Another week has elapsed, and it is the eve of Maud Gresham’s wedding-day. Before, however, paying a visit to Portland Place, to see how Maud conducts herself on the last evening of her maiden life, let us visit the rooms of a certain student of divinity, situated in the humbler neighbourhood of University Street.

This student has, it is true, only a very indirect connection with the forthcoming marriage; but, for all that, the consideration of his movements on the evening in question may not prove altogether inappropriate. The student was no other than Mr. Augustus Whiffle. Pending his attainment of the age at which the law permitted him to be ordained to the service of the Church, Mr. Whiffle still continued to hold the position of an occasional student at King’s College; but his attendance at the lectures was very occasional indeed.

When Mr. Whiffle, senior, removed from Bloomford to become incumbent of St. Abinadab’s he naturally made the proposition that his eldest son should live with the family, for the sake of economy, if for no other reason; and this proposition Augustus, also quite naturally, declined to consider. He found himself extremely comfortable in lodgings, and had no desire to alter his mode of life. On the whole, it may be considered as somewhat to Augustus’ credit that he declined to transfer himself, with all his companions and his habits of life, to the house wherein dwelt his mother and his young brothers and sisters.

Mr. Augustus Whiffle’s sitting-room was a tolerably comfortable one, of the ordinary lodging-house type, situated upon the first floor, and from the windows could be caught, on the right hand, a glimpse of University College; on the left, a peep at the busy traffic of Tottenham Court Road; whilst the Hospital loomed darkly over the way. The occupant of this room has altered considerably since we caught a glimpse of him a little more than two years ago. In those days, with all the will to be a thorough-paced rascal, neither his age nor his knowledge of life was sufficiently advanced for that; with just a tinge of recently acquired profligacy, he was, on the whole, what nature made him — a fool.

But he has learned much since then. Bitter experience has taught him how easy it is to be duped by those a little older, a little shrewder, a little more wicked than oneself, and mature reflection has convinced him that it is just as easy to live on others as to permit others to live on you, and far more agreeable to boot. Any little compunction in a course of villainy, which might once have clung to him, has now been entirely shaken off, together with the outward and visible symptoms of his folly. For Augustus is not a fool now — at all events not in his own conceit. He is shrewd, long-sighted, devoid of feeling; he has a quick hand and a clear brain for cards or dice, and a mind stored with unquestionable lore on the recondite subject of horse-racing. If Augustus were to keep accounts and to reckon how much he makes in a year, nett, out of these various pursuits, the total would represent a very respectable sum. But he is not reckless, far from it. Is he not still an occasional student at King’s College, and does he not ever keep in view the day on which he will become eligible to receive a “cure of souls?”

Even in personal appearance Augustus has altered of late considerably. Curious to tell, his hair, whiskers, and moustache, instead of being what nature made them, an emphatic red, have taken to themselves a hue of glossy brown, a deep, rich tint, which ladies might envy. Then his face has by no means that empty, would-bewicked expression which it wore when he sucked the top of his cane on the way home from Bloomford with Helen and Maud. With the very least stretch of the imagination, it could even be pronounced handsome, for though nothing less than intellectual in mould, the lines are fairly regular, and the nose has even an aristocratic bend. The habitual expression it wears, too, is one of thoughtfulness, which produces an effect altogether independent of the subject of thought.

Augustus was just turned twenty-one, and had grown of late several inches, so that he now stood not much less than six feet. His dress, it is almost superfluous to state, was in the latest fashion, exhibiting not inconsiderable care and conveying an impression of wealth. On the whole, Mr. Whiffle was unmistakably an attractive young man to any one with whom he might choose to display only the amiable side. It had taken him some little time to learn all this, it is true, but his progress in savoir vivre had been very wonderful when contrasted with his progress in letters. At present he was still studying the former ardently. Mr. Whiffle, senior’s, position at the aristocratic church of St. Abinadab’s had thrown open to him a circle of society very superior, in worldly possessions at least, to any he had hitherto moved in; and though on but indifferent terms with his father, Augustus had no scruple in using the latter’s prestige to procure an entry into the same circle. He felt it was necessary for him to obtain the acquaintance of a few wealthy families, and as he always presented himself under the character of the divinity student, he was remarkably well received.

At half-past seven, then, on the present evening, Augustus was sitting at his open window, smoking a cigar. Meantime his eyes found employment in watching the streams of girls who at this hour pour out of the work-rooms in which the neighbourhood abounds, on their weary way home.

The occupation was a congenial one. Not unfrequently he would see one pass with whom he had, or desired to have, some kind of acquaintance, and at such times a loud cough or a low whistle on his part would attract the girl’s attention, when he would smile graciously, or wave his delicate hand. Augustus had evidently a good taste in such matters, for the girls whom he appeared to know were invariably the prettiest that passed.

Once he went through the usual pantomime, and, in addition, took a little piece of paper from his waistcoat pocket, rolled it up, and let it fall, as if through carelessness, on to the pavement. The next moment it was picked up by the person for whom it was meant, and Augustus smiled contentedly.

He was interrupted in the midst of these delights by hearing a double knock at the front door below, and on bending forward out of the window he recognised an acquaintance who now and then called for him. Hastily putting one or two things in order in the room, he closed the window and was ready to receive his visitor.

The latter is already known to the reader as Mr. John Waghorn. Though his dress was, as usual, extremely genteel, and his hair arranged with the ordinary care, for some reason or other he had by no means a respectable look this evening. It seemed as though he had the power of altering his face to suit the occasion. At present he looked what he really was, brutish, sensual, ugly.

“Game for a night of it, my boy, eh?” he asked, as he flung himself carelessly into an armchair.

“Don’t mind,” returned Augustus. “Are you?”

“Yes; for the last time.”

“What do you mean?” asked Augustus. “Going to give up wine and women, and turn moral in your old age? Bye-the-by, how old are you, Waghorn?”

“Turned six and thirty,” replied the other, lighting a cigar. “Think of that.”

“Sound in wind, too. You won’t begin to knock up for another ten years. Let’s look at your teeth old boy.”

Mr. Waghorn seemed to resent the refined joke.

“Teeth be damn’d!” he exclaimed. “Sound or not, I’ve come to the end of my tether. I mean to have a frisk to-night, and for the last time, I tell you.”

“For God’s sake, why?”

“For a very good reason. I’m going to be married tomorrow.

“What!” cried Augustus, in amazement.

“Fact!” said Mr. Waghorn.

“And who the devil has been fool enough to have you, Waghorn?” asked Augustus, with friendly frankness.

“That’s nothing to do with the matter,” returned the other. “You don’t know her.”

“How do you know I don’t? What’s her name?”

“Well, if it interests you particularly, her name’s Maud Gresham.”

“Maud Gresham! The devil! Daughter of an artist?”

“Do you know her?”

“As well as I know you!” exclaimed Augustus, with trifling exaggeration. “Well I’m damn’d! Uncommon fine girl, and heaps of tin, I believe. I say, old fellow, I must be best man!”

“Impossible! My brother’s volunteered for that. Must have a respectable fellow, you know.”

“Thanks for the compliment,” returned Augustus, laughing. “After all, the affair would be a good deal too tedious. But, I say, Waghorn, you’ll invite me to dinner before long? How long shall you be away?”

“Couple of months, perhaps.”

“Continent?”

“Suppose so. What a damned slow life it will be!” exclaimed Mr. Waghorn, with agreeable anticipation of the delights of the honeymoon.

“Do the other fellows at the Eau de Vie know?”

The institution thus referred to was a club which both our friends much frequented, the proper name of which was the Young Men’s Conversational Club, but which, in relation to the beverage principally consumed there, was chiefly known by the habitués as the Eau de Vie, sometimes shortened, with a punning reference, to D. V.

“Don’t think so,” replied Mr. Waghorn, in reply to the question.

“Mean to tell them, eh?”

“Why yes, I think so. May as well let the boys have a joke.”

“Waghorn married!” exclaimed Augustus, leaning back with a roar of laughter; after which, by way of being facetious, he imprecated curses upon himself for several minutes.

As soon as it began to grow dark, the two issued forth to fulfil their purpose of making a night of it. We shall not endeavour to follow their nocturnal wanderings, in the course of which they picked up several congenial acquaintances equally bent on spending a jovial evening; but let it suffice to say that a popular music-hall, an indecent exhibition, numberless restaurants, the green-room of a second-rate theatre, and a notorious casino enjoyed in turn the honour of a visit from these choice spirits.

In the last-named resort several equally choice spirits of the opposite sex were selected to join the company, and eventually they all repaired to some supper-rooms of unsavoury reputation, where they disported themselves till closing time, the performance of a pas seul by one of the ladies on the centre of the table being a prominent feature of the merriment.

On leaving the house the attractions of their female companions drew in different directions the majority of the choice spirits, and Mr. Waghorn and Augustus repaired alone to the Young Men’s Conversational Club, otherwise known as the Eau de Vie. Here the sweet of the night was but just commencing.

Around a number of small tables some twenty or thirty young men were engaged at cards, each supplied with his glass of the eponymous beverage, the odour of which was perceptible even in the street. Owing to Mr. Whiffle’s care, the great event to take place upon the morrow soon became generally known. It created a furor. One young man, more than half drunk, sprang on to a table and proposed the health of the bride and bridegroom, suggesting in conclusion that every member of the club should turn out on the following morning to conduct Mr. Waghorn from his residence to the church, a proposal which was vigorously cheered, but received a polite refusal from the prospective bridegroom, delivered in the form of a speech from behind the drinking-bar, whither Mr. Waghorn had betaken himself to avoid his companions’ too boisterous congratulations.

The greater part of the conversation ensuing upon the proclamation of this piece of intelligence was of that description which the newspapers call “unsuited for publication.” Mr. Waghorn was evidently a highly popular member of the club, and, moreover, owing to his advantage in years over the majority of the members, a constant source of jokes of the most approved “Eau de Vie” flavour — which was high.

When the excitement had cooled a little, Augustus, as was his wont, proposed a little play to while away an hour or two, which Mr. Waghorn, being already weak in the legs, readily agreed to; the result being that Augustus rose from the table towards four o’clock in the morning appreciably richer than when he sat down. But these little losses were nothing to Mr. Waghorn. During the day he was always a sharp-eyed, hard-hearted, close-fisted man of business; and if he occasionally relaxed by making a brute of himself at night, why, he could afford it.

Leaving Mr. Waghorn to celebrate in appropriate style the eve of his wedding day, we return to Portland Place and to respectability. Mr. Gresham of course intended that his daughter’s wedding should be marked with all the éclat which became his own position, and frequent had been the visits paid by milliners and outfitters of every description during the past month. Maud found a good deal of pleasure in all this. To pay attention to such matters was to fulfil the world’s requirements, and this, in Maud’s philosophy, constituted the only serious business of life. Never had she been so caustic and sceptical in her conversation as during these last few weeks. With Helen in particular, it seemed as though she felt bound to show herself absolutely consistent in what is normally considered one of the most momentous epochs of life, to make it clear that she regarded the whole affair in the light of a more or less tedious farce, even as she regarded all the every-day occurrences of her existence. To Helen this mental attitude of her friend was painful in the extreme. Day after day she studied Maud’s manner and countenance, and always with a growing conviction that there was nothing genuine at the bottom of all this cynicism, that it was merely acted. It seemed to her, also, that it was a part of which the actor was beginning to grow weary. Very closely did she watch for any sign of sincere emotion, any indication, however slight, of a growth of seriousness as the eventful day approached. Nothing of this kind was perceptible, Maud seemed only to harden in her indifference. It was with deep apprehension that Helen looked forward to a union entered upon in such a spirit.

Helen had not failed to notice the peculiarity in Mr. Gresham’s manner when last he spoke to her of Mr. Waghorn, and she had observed since then that her guardian did not greet his future son-in-law altogether as heartily as he was wont to do. She noticed all this, and it made her uneasy, though it was as impossible for her to conjecture causes as it was to conceive remedies. She had observed, moreover, that Maud and her father had seemed to shun each other of late. They spoke but seldom in her presence, and Maud never now visited the studio when her father was at work there, as she had previously been in the habit of doing. Was it possible that this marriage was distasteful to one or other of them? If so, to which?

On the present evening Helen made a point of visiting Maud’s chamber, ostensibly to view her friend’s trousseau, but in reality to seek the opportunity for a serious conversation which had never yet presented itself. Helen was not to take any formal ............