arms round him, while she told him of young Bennett’s generous self-devotion, and the desperate, though fruitless, strife he had waged with death rather than abandon those who could not help themselves.
While she told her tale she wept bitterly, but it was not for herself her tears fell, nor even for her father, but for the brave and true-hearted young sailor who had seemed so worthy of a better fate.
“Oh!” she exclaimed, “it was terrible to see him go down. I trusted that God would have preserved him.”
“My darling, there is no cause to grieve so bitterly for him,” said Mr. Lennox; “he has died a death of heroism and self-sacrifice, and the life that ends in such a death cannot have been in vain. This earth is but a little spot in God’s universe, and doubt not but in some other world, brighter, purer, nobler than ours, he will live again. He who has passed the dark gate of death by an act of such brave self-devotion, is more to be envied than pitied. That gate is opening for us, too, my darling; do you fear to enter it?”
She thought of her father, and love stronger than death gave courage to her sinking heart, and firmness to her failing nerves; twining her arms more fondly about him, she said firmly:
“No, father, I do not fear. God is good; let us trust in him.”
Mr. Lennox could not answer, but he clasped her more closely to his heart, feeling a mournful comfort in the thought that, happen what might, they would share it together. During that minute, fresh hope and energy, in answer to her voiceless prayers for strength and support, sprang up in Helen’s heart. Her brave and active nature could not give way to despair yet.
“Some one from the shore must soon see us,” she said, “and surely they will make some effort to save us. If the schooner only holds together a little while longer we may be saved!” Springing up, she again crossed the deck, and looked towards the land. “Oh, father!” she cried, “I see people on the shore. Is there nothing I could do to let them know, there are living beings on the wreck?”
Her father, almost insensible from illness, and the agitation he had suffered, did not hear her, but filled with hope, Helen climbed to the highest part of the vessel she could reach, and untying a large scarf which she had wrapt round her when leaving the cabin, she waved it repeatedly. In a little while, she called out again.
“They are putting out a boat. Oh, my God! how it blows, and those awful waves! I cannot watch them any longer.”
And pale and cold, trembling with agitation, she crept back to her father’s side.
THE LAST OF THE CONDÉS.
Chantilly, the favourite residence of the Great Condé, stands at a convenient distance of only three or four miles from the Great Trunk Railway between Paris and Brussels, and is an easy détour even for people in a hurry en route from Amiens to the capital. Leaving the train at St. Len, a diligence rattles over the hilly road leading to the village, and it was in this conveyance that, in the month of September, 1859, we made our entry—a party of three, with a great clatter—into the courtyard of the Hotel d’Angleterre.
The cold, dark, deserted salle-à-manger, with its bare stone floor, and great unlighted chimney, augured ill; but the speedy appearance of the landlady with a couple of flaming bougies—an illuminated edition of good-humour and hospitality —followed in the natural order of sequence by a blazing wood-fire on the broad hearth, and active preparations for a good dinner, soon brought about a restoration of confidence. The evening passed off pleasantly in that inexhaustible after-dinner fireside chat of travellers, the staple whereof is to day’s experiences and to-morrow’s anticipations; and we went to bed fully prepared to enjoy that “bon repos” which every considerate French landlady wishes her guests.
Next morning the black-eyed fille-de-chambre showed us a short cut to the château. It was a pleasant road running along the outskirts of the village parallel with the main street within, and leading us, with considerable saving of paving stones and distance, past a row of nice rural residences fronting the smooth plain that intervenes between the village and the forest of Chantilly. Presently we came to a grand ruin, whose vast proportions and imposing front, as it stood on an eminence of some distance from the town, led us to suppose that it was the remains of the great château which we knew had been destroyed in the old Revolution. But a reference to the guide-book proved it to be only ruins of the stables, which had been built in the most princely style to accommodate 180 horses; and even now, in their dilapidated state, roofless and crumbling, were a splendid pile, easily to be mistaken for a palace.
Further on we reached the gate of the park, and by virtue of a billet d’entrée were admitted into its enclosure, free to explore its beauties at will. The grounds are charmingly disposed, unlike the stiff magnificence of Versailles, where
Grove nods to grove, each alley has its brother,
with less regard to mathematics and more deference to Nature.
It was Condé himself who delighted to direct their arrangement and decoration. He had a natural fondness for gardening, which here found ample room for its exercise. The shady avenues, the entangled shrubbery, the crystal sheets of water, the cool retreats and sunny lawns, are all souvenirs of the hero. True it is that the Chantilly of to-day is sadly fallen from its high estate, and the glowing descriptions of Desormeaux and Gourville, who dwell on its magnificence as worthy of note even in the extravagant era of its creation, far surpass its present reality. The parterres and stately statues, the prodigious number of fountains which were heard night and day, and which were ever refreshing the air, the grand canal, whose works cost upwards of 40,000 livres yearly; of these the Revolution destroyed the most.
