Ainslee's Magazine/The Art of Hospitality

by Constance Smedley and Pearl Humphrey

 

THE
ART OF HOSPITALITY

By
Constance Smedley
and
Pearl Humphrey

 

SPRATT was on his holiday, and consequent anarchy reigned in the servants' hall. The cook took this opportunity of becoming so insufferably insolent that she had to be discharged at a moment's notice; and the parlor-maid went to bed with a gathered foot. The housemaid, the kitchen-maid, and the page foregathered riotously in the kitchen; and Mrs. Martin, thanking the gods that the stables were not disorganized, drove off to catch the 10:20 on a servant-hunt in town. Nelly, left alone, spent a delicious morning, strumming “The Cingalee,” under the name of practising; romping with the dogs “to give them exercise”; reading “From Sea to Sea” as “studying geography”; and otherwise finding dutiful names for pleasurable occupations.

At half-past one, somewhat rumpled after a race with a fox-terrier, in which he had had the courtesy to circle round and round her by way of imposing on himself a handicap, she sat down to a meal of the ascetic kind, which always results from domestic upheavals. Cold ham, cocoa, and cheese were spread before her, when, raising her eyes, she beheld a wagonette loaded with people driving up to the door. Nelly recognized the entire Gerney family, accompanied by some visitors. When the Assyrians came down like wolves on the fold, they must have produced an effect somewhat similar to the sensation experienced by Nelly as she hurried up-stairs into her bedroom, and hastily began to change her pink cotton morning frock for a more careful costume. Elise had gone up to town with Mrs. Martin, and Nelly could find nothing. She felt positive that the Gerneys, in the drawing-room beneath, could hear her agitated footsteps and the opening and shutting of many drawers, and would inevitably conclude that she was of the type of girl who is unpresentably untidy in the morning. She came to the belated conclusion that it would have been more polite, and in better taste, to have gone down in her pink cotton, even though it had an ink-spot on the cuff.

When she entered the drawing-room at last, flushed and apologetic, and wearing the wrong belt put on crooked, Mrs. Gerney and her party were full of embarrassment. They were sure they were putting her out, and were so sorry. Mrs. Gerney, an old friend of Mrs. Martin, but very slightly known to Nelly, explained that, with their visitors (here she interpolated some mystic phrases which might have been introductions) they had driven over to see the ruins of the castle, and had meant to descend on Mrs. Martin and ask for some lunch, knowing that she kept open house. They had no idea she was away, and could not dream of staying and putting Nelly out.

To this, of course, Nelly demurred. They really must stay; it would give her so much pleasure; and Mrs. Martin would never forgive her if she let them go away. “If you will excuse me for a minute,” she concluded, “I will just see that luncheon is served soon.”

With these smiling courtesies on her lips, and doubt and despair at her heart, she raced to the servants' hall, where the housemaid was tyrannously presiding over the dinner of the kitchen-maid and the page. “Dressed in a little brief authority,” she was haughtily brandishing a carving-knife above a roast loin of pork, when Nelly appeared in the doorway, full of perplexity. She glanced from the pork to the hot sunshine outside, with a rather dubious expression; but she could find no alternative, and bade the disappointed trio dine off cold ham and serve their own succulent dish in the dining-room. Then she fled into the garden for flowers, finding her choice much restricted by the necessity for keeping out of sight of the drawing-room windows.

In the meanwhile, at the end of a protracted half-hour, her guests were becoming stupefied with embarrassment and hunger. They felt that they were an occurrence of much inconvenience to their fluttered hostess, but they could not now leave any more than Nelly could let them go, ardently as she and they all desired it.

Things improved when they were ushered into the dining-room. The table looked charming, with the flowers freshly gathered. Nelly sat at its head, and endeavored to keep the conversation up to the standard usual at Mrs. Martin's luncheons. When the pork appeared, her efforts fell quite flat. It was hot, and the party were tired with sightseeing, and just in time for sweetbreads or salmon and mayonnaise, or some such dainty. To be offered hot roast pork in such circumstances was very disappointing. Mrs. Gerney, who had a horror of pork in any form, sat with her plate steaming before her, trying to inhale the freshness of the late sweet pea across a barrier of greasy vapor.

“Oh, Mrs. Gerney, I am afraid you don't like it,” said poor Nelly. “I am so sorry.”

Mrs. Gerney made a heroic effort to eat it, but her spirit failed her, and she murmured that she was not hungry, which was by now the simple truth.

Nelly glanced round the table. The men were manfully plodding through theirs, but all the women were more or less playing with it, and were confining themselves to bread and the potatoes, which were fortunately cooked as only dishes meant for kitchen consumption are usually cooked. A fitful silence prevailed, broken only by polite voices referring to the ruins they had seen, or the pretty country. Mrs. Gerney saw Nelly's eyes fill with tears of vexation and embarrassment, and she gripped her knife and fork with the air of a grenadier. Nelly's little separate apologies to each person in turn made things worse, for they assured every one that she was watching just how much they did or did not eat. She was feeling very much inclined to jump up and run away when an inspiration came to her.

“Emily,” she said to the sulky housemaid, “bring up a bottle of the Burgundy.”

The faces lightened somewhat. Mrs. Martin's cellar was the best in the county. Nelly wondered why she had not thought of this alleviation before. But they experienced a relapse into gloom when Emily departed with a terrific bang of the door, and Nelly said in distress: “Oh, how rude of her! The fact is, our cook is away, and this is the servants' dinner. But Emily need not mind—there is plenty of cold beef and ham for them.”

“Oh, my dear,” said poor Mrs. Gerney, “why didn't you tell us you were without a cook? Of course we should not have dreamed of staying.”

“But it is such a pleasure to have you!” cried Nelly. “I am so glad we had anything to offer you, but I wish it had been nicer. I am afraid you don't like it at all.”

“It is very nice indeed,” protested Mrs. Gerney; and a composite murmur from the others supported her polite mendacity. The reentrance of Emily, bearing a dusty black bottle without a napkin, turned the conversation into happier channels. Nelly, who never drank wine in the middle of the day, watched her guests raise their glasses to their lips, and felt that, after all, things were not so bad. She wondered what Mrs. Martin would say when she heard that a bottle of her best Burgundy had been used; but no doubt she would see how matters had been. Nelly only hoped that they would not finish this bottle and oblige her to send for another. She knew her aunt's wine appealed to the masculine palate. She may have expressed something of mingled hope and fear in her face, for no one took a second glass, in spite of her remark that Emily could fetch another bottle if they liked. Nelly's mind became fairly peaceful. The cold fruit-tart disappeared with a rapidity remarkable in contrast to the leisurely vanishing of the pork. But the black coffee, which she had in an undertone requested the surly Emily to make, was so vile that Nelly herself said: “Don't try to drink it!” and launched into further apologies.

She felt that she could have retrieved the honor of the house if her guests would have stayed to tea, but they resisted all entreaties and left immediately. Nelly accompanied them to the door, with final pleas for indulgence; and Mrs. Gerney was at last driven off, repeating mechanically: “Please don't mention it. So sorry to have put you out.”

When Mrs. Martin returned, she found Nelly restless, tired, and longing to relate her trials of the day.

“I am glad you gave them the Burgundy,” said Mrs. Martin, when she had heard all, “though I think it would have been better to give them a sort of scratch meal. They would have understood. Instead of attempting a proper luncheon, I should have had the cold meat, even though there was not much left, and made them one of your nice omelets in the chafing-dish. It was very rash to try the black coffee. By the way, did you apologize much?”

“Oh, yes,” said Nelly earnestly, “over and over again; in fact, the whole of the time. I assure you, I never stopped!”

“Oh, Nelly! That was the real mistake!” rejoined her aunt. “Don't you remember the definition that apology is only egotism wrong side out? What you ought to have done was to make them feel that they were not putting you out at all, but that you were all having an impromptu picnic, and you were enjoying it. Simplicity is a trump-card in an emergency. But I am sure you did your best, and Mrs. Gerney is an old friend, and will understand. Now, as you say there is some Burgundy left, I will have a glass, and then go and rest till dinner-time.”

Nelly took up the wine to her aunt's room, and was just coming away when she was struck by Mrs. Martin's face as she took a sip and then set down the glass.

“What is it? Why don't you drink it?” she asked.

“I will presently,” hastily rejoined Mrs, Martin.

But a horrible suspicion was dawning on Nelly's mind.

“It is the Burgundy, isn't it?” gasped.

Mrs. Martin rose and put her arm round her niece's shoulders.

“Don't worry about it, dear,” she said. “It's only another proof that you wished them well. But Emily doesn't know the cellar, and—well, it is cooking claret!”