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 part in the ceremony, and that at Maud’s earnest request. Mr. Gresham had wished his ward to be first bridesmaid, but to this Maud had strenuously objected, though altogether without reasons, and her father had yielded. But Helen yearned for a few sincere words from her friend of so many years, and could not but hope that this evening would see her desire satisfied.
Waiting till she knew Maud was in her chamber, Helen knocked at the door, and entered. Maud was sitting in the midst of an immense quantity of magnificent equipments, her hands crossed upon her lap, her face thoughtful, even sad. But as soon as she saw her friend enter, she rose with a brisk movement and greeted her with an ironical smile.
“Have you come to obtain food for future meditation upon earthly follies and vanities?” she said, glancing scornfully around at the muslin and lace. “Don’t spare me, Helen. Lecture me soundly, and with as little remorse as if I were the fool in the Proverbs. Now if all the money that has here been wasted upon knavish drapers and milliners, had only been put into Helen Norman’s hands for distribution among her multifarious pensioners — isn’t that how you are going to begin?”
Helen sighed in disappointment. Maud seemed more frivolous than ever.
“Why do you sigh and look miserable?” pursued the bride. Surely it is I who should have the monopoly of such performances; and yet I am in excellent spirits, as you see. But why should you have the monopoly of misery, Maud?” Why? Am I not about to be married tomorrow? Am I not about to play the fool on a broader stage and before a larger audience than I have yet had experience of? Am I not about to exchange liberty for slavery?”
“But surely, Maud,” replied Helen, with much gravity, “you cannot mean what you say? If you look forward to marriage as only a state of misery, why do you marry at all?”
“Why, my dear Helen? Doesn’t everyone get married sooner or later? Depend upon it you yourself will be no exception to the rule.”
“I trust I shall never marry with such a disposition,” returned Helen. “I should be deeply grieved if I thought you were in earnest, I should indeed. Have you lost all confidence in your old friend, Maud?”
“Confidence? How can you ask me the question? I protest, Helen, I have this moment been more confidential to you with regard to the state of my mind than I would or could be with anyone else.”
“And you seriously tell me, Maud, that you look for no happiness from this marriage? That you have no love for your future husband? That you enter upon married life merely because it is conventional to do so? — I cannot believe you!”
Helen had risen as she spoke, and trembled with the excess of her emotion. Maud continued sitting, and smiled in her wonted manner.
“And could you believe me,” she began, in turn, speaking in a hard, inflexible voice, “if I were to tell you that I not only look for no pleasure but for intolerable wretchedness — at all events till I have got used to it? That, so far from loving my future husband, I hate and despise him? That I am altogether unable to say why I am going to be married, except that papa wishes me to be, and that I know I may as well marry this man as any other? Do you believe all that?”
“If I must believe it,” replied Helen, “I can only say that you are acting very wrongly, Maud, and that I should not be a true friend if I did not tell you so.”
Maud suddenly rose to her feet with a flash of anger in her eyes, an expression which Helen had never before seen on her face.
“And what is it to me,” she cried, in a voice shaken with passion, “whether you are a true friend or not! Do you think I have any faith in friendship of any kind? What does it matter to me whether I am doing right or wrongly? Who commissioned you to come here and tell me so? Am I a child to be lectured in this way?”
Helen trembled like a leaf before this display of most unwonted passion; she was scarcely able to realise that Maud had spoken. She saw, however, that the latter had turned her back to her, and, looking straight before her into the glass, could see the girl’s face all distorted by a thousand conflicting emotions, among which anger still held the supremacy. Bursting into tears, she quitted the room and sought the quietness of her own chamber.
As soon as she saw that she was alone, Maud sank into a chair and sat there in the same attitude as before. But her face soon lost its angry expression. Before many minutes had passed tears rose irresistibly to her eyes, and began to trickle down her cheeks. She made no effort either to check them or dry them as they fell, but sat as motionless as a statue, weeping, weeping. And even so she sat and wept till far on into the night.
When it was nearly one o’clock, her father, on his way to his room, paused at her door. He could see that there was a light within, but could hear no sound. For a moment his hand sought the handle, but the next it dropped again to his side. Once, twice he moved away from the door and returned to it. But not a sound came from within, and he walked softly away.
Early next morning bustle and bell-ringing was the order of the day. The usual stately quietness of the house in Portland Place was violated by innumerable unwonted intruders, who drove up in carriages or cabs, and vied with each other in showing undoubted appreciation of the dignity and felicity of the occasion. The Greshams had few friends, but a very great number of acquaintances, and as Mr. Gresham was determined to spare no means to ensure the brilliancy of the festival, invitations had been issued in the most liberal and open-hearted manner. Mr. Gresham himself, perhaps a trifle paler than usual, as if from a bad night, undertook the duty of receiving the guests, and went through the task with that perfect gentility of demeanour which he prided himself upon, never allowing it to be mistaken, however, that he hid beneath this outward complaisance a serene contempt for the whole affair which was extremely edifying. Now and then he would whisper in a friend’s ear some sarcastic remark on social conventionalities, the next moment he would delight his inward soul by discussing ironically to this or that lady, perfectly sure that his listener understood him in the literal sense. There was a pleasure in all this for Mr. Gresham. Perhaps the only real pleasure he had experienced in life had been this successful blending of outward respect for society with never-ceasing internal ridicule of its vanities. Mr. Gresham had not met with much affection in the course of his three and forty years, and had been equally sparing in imparting it to others. Thus there was probably not one among this crowd of strangers for whom he entertained anything approaching friendship. They, for their part, regarded him with considerable admiration, as a perfect gentleman, a man of money, a man of talent; but beyond that, little, if anything. Maud Gresham excited even less real interest in those who had come to witness her marriage. With a contempt of society equal to that entertained by her father, she exercised less care in glossing it over with external forms and graces, and had seriously offended not a few of her so-called friends by her carelessness in this particular. Under these auspicious circumstances it was hardly to be expected that conversation amongst the visitors should greatly turn upon the chief business of the day. There was a little chat with regard to the dowery with which it was probable Mr. Gresham would make up for lack of sweet disposition in his daughter, a little subdued scandal with regard to the bridegroom, with whose habits of life a few of the gentlemen present were rather more acquainted than Mr. Gresham was; also a few instances of sweetly spiteful vaticination on the part of certain ladies in regard to the probable relations of the couple a year hence; after all which they turned their attention principally to their private affairs, discussed matches likely to come about and talked scandal with regard to others already effected. Truly, Mr. Gresham and his daughter had some grounds for their attitude of mind as regards this world of society.
There was, however, one point of interest common to most of those present, curiosity with regard to which had not, as yet, been satisfied. It soon became evident what this was when at length Helen Norman unobtrusively joined the company. A few of the guests were altogether unconscious of Helen’s existence, but the greater part had, notwithstanding her retired and simple life, both heard and talked very much of her lately. I should but display my incapacity to deal with the mysterious problems of the world of fashion if I attempted to explain how intelligence of Helen’s so-called eccentricities had permeated the walls of her guardian’s house and filtered through a great variety of social strata; creating an itching sensation as it went, an eager curiosity to know more of this strange beast in woman’s form that Mr. Gresham sheltered beneath his roof. If I might hazard a very private conjecture, I might possibly be disposed to imagine that certain unusual gratuities which had of late found their way into the pockets of Mr. Gresham’s servants were not unconnected with this phenomenon. We know that when the gods of old quarrelled they were wont to tell each other somewhat unpleasant truths, and we likewise are aware of the portentous fact that, in our own day, rival editors of rival papers have in anger charged each other with procuring their “fashionable” intelligence by the means here hinted at. As I say, I must not, however, venture to account for mysteries such as these. It is certain that neither from Mr. Gresham nor his daughter did the information proceed, for both of these cherished in the depths of their hearts too sincere and involuntary a respect for Helen Norman to permit of their making her a common subject of conversation. Be the matter how it may, it is certain that reports concerning Helen, often widely exaggerated, were very rife among all who knew the Greshams, and the main inducement of not a few to honour the house with their presence this morning had been the hope of seeing this peculiar creature in the flesh. The ladies, in particular, were prepared to be scandalised. The idea that a young, handsome, and unmarried lady should think of benefiting her poorer fellow-creatures was, to begin with, altogether shocking; and how disgracefully immodest must any young lady be who could visit the East End — positively, it was asserted, the East End — and there mix with people whose very aspect ought to be enough to create loathing, if not still worse feelings, in the mind of any properly trained young person. But there was even worse behind. It was whispered — who would have dared to speak it aloud? — it was actually whispered, with bated breath and blanched lips, that Mr. Gresham’s ward never went to church! Though the very monstrosity of this accusation was sufficient to deprive it of all credit, save among those whose attendance at the same church as the Greshams has enabled them to be personal observers, yet the mere fact that the accusation could be made pointed to the existence of moral depravity in the unfortunate individual in question, scarcely inferior to that which would have been implied by habitual absence from church.
Helen had reflected much upon the part it became her to take in the day’s proceedings. If she had obeyed the truest impulse of her heart she would have proceeded with her usual work and have kept entirely aloof from the wedding. This, however, she had felt to be impossible. Ordinary respect for her guardian demanded that she should pay some attention to his guests, and, disagreeable as the duty was, Helen faced it like every other duty, and resolved to be present. Accordingly, when she made her appearance in the drawing-room in Mr. Gresham’s company, she was dressed with considerably more attention to effect than usual, but still in a very plain manner compared with those who surrounded her; and her countenance wore its accustomed expression of calm self-possession, though perhaps with a trifle more colour in the cheeks than they were wont to show. Her manner displayed just as little of gaucherie as of immodest effrontery. Helen was, indeed, as she always was, beautiful, unaffected, queenly.
The first effect produced by her appearance upon those who had already arrived was one of disappointment. After all, her likeness to the Scarlet Woman of Babylon was faint in the extreme. But, before long, more positive feelings began to assume the place of mere disappointment. Glances of undeniable admiration were exchanged between the gentlemen; little shrugs, smiles and sneers began to indicate the emotions of the ladies. But, however bold the man who was favoured with an introduction, his eyes fell involuntarily before Helen’s calm, frank look; however envious the ladies, they had to confess to themselves an influence in her face and tone which made their miserable little souls shrink and pine within them. This made many of them absolutely vicious. They could not bear to be made to feel their vast inferiority by one who spent her days distributing charity in the East End, and — did not go to church.
It is none of my purpose to give a detailed account of this notable wedding. Let the curious in such matters refer to the account in the Times of the marriage between Sir Horace Good-for-Nothing and Miss Lydia Rake-at-Heart, which made so much fuss last week. The description of the proceedings will apply equally to the present case. The same singular ceremony was gone through; the same wonderful vows were plighted between John Waghorn, immaculate in his Sunday dress of respectability, and Maud Gresham, impassive and slightly smiling; the same tears were wept by hysterical brides-maids (the only appropriate part of the entertainment); the same benedictions were pronounced by a similar priest in a similar hurry to get home to lunch; and then — Glory to God in the Highest! Maud Gresham is no longer Maud Gresham, but Mrs. Waghorn; and all go away, charitably hoping that the result of it will be more children, who will in turn, if parental affection spare them, take their part in a similar pantomime.
Helen passed through this day of benedictions and congratulations with sorrow in her heart. As soon as she saw Maud in the morning she had turned towards her, hoping that she would come forward in her wonted easy manner, and show that the scene of the previous evening had been forgotten. But Maud evidently avoided her among the company, and Helen saw but little good in pressing upon her friend in this mood. Her friend? Helen asked herself whether Maud, no longer Maud Gresham, would henceforth be her friend, and she experienced keen pangs as she thought that the marriage might be the means of severing their intimacy. She cherished a sincere affection for the strange girl, notwithstanding the slight sympathy which appeared to exist between their respective thoughts and aims. She could not but believe that beneath the cold surface of Maud’s character lay seeds capable of bearing at least the ordinary fruits of human kindness. Even till the last minute she endeavoured to afford her opportunities of speaking one friendly word before they parted, but Maud would not avail herself of them.
When, at length, the carriage stood at the door waiting to take Mr. and Mrs. Waghorn to the railway station, and when farewells were being exchanged all round, Helen received a kiss just like that Maud gave to her bridesmaids, but not a direct look, not a pressure of the hand. She was on the point of whispering an ardent wish for her happiness in the bride’s ear, but her voice failed her, and the chance was past. Mr. and Mrs. Waghorn were already on their way to Italy.