry,” cried Sir Richard, his voice nearly suffocated by his grief; “and all who knew you honoured and loved you; and curse be on those who utter one word against him. He is the noblest fellow that ever lived.” “Uncle Richard, don’t cry,” said the boy: “it grieves him so to see you. Don’t look so sad, dear father. Why is your hand so cold: can nothing warm it?” “Nothing, Harry.—Do not weep so bitterly, dear uncle.” “I have suffered agony. Now, all is peace.—God bless you and my children.” “Open your dear eyes once again, father, to look on me. Oh! Collingwood, see they are closed:—Will he not look on me ever again? My sister Annabel shall speak to him.—My dear mamma is gone, or she would sooth him.—Oh, father, if you must leave me too, why should I linger here? How silent he is!”—“He sleeps, Sir,”—“I think he does not sleep, Collingwood. I think this dreadful stillness is what every one calls death. Oh! father, look at me once more. Speak one dear word only to say you love me still.” “I can’t bear this,” said Sir Richard, hurrying from the room. “I can’t bear it.”
The hour was that in which the setting sun had veiled its last bright ray in the western wave:—it was the evening of the tenth of October!!!
On the evening of the tenth of October, Glenarvon had reached the coast of Holland, and joined the British squadron under Admiral Duncan. The Dutch were not yet in sight; but it was known that they were awaiting the attack at a few miles distance from shore, between Camperdown and Egmont. It was so still that evening that not a breath of air rippled upon the glassy waters. It was at that very instant of time, when Avondale, stretched upon his bed, far from those scenes of glory and renown in which his earlier years had been distinguished, had breathed his last; that Glenarvon, whilst walking the deck, even in the light of departing day, laughingly addressed his companions: “Fear you to die?” he cried, to one upon whose shoulder he was leaning. “I cannot fear. But as it may be the fate of all, Hardhead,” he said, still addressing his lieutenant, “if I die, do you present my last remembrance to my friends.—Ha! have I any?—Not I, i’faith.
“Now fill up a bowl, that I may pledge you; and let him whose conscience trembles, shrink. I cannot fear;
“For, come he slow, or come he fast,
It is but Death that comes at last.”
He said, and smiled——that smile so gentle and persuasive, that only to behold it was to love. Suddenly he beheld before him on the smooth wave a form so pale, so changed, that, but for the sternness of that brow, the fixed and hollow gaze of that dark eye, he had not recognized, in the fearful spectre, the form of Lord Avondale “Speak your reproaches as a man would utter them,” he said. “Ask of me the satisfaction due for injuries; but stand not thus before me, like a dream, in the glare of day—like a grim vision of the night, in the presence of thousands.”—The stern glazed eye moved not: the palpable form continued. Lord Glenarvon gazed till his eyes were strained with the effort, and every faculty was benumbed and overpowered.
Then fell a drowsiness over his senses which he could not conquer; and he said to those who addressed him, “I am ill:—watch by me whilst I sleep.” He threw himself upon his cloak, listless and fatigued, and sunk into a heavy sleep. But his slumbers were broken and disturbed; and he could not recover from the unusual depression of his spirits. Every event of his short life crowded fast upon his memory:—scenes long forgotten recurred:—he thought of broken vows, of hearts betrayed, and of all the perjuries and treacheries of a life given up to love. But reproaches and bitterness saddened over every dear remembrance, and he participated, when too late, in the sufferings he had inflicted.
All was now profoundly still: the third watch sounded. The lashing of the waves against the sides of the ship—the gentle undulating motion, again lulled a weary and perturbed spirit to repose. Suddenly upon the air he heard a fluttering, like the noise of wings, which fanned him while he slept. Gazing intently, he fancied he beheld a fleeting shadow pass up and down before him, as if the air, thickening into substance, became visible to the eye, till it produced a form clothed in angelic beauty and unearthly brightness. It was some moments before he could bring to his remembrance whom it resembled,—till a smile, all cheering, and a look of one he had seen in happier days, told him it was Calantha. Her hair flowed loosely on her shoulders, while a cloud of resplendent white supported her in the air, and covered her partly from his view. Her eyes shone with serene lustre; and her cheeks glowed with the freshness of health:—not as when impaired by sickness and disease, he had seen her last—not as when disappointment and the sorrows of the world had worn her youthful form—but renovated, young, and bright, with superior glory she now met his ardent gaze; and, in a voice more sweet than music, thus addressed him:
“Glenarvon,” she said, “I come not to reproach you. It is Calantha’s spirit hovers round you. Away with dread; for I come to warn and to save you. Awake—arise, before it be too late. Let the memory of the past fade from before you: live to be all you still may be—a country’s pride, a nation’s glory! Ah, sully not with ill deeds the bright promise of a life of fame.” As she spoke, a light as from heaven irradiated her countenance, and, pointing with her hand to the east, he saw the sun burst from the clouds which had gathered round it, and shine forth in all its lustre. “Are you happy?” cried Glenarvon, stretching out his arms to catch the vision, which hovered near.—“Calantha, speak to me: am I still loved? Is Glenarvon dear even thus in death?”