The Survivors of the Chancellor: Chapter 4

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, beyond hope of cure."

"M. Letourneur," I answered, "you take more than your share of
the affliction which has fallen upon you and your son.  That M.
Andre is entitled to the very greatest commiseration no one can
deny; but you should remember, that after all a physical
infirmity is not so hard to bear as mental grief.  Now, I have
watched your son pretty closely, and unless I am much mistaken
there is nothing, that troubles him so much as the sight of your
own sorrow."

"But I never let him see it," he broke in hastily.  "My sole
thought is how to divert him.  I have discovered, that in spite
of his physical weakness, he delights in travelling; so for the
last few years we have been constantly on the move.  We first
went all over Europe, and are now returning from visiting the
principal places in the United States.  I never allowed my son to
go to college, but instructed him entirely myself, and these
travels, I hope, will serve to complete his education.  He is
very intelligent, and has a lively imagination, and I am
sometimes tempted to hope that in contemplating the wonders of
nature he forgets his own infirmity."

"Yes, sir, of course he does," I assented.

"But," continued M. Letourneur, taking my hand, "although,
perhaps, HE may forget, I can never forget.  Ah, sir, do you
suppose that Andre can ever forgive his parents for bringing him
into the world a cripple?"

The remorse of the unhappy father was very distressing, and I was
about to say a few kind words of sympathy when Andre himself made
his appearance.  M. Letourneur hastened toward him and assisted
him up the few steep steps that led to the poop.

As soon as Andre was comfortably seated on one of the benches,
and his father had taken his place by his side, I joined them,
and we fell into conversation upon ordinary topics, discussing
the various points of the "Chancellor," the probable length of
the passage, and the different details of our life on board.  I
find that M. Letourneur's estimate of Captain Huntly's character
very much coincided with my own, and that, like me, he is
impressed with the man's undecided manner and sluggish
appearance.  Like me, too, he has formed a very favourable
opinion of Robert Curtis, the mate, a man of about thirty years
of age, of great muscular power, with a frame and a will that
seem ever ready for action.

Whilst we were still talking of him, Curtis himself came on deck,
and as I watched his movements I could not help being struck with
his physical development; his erect and easy carriage, his
fearless glance and slightly contracted brow all betokened a man
of energy, thoroughly endowed with the calmness and courage that
are indispensable to the true sailor.  He seems a kind-hearted
fellow, too, and is always ready to assist and amuse young
Letourneur, who evidently enjoys his company.  After he had
scanned the weather and examined the trim of the sails, he joined
our party and proceeded to give us some information about those
of our fellow-passengers with whom at present we have made but
slight acquaintance.

Mr. Kear, the American, who is accompanied by his wife, has made
a large fortune in the petroleum springs in the United States.
He is a man of about fifty, a most uninteresting companion, being
overwhelmed with a sense of his own wealth and importance, and
consequently supremely indifferent to all around him.  His hands
are always in his pockets, and the chink of money seems to follow
him wherever he goes.  Vain and conceited, a fool as well as an
egotist, he struts about like a peacock showing its plumage, and
to borrow the words of the physiognomist Gratiolet, "il se
flaire, il se savoure, il se goute."  Why he should have taken
his passage on board a mere merchant vessel instead of enjoying
the luxuries of a Transatlantic steamer, I am altogether at a
loss to explain.

The wife is an insignificant, insipid woman, of about forty years
of age.  She never reads, never talks, and I believe I am not
wrong in saying, never thinks.  She seems to look without seeing,
and listen without hearing, and her sole occupation consists in
giving her orders to her companion, Miss Herbey, a young English
girl of about twenty.

Miss Herbey is extremely pretty.  Her complexion is fair and her
eyes deep blue, whilst her pleasing countenance is altogether
free from that insignificance of feature which is not
unfrequently alleged to be characteristic of English beauty.  Her
mouth would be charming if she ever smiled, but exposed as she is
to the ridiculous whims and fancies of a capricious mistress, her
lips rarely relax from their ordinary grave expression.  Yet
humiliating as her position must be, she never utters a word of
open complaint, but quietly and gracefully performs her duties
accepting without a murmur the paltry salary which the bumptious
petroleum-merchant condescends to allow her.

The Manchester engineer, William Falsten, looks like a thorough
Englishman.  He has the management of some extensive hydraulic
works in South Carolina, and is now on his way to Europe to
obtain some improved apparatus, and more especially to visit the
mines worked by centrifugal force, belonging to the firm of
Messrs. Cail.  He is forty-five years of age, with all his
interests so entirely absorbed by his machinery that he seems to
have neither a thought nor a care beyond his mechanical
calculations.  Once let him engage you in conversation, and there
is no chance of escape; you have no help for it but to listen as
patiently as you can until he has completed the explanation of
his designs.

The last of our fellow-passengers, Mr. Ruby, is the type of a
vulgar tradesman.  Without any originality or magnanimity in his
composition, he has spent twenty years of his life in mere buying
and selling, and as he has generally contrived to do business at
a profit, he has realized a considerable fortune.  What he is
going to do with the money, be does not seem able to say:  his
ideas do not go beyond retail trade, his mind having been so long
closed to all other impressions that it appears incapable of
thought or reflection on any subject besides.  Pascal says,
"L'homme est visiblement fait pour penser.  C'est toute sa
dignite et tout-son merite;" but to Mr. Ruby the phrase seems
altogether inapplicable.

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