“One thing is certain, that these bone-setting bodies learn a great deal about the human frame,” he said to himself; “not scientific information, but something that’s like inspiration sometimes. It might be too late; or it might be nonsense altogether. Perhaps he could do nothing for poor Tom, perhaps—should I go back and speak to Thomas, and try? But what’s the good of disturbing the poor fellow for nothing? It could not come to anything; you may mend legs and arms, but you cannot mend the spine. God bless us all; this is what it comes to, to give a lad his own way, and let him take his swing! And it will kill his father. Never was it known yet, in all the records, that a Hay-Heriot died like this—the heir without an heir; leaving it all to go in the second line. If I could but know whether this Job what-do-you-call-him would be of any use! It would worry Thomas to ask him; but what of that if it saved the lad? My mind’s in a terrible swither, whether to try or not. Job! Job! It’s an uncanny kind of name. Oh, my bonnie May, if I could but have five minutes speech of you to say ay or no! And there’s no time, if anything can be done. I think I’ll risk it. God help us! He knows; but we do not; it can do no harm. Hey! hi! hem! you crooked old body! That’s uncivil; he’ll pay no attention. I want the other man, a bit little withered up, crooked—Hi! my good man; come here and tell me where your Job—what do you call him—is to be found. I don’t know if he can do anything; but if you’ll show me where he lives, I’ll try.”
“Lord bless you, Sir, I knew as you were a reasonable gentleman,” said the ostler, limping up. “It’s but a poor place, but what o’ that? and master and groom we’re all much the same. Leastways, so far as bones go, as is the foundation like. This way, Sir; it ain’t above ten minutes from here—if Job’s in; which he ain’t always, at this time of the day. Gentlefolks thinks little of him; but poor folks think much; and he’s out and about over all the country, wherever there is a leg out, or a bone broken. It is a chance if we find ’im; but a man can but do his best, when all’s said; and it ain’t not more than ten, or say fifteen minutes walk.”
“Quick, man, quick!” said Mr. Charles; but the road to Job’s house was through the back streets of the little town, which were swarming with children, and full of wandering provision merchants selling vegetables and earthenware, and a great many other descriptions of merchandize; for it was Saturday, and market-day. To the stranger, with his sick heart and his brain buzzing with pain and suspense, the twistings and turnings of the narrow lanes, the streets they had to cross, the passages they threaded through, the corners they turned seemed endless. What a fool’s errand it was, after all, he thought! and then something seemed to call him, which sounded now like Marjory’s appealing voice—now like poor Tom’s cry of pain. What was he doing here, astray, in a strange place? seeking out some unknown quack; leaving his own people perhaps to bear “the worst that could happen,” without such support as he could give? He suddenly turned round, while his guide was enlarging upon Job’s gifts, and upon the unlikelihood of finding him—an argument which was not intended to discourage Mr. Charles, but only to enhance Job’s importance—
“Go yourself and find him!” he said; “I’m going back! I’m going back! I may be wanted. Bring the man, and I’ll pay him—and you too.” And with these words Mr. Charles darted across the street, with a vain but confident endeavour to re-traverse the way he had come. He fell over the children; he was all but run down by the wheelbarrows; and as was natural, he lost his way. And words could not tell the painful confusion of his mind as he wound in and out, round and round in a circle, never seeming to approach a step nearer; growing every moment more wretched, more anxious, more confused; figuring to himself what might be passing in the sick-room; how he might be wanted; and how “the worst” might have happened, while he was about this wild goose chase. When he got back at last to the door of the hotel, the old ostler had reached it before him, and stood waiting in the yard with a villainous companion, who pulled his forelock to the confused and tremulous gentleman, and announced himself as Job Turner.
“You mayn’t think he’s much to look at, Sir,” whispered the ostler, under shelter of his hand; “but if you knowed all, as I know—the cures he’s done; the bones he’s set; the folk as he’s brought up from the grave—”
Mr. Charles waved his hand—he was too breathless to speak—and hurried upstairs. A dead calm seemed to have fallen on the house. A frightened woman-servant met him on the stairs, creeping down on tiptoe. It seemed to be years that he had been wandering about the streets, absent from his post. Then the doctor met him, and pointed silently to the closed door, shaking his head. Trembling, conscience-stricken, weary and sick with his suspense, Mr. Charles crept into the sick-room. All was quiet and silent there, except some gasps for breath. Mr. Heriot stood at one side of the bed, Marjory at the other. Fanshawe, Tom’s friend, was at the foot, leaning against the bed, and hiding his face with his hand. Mr. Charles trembled too much to be of use to any one; he stood behind them all, wiping his forehead, trying to see with his hot and dazzled eyes.
Nothing to be done, and nothing to be said! It had come to that. Tom was out of hearing, though they had so much to say to him. And he, too, had much to say, but had left it all unsaid. Who can tell the anguish of such a moment for those who are called upon to survive? To stand by helpless, impotent; willing to do everything, capable of nothing—nothing but to look on. Humanity has no agony so great.
At the very last, poor Tom came out of his death-struggle, as by a miracle, and looked at his watchers.
“I told you, May,” he said, faintly. “I told you!” These were his last words. He seemed to die repeating them in a whisper, which grew fainter and fainter: “I told her—told her; I told—thank God!”
Oh! for what, poor deceived soul? They looked at each other with a thrill of terror which overcame even their grief. What did he thank God for as he crossed the threshold of the other life?