prompt:
Chapter: <CHAPTER>
12. THE STRANGER

It seemed to the little crowd on the wharf that she was never going
to move again. There she lay, immense, motionless on the grey crinkled
water, a loop of smoke above her, an immense flock of gulls screaming
and diving after the galley droppings at the stern. You could just see
little couples parading--little flies walking up and down the dish on
the grey crinkled tablecloth. Other flies clustered and swarmed at the
edge. Now there was a gleam of white on the lower deck--the cook's apron
or the stewardess perhaps. Now a tiny black spider raced up the ladder
on to the bridge.

In the front of the crowd a strong-looking, middle-aged man, dressed
very well, very snugly in a grey overcoat, grey silk scarf, thick gloves
and dark felt hat, marched up and down, twirling his folded umbrella. He
seemed to be the leader of the little crowd on the wharf and at the same
time to keep them together. He was something between the sheep-dog and
the shepherd.

But what a fool--what a fool he had been not to bring any glasses! There
wasn't a pair of glasses between the whole lot of them.

"Curious thing, Mr. Scott, that none of us thought of glasses. We might
have been able to stir 'em up a bit. We might have managed a little
signalling. 'Don't hesitate to land. Natives harmless.' Or: 'A welcome
awaits you. All is forgiven.' What? Eh?"

Mr. Hammond's quick, eager glance, so nervous and yet so friendly and
confiding, took in everybody on the wharf, roped in even those old chaps
lounging against the gangways. They knew, every man-jack of them, that
Mrs. Hammond was on that boat, and that he was so tremendously excited
it never entered his head not to believe that this marvellous fact meant
something to them too. It warmed his heart towards them. They were,
he decided, as decent a crowd of people--Those old chaps over by the
gangways, too--fine, solid old chaps. What chests--by Jove! And he
squared his own, plunged his thick-gloved hands into his pockets, rocked
from heel to toe.

"Yes, my wife's been in Europe for the last ten months. On a visit to
our eldest girl, who was married last year. I brought her up here, as
far as Salisbury, myself. So I thought I'd better come and fetch her
back. Yes, yes, yes." The shrewd grey eyes narrowed again and searched
anxiously, quickly, the motionless liner. Again his overcoat was
unbuttoned. Out came the thin, butter-yellow watch again, and for the
twentieth--fiftieth--hundredth time he made the calculation.

"Let me see now. It was two fifteen when the doctor's launch went off.
Two fifteen. It is now exactly twenty-eight minutes past four. That is
to say, the doctor's been gone two hours and thirteen minutes. Two hours
and thirteen minutes! Whee-ooh!" He gave a queer little half-whistle
and snapped his watch to again. "But I think we should have been told if
there was anything up--don't you, Mr. Gaven?"

"Oh, yes, Mr. Hammond! I don't think there's anything to--anything to
worry about," said Mr. Gaven, knocking out his pipe against the heel of
his shoe. "At the same time--"

"Quite so! Quite so!" cried Mr. Hammond. "Dashed annoying!" He paced
quickly up and down and came back again to his stand between Mr. and
Mrs. Scott and Mr. Gaven. "It's getting quite dark, too," and he waved
his folded umbrella as though the dusk at least might have had the
decency to keep off for a bit. But the dusk came slowly, spreading like
a slow stain over the water. Little Jean Scott dragged at her mother's
hand.

"I wan' my tea, mammy!" she wailed.

"I expect you do," said Mr. Hammond. "I expect all these ladies want
their tea." And his kind, flushed, almost pitiful glance roped them all
in again. He wondered whether Janey was having a final cup of tea in the
saloon out there. He hoped so; he thought not. It would be just like her
not to leave the deck. In that case perhaps the deck steward would bring
her up a cup. If he'd been there he'd have got it for her--somehow. And
for a moment he was on deck, standing over her, watching her little hand
fold round the cup in the way she had, while she drank the only cup of
tea to be got on board... But now he was back here, and the Lord only
knew when that cursed Captain would stop hanging about in the stream.
He took another turn, up and down, up and down. He walked as far as the
cab-stand to make sure his driver hadn't disappeared; back he swerved
again to the little flock huddled in the shelter of the banana crates.
Little Jean Scott was still wanting her tea. Poor little beggar! He
wished he had a bit of chocolate on him.

"Here, Jean!" he said. "Like a lift up?" And easily, gently, he swung
the little girl on to a higher barrel. The movement of holding her,
steadying her, relieved him wonderfully, lightened his heart.

"Hold on," he said, keeping an arm round her.

"Oh, don't worry about Jean, Mr. Hammond!" said Mrs. Scott.

"That's all right, Mrs. Scott. No trouble. It's a pleasure. Jean's a
little pal of mine, aren't you, Jean?"

"Yes, Mr. Hammond," said Jean, and she ran her finger down the dent of
his felt hat.

But suddenly she caught him by the ear and gave a loud scream. "Lo-ok,
Mr. Hammond! She's moving! Look, she's coming in!"

By Jove! So she was. At last! She was slowly, slowly turning round. A
bell sounded far over the water and a great spout of steam gushed into
the air. The gulls rose; they fluttered away like bits of white paper.
And whether that deep throbbing was her engines or his heart Mr. Hammond
couldn't say. He had to nerve himself to bear it, whatever it was. At
that moment old Captain Johnson, the harbour-master, came striding down
the wharf, a leather portfolio under his arm.

"Jean'll be all right," said Mr. Scott. "I'll hold her." He was just in
time. Mr. Hammond had forgotten about Jean. He sprang away to greet old
Captain Johnson.

"Well, Captain," the eager, nervous voice rang out again, "you've taken
pity on us at last."

"It's no good blaming me, Mr. Hammond," wheezed old Captain Johnson,
staring at the liner. "You got Mrs. Hammond on board, ain't yer?"

"Yes, yes!" said Hammond, and he kept by the harbour-master's side.
"Mrs. Hammond's there. Hul-lo! We shan't be long now!"

With her telephone ring-ringing, the thrum of her screw filling the air,
the big liner bore down on them, cutting sharp through the dark water
so that big white shavings curled to either side. Hammond and the
harbour-master kept in front of the rest. Hammond took off his hat; he
raked the decks--they were crammed with passengers; he waved his hat and
bawled a loud, strange "Hul-lo!" across the water; and then turned
round and burst out laughing and said something--nothing--to old Captain
Johnson.

"Seen her?" asked the harbour-master.

"No, not yet. Steady--wait a bit!" And suddenly, between two great
clumsy idiots--"Get out of the way there!" he signed with his
umbrella--he saw a hand raised--a white glove shaking a handkerchief.
Another moment, and--thank God, thank God!--there she was. There was
Janey. There was Mrs. Hammond, yes, yes, yes--standing by the rail and
smiling and nodding and waving her handkerchief.

"Well that's first class--first class! Well, well, well!" He positively
stamped. Like lightning he drew out his cigar-case and offered it to
old Captain Johnson. "Have a cigar, Captain! They're pretty good. Have
a couple! Here"--and he pressed all the cigars in the case on the
harbour-master--"I've a couple of boxes up at the hotel."

"Thenks, Mr. Hammond!" wheezed old Captain Johnson.

Hammond stuffed the cigar-case back. His hands were shaking, but he'd
got hold of himself again. He was able to face Janey. There she was,
leaning on the rail, talking to some woman and at the same time watching
him, ready for him. It struck him, as the gulf of water closed, how
small she looked on that huge ship. His heart was wrung with such a
spasm that he could have cried out. How little she looked to have come
all that long way and back by herself! Just like her, though. Just like
Janey. She had the courage of a--And now the crew had come forward and
parted the passengers; they had lowered the rails for the gangways.

The voices on shore and the voices on board flew to greet each other.

"All well?"

"All well."

"How's mother?"

"Much better."

"Hullo, Jean!"

"Hillo, Aun' Emily!"

"Had a good voyage?"

"Splendid!"

"Shan't be long now!"

"Not long now."

The engines stopped. Slowly she edged to the wharf-side.

"Make way there--make way--make way!" And the wharf hands brought the
heavy gangways along at a sweeping run. Hammond signed to Janey to stay
where she was. The old harbour-master stepped forward; he followed. As
to "ladies first," or any rot like that, it never entered his head.

"After you, Captain!" he cried genially. And, treading on the old man's
heels, he strode up the gangway on to the deck in a bee-line to Janey,
and Janey was clasped in his arms.

"Well, well, well! Yes, yes! Here we are at last!" he stammered. It was
all he could say. And Janey emerged, and her cool little voice--the only
voice in the world for him--said,

"Well, darling! Have you been waiting long?"

No; not long. Or, at any rate, it didn't matter. It was over now. But
the point was, he had a cab waiting at the end of the wharf. Was she
ready to go off. Was her luggage ready? In that case they could cut off
sharp with her cabin luggage and let the rest go hang until to-morrow.
He bent over her and she looked up with her familiar half-smile. She
was just the same. Not a day changed. Just as he'd always known her. She
laid her small hand on his sleeve.

"How are the children, John?" she asked.

(Hang the children!) "Perfectly well. Never better in their lives."

"Haven't they sent me letters?"

"Yes, yes--of course! I've left them at the hotel for you to digest
later on."

"We can't go quite so fast," said she. "I've got people to say good-bye
to--and then there's the Captain." As his face fell she gave his arm a
small understanding squeeze. "If the Captain comes off the bridge I
want you to thank him for having looked after your wife so beautifully."
Well, he'd got her. If she wanted another ten minutes--As he gave way
she was surrounded. The whole first-class seemed to want to say good-bye
to Janey.

"Good-bye, dear Mrs. Hammond! And next time you're in Sydney I'll expect
you."

"Darling Mrs. Hammond! You won't forget to write to me, will you?"

"Well, Mrs. Hammond, what this boat would have been without you!"

It was as plain as a pikestaff that she was by far the most popular
woman on board. And she took it all--just as usual. Absolutely composed.
Just her little self--just Janey all over; standing there with her veil
thrown back. Hammond never noticed what his wife had on. It was all the
same to him whatever she wore. But to-day he did notice that she wore a
black "costume"--didn't they call it?--with white frills, trimmings he
supposed they were, at the neck and sleeves. All this while Janey handed
him round.

"John, dear!" And then: "I want to introduce you to--"

Finally they did escape, and she led the way to her state-room. To
follow Janey down the passage that she knew so well--that was so strange
to him; to part the green curtains after her and to step into the cabin
that had been hers gave him exquisite happiness. But--confound it!--the
stewardess was there on the floor, strapping up the rugs.

"That's the last, Mrs. Hammond," said the stewardess, rising and pulling
down her cuffs.

He was introduced again, and then Janey and the stewardess disappeared
into the passage. He heard whisperings. She was getting the tipping
business over, he supposed. He sat down on the striped sofa and took his
hat off. There were the rugs she had taken with her; they looked good as
new. All her luggage looked fresh, perfect. The labels were written in
her beautiful little clear hand--"Mrs. John Hammond."

"Mrs. John Hammond!" He gave a long sigh of content and leaned back,
crossing his arms. The strain was over. He felt he could have sat there
for ever sighing his relief--the relief at being rid of that horrible
tug, pull, grip on his heart. The danger was over. That was the feeling.
They were on dry land again.

But at that moment Janey's head came round the corner.

"Darling--do you mind? I just want to go and say good-bye to the
doctor."

Hammond started up. "I'll come with you."

"No, no!" she said. "Don't bother. I'd rather not. I'll not be a
minute."

And before he could answer she was gone. He had half a mind to run after
her; but instead he sat down again.

Would she really not be long? What was the time now? Out came the watch;
he stared at nothing. That was rather queer of Janey, wasn't it? Why
couldn't she have told the stewardess to say good-bye for her? Why did
she have to go chasing after the ship's doctor? She could have sent
a note from the hotel even if the affair had been urgent. Urgent? Did
it--could it mean that she had been ill on the voyage--she was keeping
something from him? That was it! He seized his hat. He was going off
to find that fellow and to wring the truth out of him at all costs. He
thought he'd noticed just something. She was just a touch too calm--too
steady. From the very first moment--

The curtains rang. Janey was back. He jumped to his feet.

"Janey, have you been ill on this voyage? You have!"

"Ill?" Her airy little voice mocked him. She stepped over the rugs, and
came up close, touched his breast, and looked up at him.

"Darling," she said, "don't frighten me. Of course I haven't! Whatever
makes you think I have? Do I look ill?"

But Hammond didn't see her. He only felt that she was looking at him
and that there was no need to worry about anything. She was here to look
after things. It was all right. Everything was.

The gentle pressure of her hand was so calming that he put his over hers
to hold it there. And she said:

"Stand still. I want to look at you. I haven't seen you yet. You've
had your beard beautifully trimmed, and you look--younger, I think, and
decidedly thinner! Bachelor life agrees with you."

"Agrees with me!" He groaned for love and caught her close again. And
again, as always, he had the feeling that he was holding something that
never was quite his--his. Something too delicate, too precious, that
would fly away once he let go.

"For God's sake let's get off to the hotel so that we can be by
ourselves!" And he rang the bell hard for some one to look sharp with
the luggage.

*****

Walking down the wharf together she took his arm. He had her on his arm
again. And the difference it made to get into the cab after Janey--to
throw the red-and-yellow striped blanket round them both--to tell the
driver to hurry because neither of them had had any tea. No more going
without his tea or pouring out his own. She was back. He turned to her,
squeezed her hand, and said gently, teasingly, in the "special" voice
he had for her: "Glad to be home again, dearie?" She smiled; she didn't
even bother to answer, but gently she drew his hand away as they came to
the brighter streets.

"We've got the best room in the hotel," he said. "I wouldn't be put off
with another. And I asked the chambermaid to put in a bit of a fire in
case you felt chilly. She's a nice, attentive girl. And I thought now
we were here we wouldn't bother to go home to-morrow, but spend the day
looking round and leave the morning after. Does that suit you? There's
no hurry, is there? The children will have you soon enough... I thought a
day's sight-seeing might make a nice break in your journey--eh, Janey?"

"Have you taken the tickets for the day after?" she asked.

"I should think I have!" He unbuttoned his overcoat and took out his
bulging pocket-book. "Here we are! I reserved a first-class carriage to
Cooktown. There it is--'Mr. and Mrs. John Hammond.' I thought we might
as well do ourselves comfortably, and we don't want other people butting
in, do we? But if you'd like to stop here a bit longer--?"

"Oh, no!" said Janey quickly. "Not for the world! The day after
to-morrow, then. And the children--"

But they had reached the hotel. The manager was standing in the broad,
brilliantly-lighted porch. He came down to greet them. A porter ran from
the hall for their boxes.

"Well, Mr. Arnold, here's Mrs. Hammond at last!"

The manager led them through the hall himself and pressed the
elevator-bell. Hammond knew there were business pals of his sitting at
the little hall tables having a drink before dinner. But he wasn't going
to risk interruption; he looked neither to the right nor the left. They
could think what they pleased. If they didn't understand, the more fools
they--and he stepped out of the lift, unlocked the door of their room,
and shepherded Janey in. The door shut. Now, at last, they were alone
together. He turned up the light. The curtains were drawn; the fire
blazed. He flung his hat on to the huge bed and went towards her.

But--would you believe it!--again they were interrupted. This time it
was the porter with the luggage. He made two journeys of it, leaving the
door open in between, taking his time, whistling through his teeth
in the corridor. Hammond paced up and down the room, tearing off his
gloves, tearing off his scarf. Finally he flung his overcoat on to the
bedside.

At last the fool was gone. The door clicked. Now they were alone. Said
Hammond: "I feel I'll never have you to myself again. These cursed
people! Janey"--and he bent his flushed, eager gaze upon her--"let's
have dinner up here. If we go down to the restaurant we'll be
interrupted, and then there's the confounded music" (the music he'd
praised so highly, applauded so loudly last night!). "We shan't be able
to hear each other speak. Let's have something up here in front of the
fire. It's too late for tea. I'll order a little supper, shall I? How
does that idea strike you?"

"Do, darling!" said Janey. "And while you're away--the children's
letters--"

"Oh, later on will do!" said Hammond.

"But then we'd get it over," said Janey. "And I'd first have time to--"

"Oh, I needn't go down!" explained Hammond. "I'll just ring and give the
order... you don't want to send me away, do you?"

Janey shook her head and smiled.

"But you're thinking of something else. You're worrying about
something," said Hammond. "What is it? Come and sit here--come and sit
on my knee before the fire."

"I'll just unpin my hat," said Janey, and she went over to the
dressing-table. "A-ah!" She gave a little cry.

"What is it?"

"Nothing, darling. I've just found the children's letters. That's all
right! They will keep. No hurry now!" She turned to him, clasping them.
She tucked them into her frilled blouse. She cried quickly, gaily: "Oh,
how typical this dressing-table is of you!"

"Why? What's the matter with it?" said Hammond.

"If it were floating in eternity I should say 'John!'" laughed
Janey, staring at the big bottle of hair tonic, the wicker bottle of
eau-de-Cologne, the two hair-brushes, and a dozen new collars tied with
pink tape. "Is this all your luggage?"

"Hang my luggage!" said Hammond; but all the same he liked being laughed
at by Janey. "Let's talk. Let's get down to things. Tell me"--and as
Janey perched on his knees he leaned back and drew her into the deep,
ugly chair--"tell me you're really glad to be back, Janey."

"Yes, darling, I am glad," she said.

But just as when he embraced her he felt she would fly away, so Hammond
never knew--never knew for dead certain that she was as glad as he
was. How could he know? Would he ever know? Would he always have this
craving--this pang like hunger, somehow, to make Janey so much part
of him that there wasn't any of her to escape? He wanted to blot out
everybody, everything. He wished now he'd turned off the light. That
might have brought her nearer. And now those letters from the children
rustled in her blouse. He could have chucked them into the fire.

"Janey," he whispered.

"Yes, dear?" She lay on his breast, but so lightly, so remotely. Their
breathing rose and fell together.

"Janey!"

"What is it?"

"Turn to me," he whispered. A slow, deep flush flowed into his forehead.
"Kiss me, Janey! You kiss me!"

It seemed to him there was a tiny pause--but long enough for him to
suffer torture--before her lips touched his, firmly, lightly--kissing
them as she always kissed him, as though the kiss--how could he describe
it?--confirmed what they were saying, signed the contract. But that
wasn't what he wanted; that wasn't at all what he thirsted for. He felt
suddenly, horrible tired.

"If you knew," he said, opening his eyes, "what it's been like--waiting
to-day. I thought the boat never would come in. There we were, hanging
about. What kept you so long?"

She made no answer. She was looking away from him at the fire. The
flames hurried--hurried over the coals, flickered, fell.

"Not asleep, are you?" said Hammond, and he jumped her up and down.

"No," she said. And then: "Don't do that, dear. No, I was thinking. As
a matter of fact," she said, "one of the passengers died last night--a
man. That's what held us up. We brought him in--I mean, he wasn't buried
at sea. So, of course, the ship's doctor and the shore doctor--"

"What was it?" asked Hammond uneasily. He hated to hear of death. He
hated this to have happened. It was, in some queer way, as though he and
Janey had met a funeral on their way to the hotel.

"Oh, it wasn't anything in the least infectious!" said Janey. She was
speaking scarcely above her breath. "It was heart." A pause. "Poor
fellow!" she said. "Quite young." And she watched the fire flicker and
fall. "He died in my arms," said Janey.

The blow was so sudden that Hammond thought he would faint. He couldn't
move; he couldn't breathe. He felt all his strength flowing--flowing
into the big dark chair, and the big dark chair held him fast, gripped
him, forced him to bear it.

"What?" he said dully. "What's that you say?"

"The end was quite peaceful," said the small voice. "He just"--and
Hammond saw her lift her gentle hand--"breathed his life away at the
end." And her hand fell.

"Who--else was there?" Hammond managed to ask.

"Nobody. I was alone with him."

Ah, my God, what was she saying! What was she doing to him! This would
kill him! And all the while she spoke:

"I saw the change coming and I sent the steward for the doctor, but the
doctor was too late. He couldn't have done anything, anyway."

"But--why you, why you?" moaned Hammond.

At that Janey turned quickly, quickly searched his face.

"You don't mind, John, do you?" she asked. "You don't--It's nothing to
do with you and me."

Somehow or other he managed to shake some sort of smile at her. Somehow
or other he stammered: "No--go--on, go on! I want you to tell me."

"But, John darling--"

"Tell me, Janey!"

"There's nothing to tell," she said, wondering. "He was one of
the first-class passengers. I saw he was very ill when he came on
board... But he seemed to be so much better until yesterday. He had a
severe attack in the afternoon--excitement--nervousness, I think, about
arriving. And after that he never recovered."

"But why didn't the stewardess--"

"Oh, my dear--the stewardess!" said Janey. "What would he have felt? And
besides... he might have wanted to leave a message... to--"

"Didn't he?" muttered Hammond. "Didn't he say anything?"

"No, darling, not a word!" She shook her head softly. "All the time I
was with him he was too weak... he was too weak even to move a finger... "

Janey was silent. But her words, so light, so soft, so chill, seemed to
hover in the air, to rain into his breast like snow.

The fire had gone red. Now it fell in with a sharp sound and the
room was colder. Cold crept up his arms. The room was huge, immense,
glittering. It filled his whole world. There was the great blind bed,
with his coat flung across it like some headless man saying his prayers.
There was the luggage, ready to be carried away again, anywhere, tossed
into trains, carted on to boats.

... "He was too weak. He was too weak to move a finger." And yet he died
in Janey's arms. She--who'd never--never once in all these years--never
on one single solitary occasion--

No; he mustn't think of it. Madness lay in thinking of it. No, he
wouldn't face it. He couldn't stand it. It was too much to bear!

And now Janey touched his tie with her fingers. She pinched the edges of
the tie together.

"You're not--sorry I told you, John darling? It hasn't made you sad? It
hasn't spoilt our evening--our being alone together?"

But at that he had to hide his face. He put his face into her bosom and
his arms enfolded her.

Spoilt their evening! Spoilt their being alone together! They would
never be alone together again.

</CHAPTER>

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: The crowd on the wharf anxiously watches the motionless ship across the water. No one was more anxious than Mr. John Hammond whose wife, Janey, was aboard the ship. Checking his watch, pacing, engaging all those gathered in conversation, Mr. Hammond kept everyone in high spirits, more or less, while scanning the deck of the ship for signs of his wife. In appearance Mr. Hammond was a handsome, middle-aged man, dressed well in a fitted gray overcoat, obviously rich. He had a habit of twirling his folded umbrella and once the dusk began to settle in he thrust his umbrella outward as if to ward off the night. The small crowd had been waiting over two hours for the ship to come into port. A doctor had rowed out when the ship arrived but had not yet returned. Something was obviously wrong and Mr. Hammond tried not to imagine the worst. Janey had been away for ten months, visiting their eldest daughter in Europe who had married the year before. A little girl nearby cried to her mother that she wanted tea. Mr. Hammond anxiously imagined his Janey doing without tea onboard the ship. He knew she was probably on deck now, waiting just as he was, for the ship to come in. He imagined there was no one to fetch Janey her tea and envisioned himself doing it, watching her little hand hold the cup in the special way that she had. Frustrated by the whole situation, Mr. Hammond walked to where his driver waited with the car, paced some more, and then playfully lifted the little girl who wanted tea onto a barrel. The little girl cried out that the ship was coming in. Mr. Hammond, in his excitement, abandoned the little girl and made his way over to Captain Johnson. The captain had come to shore on a separate boat. Captain Johnson dutifully reported that Mrs. Janey Hammond was well and on board the ship. Mr. Hammond was ecstatic and thanked the captain for his service and gave him a handful of his own good cigars. Mr. Hammond made his way to the front of the crowd and waving enthusiastically with his hat, he searched the deck for Janey. He did not see her but then caught sight of a white handkerchief. Brandishing his umbrella he a cut a path to the ship and saw it was Janey and she was waving her handkerchief at him. "...thank God, thank God! -there she was. There was Janey. There was Mrs. Hammond, yes, yes, yes" shouted his inner monologue. After the gangway was in place Mr. Hammond rushed forward and only out of gentility allowed the captain to board first. Mr. Hammond made a beeline for Janey and she was in his arms at last. In her little voice, "the only voice in the world for him" she asked if he had been waiting long and he said he had not and wanted to get off the ship as quickly as possible so they could go back to the hotel. Janey had other plans. She spent a good amount of time saying goodbye to all of the friends she had made on the journey. Mr. Hammond was proud to make note of his wife's popularity. Then they went below deck to Janey's rooms. Here Mr. Hammond was filled with delight at the sight of the place that had been his wife's home during her passage. He saw her luggage and the tags labeled "Mrs. John Hammond" and it gave him such a thrill. He wanted nothing more than to be alone with Janey. Unfortunately, Janey wanted to speak with the doctor and rushed out to do so, leaving Mr. Hammond behind. Immediately growing suspicious, Mr. Hammond thought Janey had been ill and was keeping bad news from him. Janey returned and after he accused her being ill, she placed her small hand on his large chest and in a quiet voice reassured him that she was fine. Mr. Hammond sighed in relief. Janey was back, she would take care of everything, as she had always done. All was right with his world again. Mr. Hammond embraced his wife. His love for her was so great but as usual, he felt as if he were holding something that was not his, and that she could fly away at any moment. Wanting to be alone with Janey at the hotel he rang for the luggage and they disembarked. Soon they were in the car and driving. He lovingly placed a blanket over them both and said he had made all of the travel arrangements and they were to leave the next day. Janey asked after the children several times about Mr. Hammond was not to be distracted. He held her hand and watched her and did not notice when she gently took her hand away. In their hotel room, Mr. Hammond had arranged for a fire to be lit in case Janey was chilled from the journey. He tried to take her in his arms again, but letters from their children distracted her. She suggested she read them now and get it out of the way but Mr. Hammond was anxious to have her all to himself. Janey asked if he would go downstairs and get room service so they might have tea but again Mr. Hammond was not to be distracted and jokingly accused his wife of wanting to send him away. To this remark Janey only shook her head and smiled. Mr. Hammond took her and placed her on his knee, he sat back in a chair and held her, lovingly but as always, he felt as if she were always on the brink of flying away. He asked that she kiss him and she did but something was wrong. She laid her head against his broad chest and they sat there a moment in silence. Mr. Hammond asked her if she were tired, if everything were all right. Janey did not answer and so he bounced his leg up and down and she told him to stop and said that a man had died on the ship the day before. Janey said the reason the ship was so late coming into port was because it took so long for the doctor to determine what happened to the man. Her voice fell and she said the man was young and had died of heart complications. Janey's hand fell away from her husband's chest and she said that the young man had died in her arms and they had been alone together. Mr. Hammond began to panic. "Ah my God, what was she saying! What was she doing to him? This would kill him!" Janey said the man died very peacefully and there was nothing a doctor could have done to save him. They had met aboard the ship, he was a first class passenger and had been ill for sometime but he had seemed so much better until today. He had some sort of attack before the ship arrived, nervousness perhaps or excitement. He had not recovered and was too weak at the end to even lift a finger. "You don't mind, John, do you? You don't- It's nothing to do with you and me" but Mr. Hammond did mind but he could not bring himself to say it. He thought madness lay in thinking about what she said, not only the implications of his wife being alone with another man but of the man being too weak to move and yet he died in her arms. She had never in all of the years of their marriage reached out to him first. He was the one... but he stopped himself. Janey played with his tie and said that she hoped that her confession would not get in the way of their evening of being alone together. Mr. Hammond hugged her closely in order to hide his face and thought they would never be alone together again.


prompt:
Chapter: <CHAPTER>
13. BANK HOLIDAY.

A stout man with a pink face wears dingy white flannel trousers, a blue
coat with a pink handkerchief showing, and a straw hat much too small
for him, perched at the back of his head. He plays the guitar. A little
chap in white canvas shoes, his face hidden under a felt hat like
a broken wing, breathes into a flute; and a tall thin fellow, with
bursting over-ripe button boots, draws ribbons--long, twisted, streaming
ribbons--of tune out of a fiddle. They stand, unsmiling, but not
serious, in the broad sunlight opposite the fruit-shop; the pink
spider of a hand beats the guitar, the little squat hand, with a
brass-and-turquoise ring, forces the reluctant flute, and the fiddler's
arm tries to saw the fiddle in two.

A crowd collects, eating oranges and bananas, tearing off the skins,
dividing, sharing. One young girl has even a basket of strawberries,
but she does not eat them. "Aren't they dear!" She stares at the tiny
pointed fruits as if she were afraid of them. The Australian soldier
laughs. "Here, go on, there's not more than a mouthful." But he doesn't
want her to eat them, either. He likes to watch her little frightened
face, and her puzzled eyes lifted to his: "Aren't they a price!" He
pushes out his chest and grins. Old fat women in velvet bodices--old
dusty pin-cushions--lean old hags like worn umbrellas with a quivering
bonnet on top; young women, in muslins, with hats that might have grown
on hedges, and high pointed shoes; men in khaki, sailors, shabby clerks,
young Jews in fine cloth suits with padded shoulders and wide trousers,
"hospital boys" in blue--the sun discovers them--the loud, bold music
holds them together in one big knot for a moment. The young ones are
larking, pushing each other on and off the pavement, dodging, nudging;
the old ones are talking: "So I said to 'im, if you wants the doctor to
yourself, fetch 'im, says I."

"An' by the time they was cooked there wasn't so much as you could put
in the palm of me 'and!"

The only ones who are quiet are the ragged children. They stand, as
close up to the musicians as they can get, their hands behind their
backs, their eyes big. Occasionally a leg hops, an arm wags. A tiny
staggerer, overcome, turns round twice, sits down solemn, and then gets
up again.

"Ain't it lovely?" whispers a small girl behind her hand.

And the music breaks into bright pieces, and joins together again, and
again breaks, and is dissolved, and the crowd scatters, moving slowly up
the hill.

At the corner of the road the stalls begin.

"Ticklers! Tuppence a tickler! 'Ool 'ave a tickler? Tickle 'em up,
boys." Little soft brooms on wire handles. They are eagerly bought by
the soldiers.

"Buy a golliwog! Tuppence a golliwog!"

"Buy a jumping donkey! All alive-oh!"

"Su-perior chewing gum. Buy something to do, boys."

"Buy a rose. Give 'er a rose, boy. Roses, lady?"

"Fevvers! Fevvers!" They are hard to resist. Lovely, streaming feathers,
emerald green, scarlet, bright blue, canary yellow. Even the babies wear
feathers threaded through their bonnets.

And an old woman in a three-cornered paper hat cries as if it were her
final parting advice, the only way of saving yourself or of bringing him
to his senses: "Buy a three-cornered 'at, my dear, an' put it on!"

It is a flying day, half sun, half wind. When the sun goes in a shadow
flies over; when it comes out again it is fiery. The men and women feel
it burning their backs, their breasts and their arms; they feel their
bodies expanding, coming alive... so that they make large embracing
gestures, lift up their arms, for nothing, swoop down on a girl, blurt
into laughter.

Lemonade! A whole tank of it stands on a table covered with a cloth;
and lemons like blunted fishes blob in the yellow water. It looks solid,
like a jelly, in the thick glasses. Why can't they drink it without
spilling it? Everybody spills it, and before the glass is handed back
the last drops are thrown in a ring.

Round the ice-cream cart, with its striped awning and bright brass
cover, the children cluster. Little tongues lick, lick round the cream
trumpets, round the squares. The cover is lifted, the wooden spoon
plunges in; one shuts one's eyes to feel it, silently scrunching.

"Let these little birds tell you your future!" She stands beside the
cage, a shrivelled ageless Italian, clasping and unclasping her
dark claws. Her face, a treasure of delicate carving, is tied in a
green-and-gold scarf. And inside their prison the love-birds flutter
towards the papers in the seed-tray.

"You have great strength of character. You will marry a red-haired man
and have three children. Beware of a blonde woman." Look out! Look
out! A motor-car driven by a fat chauffeur comes rushing down the hill.
Inside there a blonde woman, pouting, leaning forward--rushing through
your life--beware! beware!

"Ladies and gentlemen, I am an auctioneer by profession, and if what I
tell you is not the truth I am liable to have my licence taken away from
me and a heavy imprisonment." He holds the licence across his chest; the
sweat pours down his face into his paper collar; his eyes look glazed.
When he takes off his hat there is a deep pucker of angry flesh on his
forehead. Nobody buys a watch.

Look out again! A huge barouche comes swinging down the hill with two
old, old babies inside. She holds up a lace parasol; he sucks the knob
of his cane, and the fat old bodies roll together as the cradle rocks,
and the steaming horse leaves a trail of manure as it ambles down the
hill.

Under a tree, Professor Leonard, in cap and gown, stands beside his
banner. He is here "for one day," from the London, Paris and Brussels
Exhibition, to tell your fortune from your face. And he stands, smiling
encouragement, like a clumsy dentist. When the big men, romping and
swearing a moment before, hand across their sixpence, and stand before
him, they are suddenly serious, dumb, timid, almost blushing as the
Professor's quick hand notches the printed card. They are like little
children caught playing in a forbidden garden by the owner, stepping
from behind a tree.

The top of the hill is reached. How hot it is! How fine it is! The
public-house is open, and the crowd presses in. The mother sits on the
pavement edge with her baby, and the father brings her out a glass of
dark, brownish stuff, and then savagely elbows his way in again. A reek
of beer floats from the public-house, and a loud clatter and rattle of
voices.

The wind has dropped, and the sun burns more fiercely than ever. Outside
the two swing-doors there is a thick mass of children like flies at the
mouth of a sweet-jar.

And up, up the hill come the people, with ticklers and golliwogs,
and roses and feathers. Up, up they thrust into the light and heat,
shouting, laughing, squealing, as though they were being pushed by
something, far below, and by the sun, far ahead of them--drawn up into
the full, bright, dazzling radiance to... what?

</CHAPTER>

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: A band begins to play a lively tune as a crowd gathers around them. Eating oranges and bananas the young and the old feast as they walk together toward a hill in the distance. The music surrounds the crowd, joining them in celebration of the bank holiday. A few characters in the crowd stand out, like the young girl who has a handful of strawberries. She will not eat them because she thinks the pointed fruit is so beautiful and turns to an Australian solider who laughs at her and tells her to put them in her mouth. He secretly enjoys the frightened look in her eyes as she looks up at him. Old women in velvet bodices pass by young women in muslin and pointed shoes. Men of all kinds, sailors, clerks, young and old, are about. "The loud, bold music holds them together in one big knot for a moment". Ragged children are underfoot, some dancing to the music, others still. As the music breaks and finally dissolves the crowd moves on. Stalls are set up, each housing a vendor selling his or her particular ware. Feathers, toys, dolls, chewing gum, flowers, and hats are just some of the items for sale here but most of the crowd passes by, unable to afford the merchandise or unwilling to pay for such trinkets. The day is sunny and beginning to turn overly hot, the men and women feel it burning through their clothes and on the tops of their heads. The crowd surges forward to buy lemonade and ice cream. A fortuneteller from Italy promises to reveal the secrets of the future. She tells one young woman she will marry a redheaded man and to beware a blonde woman in a car. An auctioneer with sweaty palms stands nearby trying to sell a watch that no one will buy. An older man and woman rush past in a carriage, she is playfully holding a parasol, he is sucking the end of his cane like a baby. Their horse trudges onward, leaving piles of manure in its wake. Professor Leonard, or so he is called, is in his academic cap and gown. He has just returned from a successful tour in London, Paris, and Brussels. The professor promises the crowd he can tell their fortunes from the lines and contours of their faces and marks his observations by cutting notches into a card. Large men timidly hand their money over to him. The top of the hill is finally reached. The heat has driven the mothers to sit on the ground with their children while the fathers run into the public houses or taverns to buy ale. People comes in droves up the hill, carrying their trinkets and lemonade, having had their fortunes read, they continue on as if being pushed from behind by an unknown force into the bright radiance of the sun and beyond ... "to what?"


prompt:
Chapter: <CHAPTER>
14. AN IDEAL FAMILY.

That evening for the first time in his life, as he pressed through the
swing door and descended the three broad steps to the pavement, old
Mr. Neave felt he was too old for the spring. Spring--warm, eager,
restless--was there, waiting for him in the golden light, ready in front
of everybody to run up, to blow in his white beard, to drag sweetly on
his arm. And he couldn't meet her, no; he couldn't square up once more
and stride off, jaunty as a young man. He was tired and, although the
late sun was still shining, curiously cold, with a numbed feeling all
over. Quite suddenly he hadn't the energy, he hadn't the heart to stand
this gaiety and bright movement any longer; it confused him. He wanted
to stand still, to wave it away with his stick, to say, "Be off with
you!" Suddenly it was a terrible effort to greet as usual--tipping his
wide-awake with his stick--all the people whom he knew, the friends,
acquaintances, shopkeepers, postmen, drivers. But the gay glance that
went with the gesture, the kindly twinkle that seemed to say, "I'm a
match and more for any of you"--that old Mr. Neave could not manage
at all. He stumped along, lifting his knees high as if he were walking
through air that had somehow grown heavy and solid like water. And the
homeward-looking crowd hurried by, the trams clanked, the light carts
clattered, the big swinging cabs bowled along with that reckless,
defiant indifference that one knows only in dreams...

It had been a day like other days at the office. Nothing special had
happened. Harold hadn't come back from lunch until close on four. Where
had he been? What had he been up to? He wasn't going to let his father
know. Old Mr. Neave had happened to be in the vestibule, saying good-bye
to a caller, when Harold sauntered in, perfectly turned out as usual,
cool, suave, smiling that peculiar little half-smile that women found so
fascinating.

Ah, Harold was too handsome, too handsome by far; that had been the
trouble all along. No man had a right to such eyes, such lashes, and
such lips; it was uncanny. As for his mother, his sisters, and the
servants, it was not too much to say they made a young god of him; they
worshipped Harold, they forgave him everything; and he had needed some
forgiving ever since the time when he was thirteen and he had stolen
his mother's purse, taken the money, and hidden the purse in the cook's
bedroom. Old Mr. Neave struck sharply with his stick upon the pavement
edge. But it wasn't only his family who spoiled Harold, he reflected,
it was everybody; he had only to look and to smile, and down they went
before him. So perhaps it wasn't to be wondered at that he expected the
office to carry on the tradition. H'm, h'm! But it couldn't be done. No
business--not even a successful, established, big paying concern--could
be played with. A man had either to put his whole heart and soul into
it, or it went all to pieces before his eyes...

And then Charlotte and the girls were always at him to make the whole
thing over to Harold, to retire, and to spend his time enjoying himself.
Enjoying himself! Old Mr. Neave stopped dead under a group of ancient
cabbage palms outside the Government buildings! Enjoying himself! The
wind of evening shook the dark leaves to a thin airy cackle. Sitting at
home, twiddling his thumbs, conscious all the while that his life's
work was slipping away, dissolving, disappearing through Harold's fine
fingers, while Harold smiled...

"Why will you be so unreasonable, father? There's absolutely no need
for you to go to the office. It only makes it very awkward for us when
people persist in saying how tired you're looking. Here's this huge
house and garden. Surely you could be happy in--in--appreciating it for
a change. Or you could take up some hobby."

And Lola the baby had chimed in loftily, "All men ought to have hobbies.
It makes life impossible if they haven't."

Well, well! He couldn't help a grim smile as painfully he began to climb
the hill that led into Harcourt Avenue. Where would Lola and her sisters
and Charlotte be if he'd gone in for hobbies, he'd like to know? Hobbies
couldn't pay for the town house and the seaside bungalow, and their
horses, and their golf, and the sixty-guinea gramophone in the
music-room for them to dance to. Not that he grudged them these things.
No, they were smart, good-looking girls, and Charlotte was a remarkable
woman; it was natural for them to be in the swim. As a matter of fact,
no other house in the town was as popular as theirs; no other family
entertained so much. And how many times old Mr. Neave, pushing the cigar
box across the smoking-room table, had listened to praises of his wife,
his girls, of himself even.

"You're an ideal family, sir, an ideal family. It's like something one
reads about or sees on the stage."

"That's all right, my boy," old Mr. Neave would reply. "Try one of
those; I think you'll like them. And if you care to smoke in the garden,
you'll find the girls on the lawn, I dare say."

That was why the girls had never married, so people said. They could
have married anybody. But they had too good a time at home. They were
too happy together, the girls and Charlotte. H'm, h'm! Well, well.
Perhaps so...

By this time he had walked the length of fashionable Harcourt Avenue;
he had reached the corner house, their house. The carriage gates were
pushed back; there were fresh marks of wheels on the drive. And then he
faced the big white-painted house, with its wide-open windows, its tulle
curtains floating outwards, its blue jars of hyacinths on the broad
sills. On either side of the carriage porch their hydrangeas--famous in
the town--were coming into flower; the pinkish, bluish masses of flower
lay like light among the spreading leaves. And somehow, it seemed to old
Mr. Neave that the house and the flowers, and even the fresh marks on
the drive, were saying, "There is young life here. There are girls--"

The hall, as always, was dusky with wraps, parasols, gloves, piled on
the oak chests. From the music-room sounded the piano, quick, loud and
impatient. Through the drawing-room door that was ajar voices floated.

"And were there ices?" came from Charlotte. Then the creak, creak of her
rocker.

"Ices!" cried Ethel. "My dear mother, you never saw such ices. Only two
kinds. And one a common little strawberry shop ice, in a sopping wet
frill."

"The food altogether was too appalling," came from Marion.

"Still, it's rather early for ices," said Charlotte easily.

"But why, if one has them at all... " began Ethel.

"Oh, quite so, darling," crooned Charlotte.

Suddenly the music-room door opened and Lola dashed out. She started,
she nearly screamed, at the sight of old Mr. Neave.

"Gracious, father! What a fright you gave me! Have you just come home?
Why isn't Charles here to help you off with your coat?"

Her cheeks were crimson from playing, her eyes glittered, the hair
fell over her forehead. And she breathed as though she had come running
through the dark and was frightened. Old Mr. Neave stared at his
youngest daughter; he felt he had never seen her before. So that was
Lola, was it? But she seemed to have forgotten her father; it was not
for him that she was waiting there. Now she put the tip of her crumpled
handkerchief between her teeth and tugged at it angrily. The telephone
rang. A-ah! Lola gave a cry like a sob and dashed past him. The door of
the telephone-room slammed, and at the same moment Charlotte called, "Is
that you, father?"

"You're tired again," said Charlotte reproachfully, and she stopped the
rocker and offered her warm plum-like cheek. Bright-haired Ethel pecked
his beard, Marion's lips brushed his ear.

"Did you walk back, father?" asked Charlotte.

"Yes, I walked home," said old Mr. Neave, and he sank into one of the
immense drawing-room chairs.

"But why didn't you take a cab?" said Ethel. "There are hundred of cabs
about at that time."

"My dear Ethel," cried Marion, "if father prefers to tire himself out, I
really don't see what business of ours it is to interfere."

"Children, children?" coaxed Charlotte.

But Marion wouldn't be stopped. "No, mother, you spoil father, and it's
not right. You ought to be stricter with him. He's very naughty." She
laughed her hard, bright laugh and patted her hair in a mirror. Strange!
When she was a little girl she had such a soft, hesitating voice; she
had even stuttered, and now, whatever she said--even if it was only
"Jam, please, father"--it rang out as though she were on the stage.

"Did Harold leave the office before you, dear?" asked Charlotte,
beginning to rock again.

"I'm not sure," said Old Mr. Neave. "I'm not sure. I didn't see him
after four o'clock."

"He said--" began Charlotte.

But at that moment Ethel, who was twitching over the leaves of some
paper or other, ran to her mother and sank down beside her chair.

"There, you see," she cried. "That's what I mean, mummy. Yellow, with
touches of silver. Don't you agree?"

"Give it to me, love," said Charlotte. She fumbled for her
tortoise-shell spectacles and put them on, gave the page a little dab
with her plump small fingers, and pursed up her lips. "Very sweet!"
she crooned vaguely; she looked at Ethel over her spectacles. "But I
shouldn't have the train."

"Not the train!" wailed Ethel tragically. "But the train's the whole
point."

"Here, mother, let me decide." Marion snatched the paper playfully from
Charlotte. "I agree with mother," she cried triumphantly. "The train
overweights it."

Old Mr. Neave, forgotten, sank into the broad lap of his chair, and,
dozing, heard them as though he dreamed. There was no doubt about it, he
was tired out; he had lost his hold. Even Charlotte and the girls were
too much for him to-night. They were too... too... But all his drowsing
brain could think of was--too rich for him. And somewhere at the back
of everything he was watching a little withered ancient man climbing up
endless flights of stairs. Who was he?

"I shan't dress to-night," he muttered.

"What do you say, father?"

"Eh, what, what?" Old Mr. Neave woke with a start and stared across at
them. "I shan't dress to-night," he repeated.

"But, father, we've got Lucile coming, and Henry Davenport, and Mrs.
Teddie Walker."

"It will look so very out of the picture."

"Don't you feel well, dear?"

"You needn't make any effort. What is Charles for?"

"But if you're really not up to it," Charlotte wavered.

"Very well! Very well!" Old Mr. Neave got up and went to join that
little old climbing fellow just as far as his dressing-room...

There young Charles was waiting for him. Carefully, as though everything
depended on it, he was tucking a towel round the hot-water can. Young
Charles had been a favourite of his ever since as a little red-faced
boy he had come into the house to look after the fires. Old Mr. Neave
lowered himself into the cane lounge by the window, stretched out his
legs, and made his little evening joke, "Dress him up, Charles!" And
Charles, breathing intensely and frowning, bent forward to take the pin
out of his tie.

H'm, h'm! Well, well! It was pleasant by the open window, very
pleasant--a fine mild evening. They were cutting the grass on the tennis
court below; he heard the soft churr of the mower. Soon the girls would
begin their tennis parties again. And at the thought he seemed to
hear Marion's voice ring out, "Good for you, partner... Oh, played,
partner... Oh, very nice indeed." Then Charlotte calling from the
veranda, "Where is Harold?" And Ethel, "He's certainly not here,
mother." And Charlotte's vague, "He said--"

Old Mr. Neave sighed, got up, and putting one hand under his beard, he
took the comb from young Charles, and carefully combed the white beard
over. Charles gave him a folded handkerchief, his watch and seals, and
spectacle case.

"That will do, my lad." The door shut, he sank back, he was alone...

And now that little ancient fellow was climbing down endless flights
that led to a glittering, gay dining-room. What legs he had! They were
like a spider's--thin, withered.

"You're an ideal family, sir, an ideal family."

But if that were true, why didn't Charlotte or the girls stop him? Why
was he all alone, climbing up and down? Where was Harold? Ah, it was
no good expecting anything from Harold. Down, down went the little old
spider, and then, to his horror, old Mr. Neave saw him slip past the
dining-room and make for the porch, the dark drive, the carriage gates,
the office. Stop him, stop him, somebody!

Old Mr. Neave started up. It was dark in his dressing-room; the window
shone pale. How long had he been asleep? He listened, and through
the big, airy, darkened house there floated far-away voices, far-away
sounds. Perhaps, he thought vaguely, he had been asleep for a long time.
He'd been forgotten. What had all this to do with him--this house and
Charlotte, the girls and Harold--what did he know about them? They were
strangers to him. Life had passed him by. Charlotte was not his wife.
His wife!

... A dark porch, half hidden by a passion-vine, that drooped sorrowful,
mournful, as though it understood. Small, warm arms were round his neck.
A face, little and pale, lifted to his, and a voice breathed, "Good-bye,
my treasure."

My treasure! "Good-bye, my treasure!" Which of them had spoken? Why had
they said good-bye? There had been some terrible mistake. She was his
wife, that little pale girl, and all the rest of his life had been a
dream.

Then the door opened, and young Charles, standing in the light, put his
hands by his side and shouted like a young soldier, "Dinner is on the
table, sir!"

"I'm coming, I'm coming," said old Mr. Neave.

</CHAPTER>

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: Mr. Neave felt as if he were too old for spring this year. Walking home from work, as he had done countless times before, he suddenly felt very tired and subdued by his surroundings. He could not understand why. It had been an ordinary day at the office. His son, Harold, who stood to inherit the business, arrived hours late from lunch, sauntering into the office, apologizing to no one and yet everyone, especially the women, forgave him all his faults. Harold was too handsome by far with his full lips and eyelashes. Mr. Neave thought them uncanny and recoiled at the praise his son unjustly received from the family. Charlotte, his wife, and their daughters had made a "young god" of Harold and were forever telling Mr. Neave it was time for him to retire and leave the business to his son but how could Mr. Neave do so in good consciousness? Harold was unsuitable for the job: he didn't take the work seriously and had no idea how hard Mr. Neave had worked over the years to ensure the success of his enterprise. No, he could not leave it to Harold. "A man had either to put his whole heart and soul into it, or it went all to pieces before his eyes..." Charlotte and the girls wanted him to stay at home and enjoy all of the luxurious he had worked so hard to acquire. They had the most popular house on Harcourt Ave and Charlotte and the girls were forever entertaining. Mr. Neave; however, bristled at the idea of being at home instead of at the office. His youngest daughter, Lola, had suggested he get a hobby to occupy his time hinting that he would be unbearable to live with otherwise. Mr. Neave, stopping near the ancient cabbage plants outside of the Government buildings to gather his thoughts, reflected that it was a good thing he had invested his time wisely or Charlotte and the girls would not have any of the wonderful things he had bought them over the years including the "sixty-guinea gramophone" in the music room and the many horses, tennis lessons, and the sea-side bungalow. Mr. Neave never begrudged his wife and daughters their accessories, knowing they were all put to good use, as the girls were very popular and Charlotte a remarkable wife and mother. Mr. Neave's house was frequently the site of large parties and he was often complemented on his "ideal family," especially the girls who were very beautiful and sought after but had chosen to stay at home rather than be married. It was a strange arrangement but one that suited Charlotte and the girls nicely. Rounding a corner, Mr. Neave came upon his home on Harcourt Ave. The open windows and beautiful flowers on the porch reflected the young lives of his daughters within. As Mr. Neave entered the house he overheard his wife and daughters talking to one another in the living room. He ran into Lola, his youngest, in the hallway. She had just finished playing the piano and was nervous about something and hardly acknowledged her father's presence. For his part, Mr. Neave barely recognized Lola, a young woman now in her prime. He thought of her still as a little girl and realized he did not know Lola as well as he thought he did. Going into the living room he met his wife Charlotte who reproachfully told him he looked tired. Ethel and Marion, his other daughters, echoed their mother's sentiment and Marion, taking control of the conversation, scolded her mother for allowing Mr. Neave to walk home when he should have taken a cab, implying that he was too old to walk such a distance. Marion's stern tone of voice was at odds with the young Marion that Mr. Neave remembered who had been a shy child and had stuttered. Now Marion shouted wherever she went, making her presence known. Mr. Neave sat down in his chair and was promptly forgotten by his family as they chatted about a dress that Ethel wanted from a catalogue and wondered aloud where Harold was and when he would return. Mr. Neave drifted off to sleep, realizing that Charlotte and the girls were too lively for him tonight. As sleep overtook him he thought he saw an old man climbing an endless flight of stairs. "Who is he?' Mr. Neave woke suddenly and was told to dress for dinner, they were to have guests again tonight. Mr. Neave protested that he was too tired to dress but the girls persuaded him to ask Charles, the butler, for help. Mr. Neave joined the old man on the stairs and walked to his dressing room. There, Charles waited to help Mr. Neave change into new clothes. Afterward Charles left Mr. Neave in the room. Finally alone, Mr. Neave reflected it would soon be time for tennis and the girls would have tennis parties and Charlotte would call out asking where Harold was and someone would reply that he said he would be there...His mind wandered and he saw the old man again, now climbing down the stairs, going out the door and heading to the office. Mr. Neave called out for someone to stop the man and woke himself with a jolt. He must have fallen asleep. He heard the far-away voices of his family. They had forgotten him, again. He listened to them for a moment and concluded that he did not know who they were. They were strangers to him. Life had passed him by and he had spent far too many hours at the office and not enough at home. He did not know Charlotte as well as he wanted to. He thought this Charlotte could not be his wife. His wife was the Charlotte of many years ago who wrapped her arms around his neck and called him "my treasure" The rest of his life has passed by in a dream. Then the door opened and Charles told Mr. Neave that dinner was ready and the old gentleman got up and said "I'm coming, I'm coming"


prompt:
Chapter: <CHAPTER>
15. THE LADY'S MAID.

Eleven o'clock. A knock at the door... I hope I haven't disturbed you,
madam. You weren't asleep--were you? But I've just given my lady her
tea, and there was such a nice cup over, I thought, perhaps...

... Not at all, madam. I always make a cup of tea last thing. She drinks
it in bed after her prayers to warm her up. I put the kettle on when she
kneels down and I say to it, "Now you needn't be in too much of a hurry
to say your prayers." But it's always boiling before my lady is half
through. You see, madam, we know such a lot of people, and they've all
got to be prayed for--every one. My lady keeps a list of the names in a
little red book. Oh dear! whenever some one new has been to see us and
my lady says afterwards, "Ellen, give me my little red book," I feel
quite wild, I do. "There's another," I think, "keeping her out of her
bed in all weathers." And she won't have a cushion, you know, madam; she
kneels on the hard carpet. It fidgets me something dreadful to see
her, knowing her as I do. I've tried to cheat her; I've spread out
the eiderdown. But the first time I did it--oh, she gave me such a
look--holy it was, madam. "Did our Lord have an eiderdown, Ellen?" she
said. But--I was younger at the time--I felt inclined to say, "No, but
our Lord wasn't your age, and he didn't know what it was to have your
lumbago." Wicked--wasn't it? But she's too good, you know, madam. When
I tucked her up just now and seen--saw her lying back, her hands outside
and her head on the pillow--so pretty--I couldn't help thinking, "Now
you look just like your dear mother when I laid her out!"

... Yes, madam, it was all left to me. Oh, she did look sweet. I did her
hair, soft-like, round her forehead, all in dainty curls, and just to
one side of her neck I put a bunch of most beautiful purple pansies.
Those pansies made a picture of her, madam! I shall never forget them.
I thought to-night, when I looked at my lady, "Now, if only the pansies
was there no one could tell the difference."

... Only the last year, madam. Only after she'd got a
little--well--feeble as you might say. Of course, she was never
dangerous; she was the sweetest old lady. But how it took her was--she
thought she'd lost something. She couldn't keep still, she couldn't
settle. All day long she'd be up and down, up and down; you'd meet her
everywhere,--on the stairs, in the porch, making for the kitchen. And
she'd look up at you, and she'd say--just like a child, "I've lost it,
I've lost it." "Come along," I'd say, "come along, and I'll lay out your
patience for you." But she'd catch me by the hand--I was a favourite of
hers--and whisper, "Find it for me, Ellen. Find it for me." Sad, wasn't
it?

... No, she never recovered, madam. She had a stroke at the end. Last
words she ever said was--very slow, "Look in--the--Look--in--" And then
she was gone.

... No, madam, I can't say I noticed it. Perhaps some girls. But you
see, it's like this, I've got nobody but my lady. My mother died of
consumption when I was four, and I lived with my grandfather, who kept
a hair-dresser's shop. I used to spend all my time in the shop under a
table dressing my doll's hair--copying the assistants, I suppose. They
were ever so kind to me. Used to make me little wigs, all colours, the
latest fashions and all. And there I'd sit all day, quiet as quiet--the
customers never knew. Only now and again I'd take my peep from under the
table-cloth.

... But one day I managed to get a pair of scissors and--would you
believe it, madam? I cut off all my hair; snipped it off all in bits,
like the little monkey I was. Grandfather was furious! He caught hold of
the tongs--I shall never forget it--grabbed me by the hand and shut my
fingers in them. "That'll teach you!" he said. It was a fearful burn.
I've got the mark of it to-day.

... Well, you see, madam, he'd taken such pride in my hair. He used to
sit me up on the counter, before the customers came, and do it something
beautiful--big, soft curls and waved over the top. I remember the
assistants standing round, and me ever so solemn with the penny
grandfather gave me to hold while it was being done... But he always took
the penny back afterwards. Poor grandfather! Wild, he was, at the fright
I'd made of myself. But he frightened me that time. Do you know what
I did, madam? I ran away. Yes, I did, round the corners, in and out, I
don't know how far I didn't run. Oh, dear, I must have looked a sight,
with my hand rolled up in my pinny and my hair sticking out. People must
have laughed when they saw me...

... No, madam, grandfather never got over it. He couldn't bear the sight
of me after. Couldn't eat his dinner, even, if I was there. So my aunt
took me. She was a cripple, an upholstress. Tiny! She had to stand on
the sofas when she wanted to cut out the backs. And it was helping her I
met my lady...

... Not so very, madam. I was thirteen, turned. And I don't remember ever
feeling--well--a child, as you might say. You see there was my uniform,
and one thing and another. My lady put me into collars and cuffs from
the first. Oh yes--once I did! That was--funny! It was like this. My
lady had her two little nieces staying with her--we were at Sheldon at
the time--and there was a fair on the common.

"Now, Ellen," she said, "I want you to take the two young ladies for a
ride on the donkeys." Off we went; solemn little loves they were; each
had a hand. But when we came to the donkeys they were too shy to go on.
So we stood and watched instead. Beautiful those donkeys were! They were
the first I'd seen out of a cart--for pleasure as you might say. They
were a lovely silver-grey, with little red saddles and blue bridles and
bells jing-a-jingling on their ears. And quite big girls--older than me,
even--were riding them, ever so gay. Not at all common, I don't mean,
madam, just enjoying themselves. And I don't know what it was, but
the way the little feet went, and the eyes--so gentle--and the soft
ears--made me want to go on a donkey more than anything in the world!

... Of course, I couldn't. I had my young ladies. And what would I have
looked like perched up there in my uniform? But all the rest of the day
it was donkeys--donkeys on the brain with me. I felt I should have burst
if I didn't tell some one; and who was there to tell? But when I went to
bed--I was sleeping in Mrs. James's bedroom, our cook that was, at
the time--as soon as the lights was out, there they were, my donkeys,
jingling along, with their neat little feet and sad eyes... Well, madam,
would you believe it, I waited for a long time and pretended to be
asleep, and then suddenly I sat up and called out as loud as I could, "I
do want to go on a donkey. I do want a donkey-ride!" You see, I had to
say it, and I thought they wouldn't laugh at me if they knew I was only
dreaming. Artful--wasn't it? Just what a silly child would think...

... No, madam, never now. Of course, I did think of it at one time. But
it wasn't to be. He had a little flower-shop just down the road and
across from where we was living. Funny--wasn't it? And me such a one for
flowers. We were having a lot of company at the time, and I was in and
out of the shop more often than not, as the saying is. And Harry and
I (his name was Harry) got to quarrelling about how things ought to be
arranged--and that began it. Flowers! you wouldn't believe it,
madam, the flowers he used to bring me. He'd stop at nothing. It was
lilies-of-the-valley more than once, and I'm not exaggerating! Well, of
course, we were going to be married and live over the shop, and it was
all going to be just so, and I was to have the window to arrange... Oh,
how I've done that window of a Saturday! Not really, of course, madam,
just dreaming, as you might say. I've done it for Christmas--motto in
holly, and all--and I've had my Easter lilies with a gorgeous star all
daffodils in the middle. I've hung--well, that's enough of that. The day
came he was to call for me to choose the furniture. Shall I ever forget
it? It was a Tuesday. My lady wasn't quite herself that afternoon. Not
that she'd said anything, of course; she never does or will. But I knew
by the way that she kept wrapping herself up and asking me if it was
cold--and her little nose looked... pinched. I didn't like leaving her; I
knew I'd be worrying all the time. At last I asked her if she'd rather
I put it off. "Oh no, Ellen," she said, "you mustn't mind about me. You
mustn't disappoint your young man." And so cheerful, you know, madam,
never thinking about herself. It made me feel worse than ever. I began
to wonder... then she dropped her handkerchief and began to stoop down to
pick it up herself--a thing she never did. "Whatever are you doing!" I
cried, running to stop her. "Well," she said, smiling, you know, madam,
"I shall have to begin to practise." Oh, it was all I could do not to
burst out crying. I went over to the dressing-table and made believe
to rub up the silver, and I couldn't keep myself in, and I asked her if
she'd rather I... didn't get married. "No, Ellen," she said--that was her
voice, madam, like I'm giving you--"No, Ellen, not for the wide world!"
But while she said it, madam--I was looking in her glass; of course, she
didn't know I could see her--she put her little hand on her heart just
like her dear mother used to, and lifted her eyes... Oh, madam!

When Harry came I had his letters all ready, and the ring and a ducky
little brooch he'd given me--a silver bird it was, with a chain in
its beak, and on the end of the chain a heart with a dagger. Quite
the thing! I opened the door to him. I never gave him time for a word.
"There you are," I said. "Take them all back," I said, "it's all over.
I'm not going to marry you," I said, "I can't leave my lady." White! he
turned as white as a woman. I had to slam the door, and there I
stood, all of a tremble, till I knew he had gone. When I opened the
door--believe me or not, madam--that man was gone! I ran out into the
road just as I was, in my apron and my house-shoes, and there I stayed
in the middle of the road... staring. People must have laughed if they
saw me...

... Goodness gracious!--What's that? It's the clock striking! And here
I've been keeping you awake. Oh, madam, you ought to have stopped
me... Can I tuck in your feet? I always tuck in my lady's feet, every
night, just the same. And she says, "Good night, Ellen. Sleep sound and
wake early!" I don't know what I should do if she didn't say that, now.

... Oh dear, I sometimes think... whatever should I do if anything were
to... But, there, thinking's no good to any one--is it, madam? Thinking
won't help. Not that I do it often. And if ever I do I pull myself up
sharp, "Now, then, Ellen. At it again--you silly girl! If you can't find
anything better to do than to start thinking!... "

</CHAPTER>

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: Eleven o'clock. A knock at the door . Ellen, the household maid, enters the room of her Lady's guest, who she calls "madam. " Ellen asks if madam would like a cup of tea and nonchalantly begins the one-sided conversation that makes up the story of "The Lady's Maid." Unprompted Ellen tells madam that she always makes a cup of tea for her Lady each night before bed. Her Lady is a devote woman whose spends each night on her knees praying. She stubbornly refuses to use a cushion, despite her lumbago pain, and her tea is usually served cold. Ellen had just come from tucking her Lady into bed and told the madam that when she looked upon her Lady's peaceful face she remembered how her Lady's mother had looked in her coffin. Ellen had done up her Lady's mother's hair and had placed purple pansies by her neck and thought she was the sweetest looking corpse. "Now, if only the pansies was there no one could tell the difference" . Her Lady's mother had taken ill the previous year. She had been elderly and had started to lose her memory. Ellen often found her wandering the house looking for something she that she could never find. She died of a stroke. Ellen pauses to listen to madam's question and replies that she has no family, her mother died of consumption when Ellen was four. Her grandfather had taken her in at first. He worked in a hairdresser's shop and Ellen would sit under the table and do her doll's hair while her grandfather worked. Her grandfather took special pride in Ellen's hair and was devastated when young Ellen cut it all off. He burned her fingers with red hot tongs from the fireplace as a punishment and Ellen, frightened of her grandfather's raging temper, ran away. She lived with her disabled Aunt, the upholsterer, for a time before her Lady found her and took her into service. Her Lady dressed Ellen in collars and cuffs to signify her station as a maid. One day, when Ellen was about thirteen, she was asked to take her lady's nieces to ride the donkeys at a nearby fair. Ellen wanted desperately to ride the donkeys too but knew it would be inappropriate. Instead she watched her Lady's nieces as they rode the donkeys. Later that night in bed, when the rest of the house slept, Ellen cried out "I do want a donkey-ride" while everyone else slept. Answering a question by madam, Ellen replies that she had thought of marrying at one time. She had a fiance named Harry when she was younger who owned a flower shop. Ellen dreamed of making a home for them in the little apartment above the shop where she would decorate the window that overlooked the street from their apartment. She had fantasized about decorating that window for holidays with seasonal flower arrangements but stopped herself from saying too much. Ellen had ended the relationship not long before she and Harry were to be married. She felt guilty for wanting to leave her Lady and thought no one else could take care of her properly. One day, Ellen noticed her lady was not her usual self and had a pinched look about her nose. Watching her Lady in the mirror as Ellen cleaned, she asked several times if her Lady wanted Ellen to postpone the wedding which was quickly approaching. Each time Ellen asked, her Lady said no but Ellen watched her in the mirror and when her Lady bent to pick up a fallen handkerchief, Ellen rushed over to her and picked it up. Ellen was very upset to see her Lady so distressed and it broke her heart when her Lady said she would have to learn how to pick up her own handkerchief now that Ellen was leaving. Ellen ended her engagement to Harry later that same day. Harry came to the door and she gave him her engagement ring, the letters he had written her, and a charm that she adored. Ellen told him she could not leave her Lady and shut the door on him. When she opened it a few moments later, Ellen was surprised to see that Harry was gone. She ran down the street looking for him but stopped short, standing there in her apron and house-shoes and said to madman "people must have laughed if they saw me" . The sound of a clock striking the new hour alerted Ellen to the time. She tucked the madam into bed just as she would her Lady and said she did not know what she would do if something were to happen to her Lady. She chides herself for her thoughts and said "...-you silly girl! If you can't find anything better to do than to start thinking!"