“How glad should I be,” said Francis, “if my good grandmamma were there; she loved me so much, and was always giving me sweetmeats.” This was the mother of my dear wife, from whom she had parted with extreme regret; I knew that a single word from the child would have revived all her sorrows, and would in her present state be dangerous. I therefore forbade him naming such a thing to his mother, even if we mentioned the vessel.
We ascended, and found our dear patient awake, with Ernest at her side, his hand tied up, and somewhat relieved; though, from not having applied the water immediately, there were several blisters, which he requested me to open. It was necessary to tell his mother he had had a burn; she named several remedies, and I was hesitating which to use, when Fritz, giving me a significant glance, said, “Don’t you think, father, that the leaves of the karata, which cured Jack’s leg so well, would be as serviceable to Ernest’s hand?”
“I have no doubt of it,” said I; “but we have none here.”
“I know very well where they grow,” said he. “Come, Jack, we shall soon be there; we shall have a little rain, but what of that? we shall not be melted, and we can have a bath.”
My wife was divided between her desire to relieve Ernest, and her fear of the boys venturing out in such a stormy night. She agreed at last, provided Jack had my cloak, and Fritz the boots, and that they should take the lantern. Thus equipped, they set out; I accompanied them outside the tree; Fritz assuring me they would be back in three hours, at most. He intended to proceed along the rocks towards Tent House, to make what observations he could; for, as he told me, he could not get the poor captain and his vessel out of his head. It was now seven o’clock; I gave them my blessing, and left them with injunctions to be prudent, and returned with an anxious heart to my invalids.
CHAPTER XXXV.
On entering, I found Francis sitting on his mother’s bed, telling her the story of the lightning, of the wire which was called a conductor, of the figs that he was going to gather for her, and that papa had called him—little Francis—the preserver of the whole family. Having briefly explained to them the results of Francis’s fortunate device, I procured some raw potato to apply to Ernest’s hand, which still gave him great pain, and bathed my wife’s foot with some eau d’arquebusade, which I procured from my medicine-chest; here I also met with some laudanum, a few drops of which I infused into the lemonade, wishing her to sleep till her sons returned. She soon was in a sweet slumber; the boys followed her example, and I was left alone with my anxieties; happy, however, to see them at rest after such an evening of agitation. The hours passed, still my children returned not. I was continually at the window, listening for their steps or the sound of their voices; I heard only the rain falling in torrents, the waves breaking against the rocks, and the wind howling frightfully. I could not help thinking of the danger they ran, having twice to cross the river, which was doubtless swollen by the rain. I was not so much alarmed for Fritz, a strong, bold youth of nineteen years of age, and a determined hunter: as for poor Jack, bold even to rashness, and having neither strength nor experience to secure him, I could not help fancying him carried away by the stream, and his brother not daring to return without him. My wife occasionally awoke, but the narcotic stupified her; she did not perceive the absence of her sons. Francis slept tranquilly; but when Ernest awoke, and heard the tempest so terribly augmented, he was almost distracted; all his selfishness, all his indolence disappeared. He entreated me to allow him to go in search of his brothers, and with difficulty I detained him. To convince him that he was not the sole cause of the danger of Fritz and Jack, I related to him, for the first time, the history of the boat and the vessel, and assured him that the great cause of their anxiety to go over to Tent House, was to search for some traces of the unfortunate seamen and their vessel, exposed to that furious sea.
“And Fritz, also, is exposed to that sea,” cried Ernest. “I know it; I am sure that he is at this moment in his canoe, struggling against the waves!”
“And Jack, my poor Jack!” sighed I, infected with his fears.