The women grumblingly obeyed, and he stooped down to examine his patient.
“When did this happen, Jenny?”
“Last night, sir.”
“Why didn’t you send before?”
“We did send to one here in the village, but he wouldn’t come, because she belonged to the circus. He sent her this,” handing him a paper.
“Umph! ‘The World and its Amusements on the Broad Way.’ Just like that sanctimonious Jennings. Sends the woman a tract, and lets her suffer all day long.”
“Doctor,” said the sick woman, “how long can I live.”
“Live, woman! why, you’re good for another forty years yet.”
“No, doctor, I’m not—I feel I’m not long for this world.”
“Oh! all nonsense!” said he, “you’ll soon get over this.” And with like comforting assurances he sought to raise her from her depressed condition. In about ten minutes he went to the door and said, “Come in here, one of you, while I go to the gig.” He soon came back, and the woman remained with him.
In a little while the Clown came up to the group of women outside the door, and leaning in all attitudes against the sides and steps of the waggon.
“Well, has he come?”
“Yes, he has been in this quarter of an hour.”
“What does he say?”
“‘Oh! she’ll do,’ he says, didn’t he?” said one of them, turning to another for confirmation.
He soon left, and his voice was heard shouting some old witticism of the ring as though there were no such things as sick wives and doctors in the world. In a few minutes more he came again quite out of breath from a last somersault, the approbation of which was still heard. Seeing the door partially open he entered, and his face looked joyous, as the wail of a child greeted him.
“Which is it? A boy?”
“Yes,” said Jenny.
The answer was unheard by him, for there stretched out in death—lay the mother. Contrary to the doctor’s expectation the accident and premature delivery had caused her death.
Yes! There she lay; the hollow sunken eyes—made unnaturally bright by the traces of rouge upon her cheeks—the jaw fallen. Death was evidently there and he saw it. She with whom he had hoped to share all the cares and joys of life; now that the only difference they had ever had was removed. She was dead! The man seemed stunned. A strange pair they looked;—he in the motley and paint of his calling; she—dead!
“Bear up, Bill,” said Jenny, approaching him with the child; “it’s a boy, Bill; and she wanted it to be called after you.”
The man seemed not to hear, but, walking up to the bed, and taking one of the dead hands in his, kissed it gently, as though afraid of waking her; and then, as though his loss had just been realised, muttered, “Dead! dead!” and lay down, his face close to hers, kissing the fast cooling lips with frantic earnestness. “Dead—dead—dead!” still came between his choking sobs. To him the women, moving to and fro in offices about the child, were not: to him, useless was the doctor’s farewell. “Dead—dead—dead!” and the heaving chest and bursting eyeballs found relief in tears.
“There, don’t take on so, Bill!” said one, trying to raise him; “don’t take on so hard, Bill!”
She might as well have spoken to the box on which he half sat, half leaned, as he hung over his dead wife. They then tried to get to close the staring eyes; but a look which appalled them shook their nerves too much to allow of a second trial. A noise outside now attracted them to the door.
“What’s the matter, now?”
“Matter, enough!” said a harsh, grating voice. “Here’s Chapman so drunk he can’t go in, and Bill’s skulking because his wife’s sick; there never was a fellow in the ring worse treated than I am.”
“She is dead, Whips,” said one, pointing with her thumb back to the waggon.
“Dead!” said he.
“Yes; and he’s there, too.”
“Well, if that ain’t too had,” said he: “here’s the last scene before the quadrille, and no clown—it’ll ruin the circus. The second night, too; her last night’s jump has filled the place—there ain’t standing room—and they’ve been calling for her all the evening. Dead,” said he again, as though his loss were caused by her neglect. “Who’d have thought it? What’s to be done?”
“Can’t you make Chapman do?”
“No, he’s a fool any time to Bill, and now he’s drunk he’s no use at all. What’s to be done? I don’t know.”
Here he was obliged to leave, for the uproar in the circus was deafening. “Clown! Clown!” was the only cry they would make. In vain did Whips drive the horses faster and faster, till the “Corsican Brothers” were nearly in a horizontal position with their speed; nothing would appease the now excited people.
Whips came out again. “Where’s Bill?” said he.
“Here, Bill,” said Jenny, “Whips wants you.”
“Who wants me?” said the man.
“Here, Bill, I do,” said the voice at the door.
Jenny gave the child to one of the women, took him by the arm, and led him to the door.
“Bill,” said Whips, “here’s Chapman as drunk as a beast, and the people crying out for you like mad. Can’t you go?”
“Go!” said he, pointing to the body. “How can I go? No, I can’t go.”
“Well, Bill, you must; it’s only the second night, here’s the queen away and no clown.”
“Well, there’s only the Indian warrior to go in,” said Bill.
“Well, I know that, but what’s the good of him without somebody to give him his things? What’s the good of my giving him his club and bow, or the paddle either? No, Bill, you must go: it won’t do to send in any one else now, they’d pull the place down.”
Here another and louder cry reached them.
“There now,” said Whips, “that’s it; there’s the ‘Corsican Brothers’ has been agoing round this quarter of an hour, till they’re sick of it, and