# Once a Week (magazine)/Series 1/Volume 1/The queen of the arena

THE QUEEN OF THE ARENA.
t was a strange scene. The waggon was close to the circus, formed indeed part of it—the poor woman was lying on the low shelf, called the bed, of the travelling caravan; two or three of the wives of the men attached to the exhibition were round her, endeavouring by their exertions to relieve momentarily increasing pain, and helping her to bear it patiently by their sympathy.
“He ought to have been here half an hour ago,” said one of the women. “Jim started for him on the piebald two hours since?”
“Did he take the piebald?” said another. “Why I thought he was in the Italian Lovers?”
“No, he wouldn’t run with the spotted mare, so they’ve put the blind grey with her, and took the piebald in the quadrille for Dick Gravel to take bottom couple with.”
The explanation seemed satisfactory, for silence ensued.
Presently a roar of such laughter as is only heard in a circus at a country village,—fresh, genuine, hearty,—shook the sides of the frail vehicle.
“What’s that?” said the apparently dying woman.
“Only your Bill’s Quaker story,” said one.
“O, then he’ll soon be here, won’t he?” said she.
“Yes, he’s only got three more points, and then he’ll come: he don’t go in in the Sylph scene.”
“Three fainter peals of laughter told that the three points had hit, but not as well as the Quaker Story; and then he came in.
“Well,” said he, “how is she now?” in a voice whose anxiety contrasted most strangely with his tawdry dress, that of tumbling clown at a travelling circus. “How is she now?”
“I’m better, Bill,” said the woman. “Can you stop a little?”
“Yes; I don’t go in next, it’s Chapman’s turn;” and so saying, the man seated himself by the side of the woman.
She was still young, and, as far as the dim light hung from the roof would enable a judgment to be formed, good-looking; the cork-grimed eyebrows, and cracked lips, and dry cheeks, told that she too had appeared before the public for its amusement; indeed the traces of rouge were still on parts of the face, and told too truly that she had lain there but a short time, only since the last evening’s performance: indeed, when, during one of her jumps through the hoop, a man’s putting on his hat startled the horse, and so caused a false step, which brought her heavily to the ground. The experienced ring-master saw she could scarcely stand, and handed her out, kissing her hand in the usual style, and few, if any, of the spectators knew that when rapturously applauding the most unparalleled feat, the leap from the horse’s back through the hoop to the ground, their applause was unheard by their intended object. She had fainted immediately on reaching the dressing-room, and was at once carried to the moving chamber where she now lay.
​Page:Once a Week Jul - Dec 1859.pdf/68 ​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 ​the grey’ll be so lame to-morrow she won’t stir a peg. It’s no use, Bill, you must go.”
“I can’t, Whips; it’ll be no use if I do.”
“O, yes, you will; you must go, or I’ll have to throw up the agreement, and you know you’ve overdrawed your money this last two weeks.”
“Well, I know it,” said the man, evidently irresolute now at this threat.
“Well, then, go in if it’s only five minutes. Here, take a drink of this, it will give you heart.”
The man took the proffered flask, and drank deeply.
“Well,” said Whips, “you’ll go, Bill, won’t you?”
“O, yes, I’ll go,” said the man, “go on.”
They left the waggon, and the repeated rounds of applause showed that the public was satisfied. The clown was never more witty, never more agile. Somersault after somersault, leap after leap was taken with a recklessness that nothing could equal; again and again the encores of the élite, and the bravos of the vulgar, spurred his exertions. At last it ended, and the quadrille came on. The clown left the ring, with the plaudits ringing in his ears, and came to the waggon to find—Alas! What?
At the conclusion of the quadrille those in the waggon heard a cry.
“What is it?” said the man, now in his old position, close to the body, with her hand locked in his, and his eyes fixed on her face. “What’s that?”
“They’re calling for her,” said Jenny, pointing to the form in the bed.
There was a lull, and then a long thunder of clapping hands and stamping feet, rose and died away.
“What’s that last?” asked the woman, holding the child, of a person entering.
“O! they called for the queen, and old Whips made a speech, and said she was rather unwell, and could not appear, but would most likely be better to-morrow, when she would again perform her celebrated feat of leaping through the hoop to the ground.”
“Well, my dears,” said the doctor, at the supper-table to his children, “How did you like it?”
“O! we didn’t see the queen, father.”
“No?”
“No, not at all; the man in the ring said she was not well, but would be there tomorrow, and the clown was so good, father, in the scene with the savage.”
“Was he, my dear. Do you know why you didn’t see the queen?”
“No.”
A. S. H.