Mrs. Chapman, I may add here, had a great weakness for distinctions. She had cards printed in gold, in blue, and in red. Such as received cards printed in gold were to consider themselves particularly honored. In short, she divided her guests into three classes—select friends, friends, and acquaintances, and sent them cards accordingly. This manner of distinguishing between guests got the lady into a deal of trouble, and gave rise to much ill-feeling between those who held cards printed in gold and those holding ordinary red ones. Beau Pinks had been honored with a card printed in gold, which he said was a proof of the high esteem he was held in by the lady. In truth, the Beau took great pride in showing this card to the best Bowling Green society, and, with a suggestive nod of the head, saying he had got his best clothes ready, and was waiting to put in an appearance. Mrs. Chapman had always regarded Pinks as a valuable capture, and if he came to the wedding, why, that would in part be gaining the advantage she desired, and in a measure pay off the old score she had against a few of these nice old Bowling Green people.
It must be said to Pinks' credit that he never declined an invitation to a wedding, and rarely missed a chance to mourn at a friend's funeral.
And while Mrs. Chapman seemed to think of nothing else, and talk of nothing else but this great coming event, Chapman had been noticed to wear a more serious look than usual, and indeed to be in a more thoughtful mood. Indeed it was evident there was something on his mind causing him deep anxiety, even distress. It was noticed, too, that he had for several days gone to business earlier than usual and returned later. And when Mrs. Chapman requested an explanation, he would reply by saying: "Matters at the counting-house require examining into, my dear." In truth, the financial affairs of the great Kidd Discovery Company had begun to exhibit those infirmities which are a sure sign of speedy wreck.
And now the day was come when Mattie was to be married to Mr. Gusher. It was three years to-day since Tite bid her good-bye and sailed on his voyage, and it was to be her wedding-day. How strange the changed scene seemed to her.
It was one of those soft and balmy mornings in May, when nature seems to enchant us, and hold sweet communion with us through all her beauties. There was not a ripple on the water; white sails dotted the calm surface of the bay, which seemed like a silvery lake quietly sleeping in the embrace of pretty green hills, softened by the golden gleams of the rising sun. The trees were in blossom; birds were filling the air with delicious melody, but not a leaf stirred.
The Chapman family were up before the sun that morning, and the whole house was astir ere Bowling Green had fairly waked up, or the din of Broadway had broken the stillness. Chapman had spent a restless night, and seemed sad and downcast, as if some trouble he would fain conceal was weighing on his mind. He breakfasted alone that morning, and went to business an hour earlier than usual, promising to return at one o'clock. He returned, however, at twelve, and in such a state of distress as to alarm the whole house. Indeed he entered the house more like a madman than a philosopher, and so alarmed Bowles by the wildness of his manner and appearance, that he proceeded in a state of great excitement to inform his mistress. When, then, that lady entered the parlor she found her husband stretched on the sofa, with his right hand pressing his forehead, and apparently in a state of great distress. To her repeated enquiries as to what produced this great distress, he would only answer by shaking his head and giving vent to the most pitiful groans.
The lady could not fail to see that some great misfortune had overtaken her husband—something that might blast the dream of her golden future.
"I hope, my dear, it is nothing that will interfere with the wedding to-day?" she enquired, her face already beginning to give out signs of alarm.
Chapman made no reply, but got quickly up from the sofa and paced the room hurriedly, his hair tossed in to disorder, and in a state of frenzy.
After pacing up and down the room in this manner for two or three minutes, which seemed like hours to Mrs. Chapman, who had kept her eyes fixed on his every movement, he approached the lady, and with a wild stare, muttered rather than spoke: "A funeral, funeral, my dear—not a wedding to-day." Chapman pressed his hands to his head again, and wept like a child. "Boundless iniquity," he resumed, "fraud—deception—crime— disgrace—folly—extravagance—disappointment—poverty. What a sham the world is! All, all is gone! No need for a clergyman here to-day. The sheriff will be here in an hour."