Chapter 4

CHAPTER IV.

SEPTEMBER 30th to OCTOBER 6th.--The "Chancellor" is a rapid
sailer, and more than a match for many a vessel of the same
dimensions. She scuds along merrily in the freshening breeze,
leaving in her wake, far as the eye can reach, a long white line
of foam as well defined as a delicate strip of lace stretched
upon an azure ground.

The Atlantic is not visited by many gales, and I have every
reason to believe that the rolling and pitching of the vessel no
longer incommode any of the passengers, who are all more or less
accustomed to the sea. A vacant seat at our table is now very
rare; we are beginning to know something about each other, and
our daily life, in consequence, is becoming somewhat less
monotonous.

M. Letourneur, our French fellow-passenger, often has a chat with
me. He is a fine tall man, about fifty years of age, with white
hair and a grizzly beard. To say the truth, he looks older than
he really is: his drooping head, his dejected manner, and his
eye, ever and again suffused with tears, indicate that he is
haunted by some deep and abiding sorrow. He never laughs; he
rarely even smiles, and then only on his son: his countenance
ordinarily bearing a look of bitterness tempered by affection,
while his general expression is one of caressing tenderness. It
excites an involuntary commiseration to learn that M. Letourneur
is consuming himself by exaggerated reproaches on account of the
infirmity of an afflicted son.

Andre Letourneur is about twenty years of age, with a gentle,
interesting countenance, but, to the irrepressible grief of his
father, is a hopeless cripple. His left leg is miserably
deformed, and he is quite unable to walk without the assistance
of a stick. It is obvious that the father's life is bound up
with that of his son; his devotion is unceasing; every thought,
every glance is for Andre; he seems to anticipate his most
trifling wish, watches his slightest movement, and his arm is
ever ready to support or otherwise assist the child whose
sufferings he more than shares.

M. Letourneur seems to have taken a peculiar fancy to myself, and
constantly talks about Andre. This morning, in the course of
conversation, I said,--

"You have a good son, M. Letourneur. I have just been talking to
him. He is a most intelligent young man."

"Yes, Mr. Kazallon," replied M. Letourneur, brightening up into a
smile, "his afflicted frame contains a noble mind. He is like
his mother, who died at his birth."

"He is full of reverence and love for you, sir," I remarked.

"Dear boy!" muttered the father half to himself. "Ah, Mr.
Kazallon," he continued, "you do not know what it is to a father
to have a son a cripple,