At Allenwater the roses were yet in bloom: and the clematis and
honeysuckle twined beneath the latticed windows, whilst through the
flower gardens the stream of Allen flowed smooth and clear. Every
object around breathed the fragrance of plants—the charms and sweets
of nature. The heat of summer had not parched its verdant meads,
and autumn’s yellow tints had but just touched the shadowy leaf.
Wearied with scenes of woe, Lord Avondale, having broken from society
and friends, had retired to this retreat—a prey to the fever of
disappointment and regret—wounded by the hand of his adversary, but
still more effectually destroyed by the unkindness and inconstancy
of his friend.
Sir Richard, before the last engagement, in which he lost his life,
called at Allenwater.—“How is your master?” he said, in a hurried
manner. “He is ill,” said James Collingwood. “He will rise from his
bed no more.” Sir Richard pressed forward; and trembling exceedingly,
entered Lord Avondale’s room.—“Who weeps so sadly by a dying father’s
bed?” “It is Harry Mowbrey, Calantha’s child, the little comforter of
many a dreary hour. The apt remark of enquiring youth, the joyous laugh
of childhood, have ceased. The lesson repeated daily to an anxious
parent has been learned with more than accustomed assiduity: but in
vain. Nature at last has given way:—the pale emaciated form—the hand
which the damps of death have chilled, feebly caresses the weeping
boy.”
James Collingwood stood by his master’s side, his sorrowful countenance
contrasting sadly with that military air which seemed to disdain all
exhibition of weakness; and with him, the sole other attendant of his
sufferings, Cairn of Coleraine, who once in this same spot had welcomed
Calantha, then a fair and lovely bride, spotless in vestal purity,
and dearer to his master’s heart than the very life-blood that gave
it vigour. He now poured some opiate drops into a glass, and placed
it in the feeble hand which was stretched forth to receive it. “Ah!
father, do not leave me,” said his little son, pressing towards him.
“My mother looked as you do before she left me: and will you go also?
What then will become of me?” Tears gushed into Lord Avondale’s eyes,
and trickled down his faded cheeks. “God will bless and protect my
boy,” he said, endeavouring to raise himself sufficiently to press
his little cherub lips. It was like a blushing rose, placed by the
hand of affection upon a lifeless corpse—so healthful bloomed the
child, so pale the parent stem!
“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?”
The celestial ray which had lighted up the face of the angel, passed
from before it at these words; and he beheld the form of Calantha, pale
and ghastly, as when last they had parted. In seeming answer to his
question, she pressed her hands to her bosom in silence, and casting
upon him a look so mournful that it pierced his heart, she faded from
before his sight, dissolving like the silvery cloud into thin air.
At that moment, as he looked around, the bright sun which had risen
with such glorious promise, was seen to sink in mists of darkness,
and with its setting ray, seemed to tell him that his hour was come,
that the light of his genius was darkened, that the splendour of his
promise was set for ever: but he met the awful warning without fear.
And now again he slept; and it seemed to him that he was wandering in
a smooth vale, far from the haunts of men. The place was familiar to
his memory:—it was such as he had often seen amidst the green plains
of his native country, in the beautiful season of spring; and ever
and anon upon his ear he heard the church-bell sounding from afar
off, while the breeze, lately risen, rustled among the new leaves
and long grass. Fear even touched a heart that never yet had known
its power. The shadows varied on the plain before him, and threw a
melancholy gloom on the surrounding prospect. Again the church-bell
tolled; but it was not the merry sound of some village festival, nor
yet the more sober bell that calls the passenger to prayer. No, it
was that long and pausing knell, which, as it strikes the saddened
ear, tells of some fellow-creature’s eternal departure from this lower
world: and ever while it tolled, the dreary cry of woe lengthened
upon the breeze, mourning a spirit fled. Glenarvon thought he heard
a step slowly stealing towards him; he even felt the breath of some
one near; and raising his eye in haste, he perceived the thin form
of a woman close beside him. In her arms she held a child, more wan
than herself. At her approach, a sudden chill seemed to freeze the
life-blood in his heart.
He gazed again. “Is it Calantha?” said he. “Ah, no! it was the form
of Alice.” She appeared as one returned from the grave, to which
long mourning and untimely woes had brought her.—“Clarence,” she said
in a piercing voice, “since you have abandoned me I have known many
sorrows. The God of Mercy deal not with you as you have dealt with
me!” She spoke no more; but gazing in agony upon an infant which lay
at her bosom, she looked up to Heaven, from whence her eyes slowly
descended upon Glenarvon. She then approached, and taking the babe
from her breast, laid it cold and lifeless on his heart. It was the
chill of death which he felt—when, uttering a deep groan, he started
up with affright.
The drops stood upon his forehead—his hands shook—he looked round him,
but no image like the one he had beheld was near. The whiteness of
the eastern sky foretold the approach of day. The noise and bustle in
the ship, the signal songs of the sailors, and the busy din around,
told him that he had slept enough. The Dutch squadron now appeared
at a distance upon the sea: every thing was ready for attack.
That day Lord Glenarvon fought with more than his usual bravery. He
was the soul and spirit which actuated and moved every other. At twelve
the engagement became general, every ship coming into action with its
opponent. It was about four in the afternoon, when the victory was
clearly decided in favour of the British flag. The splendid success
was obtained by unequalled courage, and heroic valour. The result
it is not for me to tell. Many received the thanks of their brave
commander on that day; many returned in triumph to the country, and
friends who proudly awaited them. The Emerald frigate, and its gallant
captain, prepared likewise to return; but Glenarvon, after the action,
was taken ill. He desired to be carried upon deck; and, placing his
hand upon his head, while his eyes were fixed, he enquired of those
around if they did not hear a signal of distress, as if from the
open sea. He then ordered the frigate to approach the spot whence
the guns were fired. A fresh breeze had arisen: the Emerald sailed
before the wind. To his disturbed imagination the same solemn sound
was repeated in the same direction.—No sail appeared—still the light
frigate pursued. “Visions of death and horror persecute me,” cried
Glenarvon. “What now do I behold—a ship astern! It is singular. Do
others see the same, or am I doomed to be the sport of these absurd
fancies? Is it that famed Dutch merchantman, condemned through all
eternity to sail before the wind, which seamen view with terror,
whose existence until this hour I discredited?” He asked this of his
companions; but the smile with which Glenarvon spoke these words, gave
place to strong feelings of surprise and alarm.—Foreign was the make
of that ship; sable were its sails; sable was the garb of its crew;
but ghastly white and motionless were the countenances of all. Upon
the deck there stood a man of great height and size, habited in the
apparel of a friar. His cowl concealed his face; but his crossed hands
and uplifted attitude announced his profession. He was in prayer:—he
prayed much, and earnestly—it was for the souls of his crew. Minute
guns were fired at every pause; after which a slow solemn chaunt
began; and the smoke of incense ascended till it partially concealed
the dark figures of the men.
Glenarvon watched the motions of that vessel in speechless horror;
and now before his wondering eyes new forms arose, as if created by
delirium’s power to augment the strangeness of the scene. At the feet
of the friar there knelt a form so beautiful—so young, that, but for
the foreign garb and well remembered look, he had thought her like the
vision of his sleep, a pitying angel sent to watch and save him.—“O
fiora bella,” he cried; “first, dearest, and sole object of my devoted
love, why now appear to wake the sleeping dæmons in my breast—to
madden me with many a bitter recollection?” The friar at that moment,
with relentless hand, dashed the fair fragile being, yet clinging
round him for mercy, into the deep dark waters. “Monster,” exclaimed
Glenarvon, “I will revenge that deed even in thy blood.” There was
no need:—the monk drew slowly from his bosom the black covering that
enshrouded his form. Horrible to behold!—that bosom was gored with
deadly wounds, and the black spouting streams of blood, fresh from
the heart, uncoloured by the air, gushed into the wave. “Cursed be
the murderer in his last hour!—Hell waits its victim.”—Such was the
chaunt which the sable crew ever and anon sung in low solemn tones.
Well was it understood by Glenarvon, though sung in a foreign dialect.
“Comrades,” he exclaimed, “do you behold that vessel? Am I waking,
or do my eyes, distempered by some strange malady, deceive me? Bear
on. It is the last command of Glenarvon. Set full the sails. Bear
on,—bear on: to death or to victory!—It is the enemy of our souls you
see before you. Bear on—to death, to vengeance; for all the fiends of
hell have conspired our ruin.” They sailed from coast to coast—They
sailed from sea to sea, till lost in the immensity of ocean. Gazing
fixedly upon one object, all maddening with superstitious terror, Lord
Glenarvon tasted not of food or refreshment. His brain was burning.
His eye, darting forward, lost not for one breathing moment sight of
that terrific vision.
Madness to phrenzy came upon him. In vain his friends, and many of the
brave companions in his ship, held him struggling in their arms. He
seized his opportunity. “Bear on,” he cried: “pursue, till death and
vengeance—” and throwing himself from the helm, plunged headlong into
the waters. They rescued him; but it was too late. In the struggles
of ebbing life, even as the spirit of flame rushed from the bands of
mortality, visions of punishment and hell pursued him. Down, down,
he seemed to sink with horrid precipitance from gulf to gulf, till
immured in darkness; and as he closed his eyes in death, a voice,
loud and terrible, from beneath, thus seemed to address him:
“Hardened and impenitent sinner! the measure of your iniquity is
full: the price of crime has been paid: here shall your spirit dwell
for ever, and for ever. You have dreamed away life’s joyous hour,
nor made atonement for error, nor denied yourself aught that the
fair earth presented you. You did not controul the fiend in your
bosom, or stifle him in his first growth: he now has mastered you,
and brought you here: and you did not bow the knee for mercy whilst
time was given you: now mercy shall not be shewn. O, cry upwards
from these lower pits, to the friends and companions you have left,
to the sinner who hardens himself against his Creator—who basks in
the ray of prosperous guilt, nor dreams that his hour like yours is
at hand. Tell him how terrible a thing is death; how fearful at such
an hour is remembrance of the past. Bid him repent, but he shall
not hear you. Bid him amend, but like you he shall delay till it is
too late. Then, neither his arts, nor talents, nor his possessions,
shall save him, nor friends, though leagued together more than ten
thousand strong; for the axe of justice must fall. God is just; and
the spirit of evil infatuates before he destroys.”
THE END.
B. Clarke, Printer, Well Street, London.