Cruel as the grave
JONSON--THE CARNIVAL.
It was All-Hallow Eve, a night long anticipated with delight by the
whole neighborhood, and much longer still remembered with horror by the
whole country.
It was the occasion of Sybil Berners' mask ball; and Black Hall, the
Black Valley, and the town of Blackville were all in a state of
unprecedented excitement; for this was the first entertainment of the
kind that had ever been given in the locality, and the gentry of three
contiguous counties had been invited to assist at it.
Far distant from large cities and professional costumers as the rural
belles and beaux of the neighborhood were, you will wonder what they did
for fancy dresses.
They did very well. They ransacked the old cedar chests of their
great-grandparents, and exhumed the rich brocades, cloths of gold and
silvers, lutestrings, lamas, fardingdales, hair-cushions, and all the
gorgeous paraphernalia and regalia of the ante-revolutionary queens of
fashion. And they referred to old family portraits, and to pictures in
old plays and novels, and upon the whole they got up their dresses with
more fidelity to fact than most costumers do.
Some also went to the trouble and expense of a journey to New York to
procure outfits, and these were commissioned to buy masks for all their
friends and acquaintances who were invited to the ball.
These preparations had occupied nearly the whole month of October. And
now the eventful day had come, and the whole community was on tiptoe
with expectation.
First, at Black Hall all was in readiness, not only for the ball and the
supper, but for the accommodation of those lady friends of the hostess
who, coming from a great distance, would expect to take a bed there.
And all was in readiness at the village hotel at Blackville, where
gentlemen, coming from a distance to attend the ball, had engaged rooms
in advance.
Nevertheless the landlord of the hotel was in a "stew," for there were
more people already arrived, on horseback and in carriages of every
description, from the heavy family coach crammed with young ladies and
gentlemen, to the one-horse gig with a pair of college chums. And the
distracted landlord had neither beds for the human beings nor stalls for
the horses. But he sent out among his neighbors, and tried to get
"accommodations for man and beast" in private houses and stables.
"And the coach be come in, sir, and what be we to do with the
passengers?" inquired the head waiter.
"Blast the coach! I wish it had tumbled down the 'Devil's Descent' into
the bottomless pit!" exclaimed the frantic host, seizing his gray locks
with both hands, and running away from before the face of his
tormentor--and jumping from the frying-pan into the fire, when he came
full upon his daughter Bessie, who stopped him with:
"Pop, you must come right into the parlor. There's a gentleman there as
come by the coach, and says he _must_ have a bed here to-night, no
matter how full you may be, or how much it may cost."
"Impossible, Bessie! Clean impossible! Don't drive me stark mad!" cried
the landlord, jerking at his gray hair.
"Well, but, Pop, you must come and tell the gentleman so, or he'll sit
there all night," remonstrated the girl.
"Blow the fellow to blazes! Where is he?"
"In the parlor, Pop."
The landlord trotted into the parlor and gave a little start, for, at
first sight, he thought the gentleman's head was on fire! But a second
glance showed him that the gentleman only had the reddest hair he had
ever seen in his life, and that the level rays of the setting sun,
shining through the western window, and falling fall upon this head, set
this red hair in a harmless blaze of light.
Recovering from his little shock, he advanced to the gentleman, bowed,
and said:
"Well, sir, I am the landlord, and I understand you wish to see me."
"Yes; I wish to engage a room here to-night."
"Very sorry, sir; but it is out of the question. Every room in the house
is engaged; even my room and my daughter's room, and the servants'
rooms. And not only that, sir, but every sofa is engaged, and every rug;
so you see it is clean impossible."
"Impossible is it?" inquired the stranger.
"Clean impossible, sir! utterly impossible!" returned the host.
"All right; then it shall be done."
"Sir!"
"I say, because it is impossible, it shall be done."
"Eh!"
"Here is a hundred dollars," said the stranger, laying down two
bank-notes of fifty dollars each. "I will give you this money if you can
induce any of your guests to give up a room for me to-night."
"Why, really, sir, I should be delighted to accommodate such a very
liberal gentleman, but--"
"You must decide at once. Now, or never," said the stranger, firmly, for
he saw the game was now in his own hands.
"Well, yes, sir; I will find you a room. The two young college gents
who took a room between them may be induced to give it up."
"_Must_ give it up, you mean," amended the stranger.
"Well, yes, sir; just as you say, sir."
"And I must have it in fifteen minutes."
"Yes, sir."
"And supper served there in half an hour."
"Yes, sir."
"And your company at supper, as I want to have a little talk with you."
"All right, sir."
"And now, you can go and see about the room."
"Just so, sir," said the landlord, gathering up the two fifty-dollar
bills that had bought him, body and soul, and then bowing himself out of
the room.
"'Money makes the mare go,' and the horse too. I wonder what he'll think
when he finds out his bank bills are not worth the paper they are
printed on," mused the stranger, as he paced thoughtfully up and down
the room.
Fortunately for the landlord's speculation, bad as it ultimately proved,
the two collegians who had engaged his best front bedroom had not yet
arrived to take possession of it. Therefore the business of turning it
over to a more profitable party was the more immediately practicable.
All the landlord had to do was to see that a fire was kindled in the
fireplace, and the table was set for supper.
Then he returned to the parlor, to conduct, in person, such a wealthy
and munificent patron to his apartment.
"Ah! this is cosy!" said the stranger, sinking into an arm-chair, and
spreading his hands over the blazing fire, whose beams were caught and
reflected by his red hair, until it shone like a rival conflagration.
"Glad you like your quarters, sir," said the landlord, putting his hand
upon the pocket that contained the purse with the two fifty-dollar bills
to see that they were safe.
"Ah! here comes the supper. Now, landlord, I want you to join me, that
we may have that little chat I spoke of," said the stranger, wheeling
his arm-chair around to the table, while the waiter arranged the dishes,
and stared at the flaming red head of the guest.
"What name might I have the honor of entering on my books, sir, if you
please?" inquired the host, as he obligingly took his seat opposite his
guest.
"What name might you have the honor of entering on your books?" repeated
the stranger, helping himself to a huge slice of ham. "Well, you _might_
have the honor of entering quite a variety of names on your books, as I
dare say you do; but for the sake of brevity, which is the soul of wit,
you may put down Smith--John Smith of New York city. Common name, eh,
landlord, and from a big city? Can't help that--fault of my forefathers
and godfathers. Whenever I have to sign a check the bankers make me
write myself down as 'John Smith of John.' Can't do any better than that
if it were to avert a financial crisis. All my ancestors have been John
Smiths, from the days of William Rufus, when his chief armorer John,
surnamed the 'Smiter,' for his lusty blows, founded the family. So you
may set me down as 'John Smith of John, New York city.' And now send the
waiter away, and fall to and tell me some of your neighborhood news."
Nothing but the consciousness of the possession of those two big bills
would have given the landlord courage to have left his business below
stairs to take care of itself even for the half hour to which he
mentally resolved to limit his interview with the stranger. However, he
dismissed the waiter with some extra charges, and then placed himself at
the service of his guest, and even took the initiative of the
_tete-a-tete_ by asking:
"You are quite a stranger in this neighborhood, sir?"
"Quite."
"Travelling on business, or for pleasure?"
"Pleasure."
"A delightful season this, to travel in, sir; neither too warm, nor too
cold. And the country never looks so rich and beautiful as in its autumn
foliage."
"True," answered the stranger, briefly, and then he added, "I didn't ask
you to come here to catechize me, my good friend; but to submit to be
catechized yourself, and to amuse me with the gossip of the
neighborhood."
Again nothing but the consciousness of a heavy fee would have induced
the host of the "Antlers" to put up with this traveller's "nonsense," as
he termed his general assumption of superiority.
"What would you like to hear about, then, sir?" growled the landlord.
"First, what important families have you in this part of the country?"
"Well, sir, the most principlest is the Bernerses of Black Hall, which
have returned from their bridal tour about a month ago and taken up
their abode there in the old ancestral home."
"The Berners! Who are they?" inquired the traveller, carelessly trifling
with the wing of a pheasant.
"You must be a stranger indeed, sir, not to know the Bernerses of Black
Hall," said the landlord, with an expression of strong disapprobation.
"Well, as I don't know them, and as they seem to be persons of the
highest distinction, perhaps you will tell me all about them," said the
traveller.
And the landlord not unwillingly gave the guest the full history of the
Berners of Black Hall, down to the marriage of the last heiress, at
which the bridegroom took the name of the bride's family. And then he
described the situation of the Hall and the way in which it might be
reached, and ended by saying:
"And if you think of making any stay in this neighborhood, sir, and
will send your card to Mr. and Mrs. Berners, they will be sure to call
on you and show you every attention in their power, sir; invite you to
their house, introduce you to the neighbors, make parties for you, and
make you generally welcome among us."
"They are very hospitable, then?"
"Hospitable! Why, sir, even when they were on their bridal tour, they
fell in with a lovely lady in distress, and what do they do but pay her
bills at the hotel, and fetch her and her child and her servant, all,
bag and baggage, home with themselves, to stay at Black Hall as long as
ever she likes?"
"Indeed! That was a very unusual stretch of hospitality. And this lady
is still with them?" inquired the stranger.
"She is that, sir; although the word do go around that it would be well
if she was to go away."
"Ah! why so?"
"Well, sir--but, lord, it is all servants' gossip, and there may be
nothing in it; but they do say that the master of the house is too fond
of the visitor, and likewise she of him; and that this do make the
mistress of the house very unhappy."
"Ah!" exclaimed the stranger, in a half-suppressed voice.
"They do say, sir, that whenever the mistress turns her back, they
two--the master and the guest--do go on like any pair of sweethearts,
which is a great scandal, if it's true."
"Ah ha!" muttered the stranger, clenching and grinding his teeth.
"Howsever, sir, if the master is in love with the visitor, and the
mistress is made unhappy thereby, that is no reason why they should put
off their mask ball and disappoint the whole community, I suppose they