That night was one of intense cold-the coldest, in feet, of the year, the coldest of many years-and, as such, noted by distinguished meteorologists. The cold was everywhere; in the palace of the prince, as well as in the hut of the peasant. It crept into Belgravian homes, where the lord and master lined himself with extra good cheer, and warmed himself with extra fires; it made dainty maidens and high-born matrons wrap themselves in extra fur as they drove home from dinner-party or theatre, or concert or ball. In railway carriages there was an extra demand for foot-warmers, and at every refreshment bar there was an incessant demand for a gla.s.s of something hot. It was the same in all the publics and gin-palaces; and it was a curious fact, the poorer the people were, the more eager was their consumption of potent fluids; and how they lingered around the places where they were sold, even when their money and their credit were gone, as if loath to do battle with the cold without as it pinched their gloveless hands or shoeless feet, or as it found its way into their cheerless garret or cellar as the case might be!

In the homes of the well-to-do how the fires blazed, as the fond mother clasped tightly her babe to her bosom for further warmth. In some of the best constructed conservatories the frost nipped off many a tender plant, and as costly 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 pa.s.sed 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 G.o.d.' 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 a.s.sa.s.sin'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 G.o.d 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 n.o.bility 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 cla.s.s 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 sh.o.r.e.

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 a.s.sociate 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 a.s.serted himself he would be left out in the cold altogether.

'Thank you, gentlemen, but I'd rather walk,' said the actress.

She had pa.s.sed 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 a.s.sent.

'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 gla.s.s 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 gla.s.s 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 gla.s.s,' 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 gla.s.s 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 will put up with a gla.s.s of water and a sandwich.'

The Mayor was shocked; he had never heard such a request from a lady before. In his distress he appealed to the Vicar for aid. His reverence was equal to the occasion, actually going so far as to quote St. Paul, and to tell how he recommended Timothy to take a gla.s.s of wine for his stomach's sake and his often infirmities. His reverence did more: he enforced his argument by example, taking a gla.s.s himself, and at the same time recommending the rest of the committee to do the same. 'Fine port that,' said he, smacking his lips and holding up the gla.s.s to the light to see the beeswing.

'Yes,' said the Mayor; 'it was a present to the Corporation from Sir Watkin Strahan.'

The lady coloured as she heard the name. It was observed by the committee, whose inferences were not of the most charitable construction.

Everyone knew that Sir Watkin was rather fast, and was supposed to have great weaknesses as far as actresses were concerned. The situation was becoming embarra.s.sing.

'Had we not better be moving?' asked the lady, rising from her seat.

'Well,' said the Mayor, 'if we start at once, we shall get to the station in ample time.'

The procession was then formed, the Mayor and the lady walking first, the Vicar and the Town Clerk bringing up the rear. Only one of the committee had gone home. He was new to his office; he had made a lot of money in the shoe trade, and had recently retired from business, and was rather doubtful as to the propriety of being seen by daylight walking with an actress in the streets.

On they went. The general public, consisting of school-boys out of school, and of the usual loafers who stand idle all the day long in the market-place, or at the corners of public-houses and livery stables, were not a little shocked as the actress from the Royal Theatre, Covent Garden, walked along the streets as an ordinary Mrs. Jones or Brown might have done.

'Well, I would 'ave 'ad a cab, at any rate,' said the ostler of the leading hotel in the town, as the party pa.s.sed, a remark cordially accepted by his hearers, a seedy and bloated set of horsey-looking men, who seemed to have nothing particular to do, and took a long time to do it in.

''Ow the d.i.c.kens are fellows like me to get a livin' if tip-top actresses like that 'ere young ooman take to walkin'? It's wot I call downright mean. She's been 'ere and took a lot of money out o' the town, and han't spent a blessed bob on a cab.' Here the speaker, overcome with emotion, dived into the pockets of his ragged corduroys, and finding unexpectedly there the price of a pot of beer, repaired to the neighbouring bar, there to solve the question he had anxiously asked; or to forget it, as he took long draughts of his favourite beverage.

Meanwhile the actress and her attendant guardian angels continued walking, she rapidly striving to recollect old shops and old faces, whilst they mechanically uttered the unmeaning nothings that at times-and the present was one of them-are quite as acceptable as real talk. As if by magic, the news spread that the actress was walking to the station, and great was the joy of the young men who served in all the fine shops in the market-place, who had never seen a real live actress from London in the daytime before, and whose remarks were of a highly complimentary order. The shop-girls, who stared, were equally excited, but perhaps a little more disposed to be critical. Further from the town centre the excitement was less evident. People in the genteel villas scarce deigned to turn their heads. To be emotionless and self-possessed is the object of gentility all the world over. People in genteel villas are not easily excited. In the low neighbourhood nearer the station, inhabited by guards and porters and stokers and signalmen, where engines are perpetually whistling and screaming and letting off steam, there was no excitement at all. In such places, during business hours, one has something to think of besides actors and actresses, and so the station yard was very quickly gained. Only were to be seen a few young swells of the town, who turned very red if the actress looked their way, simply gazing respectfully from afar, wishing that they had been walking with the actress instead of the Town Clerk, the Vicar, or the Mayor. The latter worthy was a little proud of his position. He had by his side and under his protection one whom he remarked, aside to his friends, was not only an actress, but a deuced fine woman. The influence of a fine woman on the male mind, especially in the provinces, where overpowering female beauty is scarce, is marvellous. Even the reverend Vicar was not insensible to its fascination; while the Town Clerk, who was a bachelor, was, therefore, very legitimately in the seventh heaven, wherever that may be; and when Sir Watkin Strahan's family coach, with the three old maids of that old family, drove up, those excellently disposed ladies, to whom all Sloville was in the habit of grovelling, for the first time in their lives almost found themselves slighted, though as to what there was extraordinary to look at in that actor-woman from London they could none of them see.

Suddenly the aspect of affairs was changed.

Just outside the railway-station, on the bare earth, sweltering in the summer sun, was a bundle of rags. The actress was the first to perceive it

'What is that?' she exclaimed,

'A bundle of rags,' said one.

'And of very dirty ones too,' said another.

'Good heavens,' said the lady, 'it is a living child.'

'A child! Impossible.'