as tender, while out-door gardeners suffered losses bewailed bitterly for many a long year. There were muscular young Christians who enjoyed that cold amazingly, as, well fed and well clad, bearing torches, they skated along the Serpentine, or in Regent’s Park, and laughed hugely when any of their weaker brethren or sisters complained. But, nevertheless, the night’s frost played sad havoc with the old, the feeble, and the tender. It crept into that attic in Parker’s Piece, where that poor needlewoman lived. There was no fire in her empty grate to keep it out, no extra blanket for her bed, no vital warmth in her attenuated frame to withstand its fatal power; and when the early sunbeams made their way through the frosted window with difficulty, they lit up, not the pale face of a living woman, but of a corpse. She had been sorely tried that day. The last straw had broken the camel’s back. Christian charity – while it relieved the undeserving, while it had feasted the reprobate – had passed by her, because, poor as she was, she was a real woman with all a woman’s self-respect and sensitiveness to shame, not a drunken, dissipated wretch of brazen face and fluent tongue. Her heart was broken already, and she fell an easy prey to the cold as it stiffened her withered limbs and stopped her poor heart’s action and dried up the feeble current of her blood. Again the coroner came to Parker’s Piece, and an intelligent jury returned a verdict of ‘Death from the visitation of God.’ Dear reader, you and I know better; she was murdered, and a day will come when some one will have to suffer for that deed – murdered she was, as surely as if her throat had been cut by the assassin’s knife. There are thousands in this land of churches and chapels and abounding charities who die in this way every year, and someone, statesman, or parson, or philanthropist, or master, or neighbour, is to blame. As regards each of us, it is as well that we pray with David, ‘Deliver me from blood-guiltiness, O God of my salvation.’ It is only as we realize the spirit of that prayer that we can save the perishing. That is the remedy, and not the dream of the Utopian, or the Socialist, or the mad result of anarchy and crime.
CHAPTER II.
THE ACTRESS AND THE WAIF
A lady – a genius, beautiful in face, well formed in person, one of Nature’s nobility if of doubtful pedigree – had been giving a Shakespearian reading or recitation, it matters not which, to a highly respectable audience in a highly respectable county town. The leading county families had, as they were bound to do, put in an appearance on the occasion. Wealthy manufacturers, who did not much care about that sort of thing themselves, had sent their women-folk, always delighted to show that they could dress as well, and look as grand, as the wives and daughters of men whose ancestors had fought at Agincourt or at the Battle of Hastings. Bevies of sweet girl graduates, from the neighbouring female academies, had come to listen and admire; while a few of the superior class of tradesmen and local magnates had kindly condescended to patronize the star that had suddenly appeared in their midst, and whose portrait for some weeks previous had ornamented their walls and shop windows – in the case of the latter by means of photographs, while big lithographs were available for posters. The audience were deeply affected, some with the loveliness of the actress, others, a more select and elderly party, with her dramatic power. According to local journals, the actress was greeted with an ovation as she resumed her seat. All eyes were turned on her as she retired from the scene of her triumphs, fevered with excitement, wearied with her physical exertion, flushed with the applause she had honestly won, her brain still reeking with excitement, her whole figure quivering with emotion, her eyes still glistening with the light that never shone on sea or shore.
By the side of the public hall was a small committee-room, into which our heroine was led, having previously effected a change in her dress and put on her bonnet.
‘How far is it to the railway-station?’ she asked of the committee who had managed the undertaking, and who, as the model men of the town, embalmed or embodied in themselves all those superior virtues which we invariably associate with respectability and wealth, as they stood in a semicircle round her chair, timidly and admiringly – timidly, for they were all respectable married men and had characters to lose; admiringly, because for two hours the actress, by her magic art, had opened up to them something greater and grander than even the busy life of Sloville town itself.
‘How far is it to the railway-station?’ repeated the Mayor, with an anxious and troubled visage, as if such a question had never been put to him before.
‘A carriage will take you there in less than ten minutes,’ said the Town Clerk, rushing, as he was bound to do, to the relief of the august head of the Corporation.
‘My mare will take you there in five minutes,’ said the old church Vicar, not willing to hide his light under a bushel, and at the same time glad to say a good word for the animal in question. His reverence, it is to be feared, was not much of a theologian, but there were two things which everyone admitted he did understand, and they were – horses and wine.
‘My brougham is quite at your service,’ said the Mayor, who was of the party, and who began to fear that unless he asserted himself he would be left out in the cold altogether.
‘Thank you, gentlemen, but I’d rather walk,’ said the actress.
She had passed her childhood in that town, and she was anxious to see what alterations had been made by Time’s effacing fingers since she had last looked wistfully at its shop-windows, or with girlish glee had walked its streets.
‘Walk!’ all exclaimed, in a tone which intimated not a little surprise at the absurdity of the idea.
‘Yes,’ repeated the lady calmly, ‘I’d rather walk. Why shouldn’t I? there is plenty of time, and the weather is beautiful. I really should enjoy it.’
‘Well, madam,’ said the Mayor, ‘if you insist upon it, of course we cannot be so rude as to prevent it. I think I may also say, on behalf of the Corpo – I beg pardon, on behalf of the committee, that if you do walk we shall all be delighted to accompany you to the railway-station.’
‘And so say all of us,’ said the Town Clerk, blushing as soon as he finished, fearing that the levity of his speech might not be acceptable to the Vicar. He was, however, delighted to find his remark received with universal assent.
‘You’re very kind,’ said the lady; ‘I am sorry to give you so much trouble.’
‘No trouble at all, madam,’ was, of course, the polite reply of the whole party.
‘You will take a little refreshment before you go?’ said the Mayor. ‘Let me offer you a glass of wine.’
‘No, I thank you, I’d rather not. I am a teetotaler.’
‘You don’t mean that,’ said the Mayor, who was a brewer, and who had ridden into place and power by means of his barrels; ‘you don’t think a glass of wine wicked, I hope?’
‘Oh no! I’m not so absurd as all that.’
‘Such an exciting life as yours must really require a little stimulus; let me give you half a glass,’ said the Vicar.
‘Not a drop, thank you.’
‘Then you have taken the pledge?’
‘Oh no!’ said the lady, laughing; ‘I am not so bad as to require that. I am never tempted to drink. If I thought it would do me any good, I would take a glass of wine; but I find I am better without it, and so I don’t.’
‘What, then, will you take?’
‘A cup of tea.’
‘A cup of tea – how provoking! That’s about the only thing we can’t give you here.’
‘Well, then, I
