prompt:
Chapter: When Mrs. Carteret had fully recovered from the shock attendant upon the
accident at the window, where little Dodie had so narrowly escaped death
or serious injury, she ordered her carriage one afternoon and directed
the coachman to drive her to Mrs. Ochiltree's.

Mrs. Carteret had discharged her young nurse only the day before, and
had sent for Mammy Jane, who was now recovered from her rheumatism, to
stay until she could find another girl. The nurse had been ordered not
to take the child to negroes' houses. Yesterday, in driving past the old
homestead of her husband's family, now occupied by Dr. Miller and his
family, Mrs. Carteret had seen her own baby's carriage standing in the
yard.

When the nurse returned home, she was immediately discharged. She
offered some sort of explanation, to the effect that her sister worked
for Mrs. Miller, and that some family matter had rendered it necessary
for her to see her sister. The explanation only aggravated the offense:
if Mrs. Carteret could have overlooked the disobedience, she would by no
means have retained in her employment a servant whose sister worked for
the Miller woman.

Old Mrs. Ochiltree had within a few months begun to show signs of
breaking up. She was over seventy years old, and had been of late, by
various afflictions, confined to the house much of the time. More than
once within the year, Mrs. Carteret had asked her aunt to come and live
with her; but Mrs. Ochiltree, who would have regarded such a step as an
acknowledgment of weakness, preferred her lonely independence. She
resided in a small, old-fashioned house, standing back in the middle of
a garden on a quiet street. Two old servants made up her modest
household.

This refusal to live with her niece had been lightly borne, for Mrs.
Ochiltree was a woman of strong individuality, whose comments upon her
acquaintance, present or absent, were marked by a frankness at times no
less than startling. This characteristic caused her to be more or less
avoided. Mrs. Ochiltree was aware of this sentiment on the part of her
acquaintance, and rather exulted in it. She hated fools. Only fools ran
away from her, and that because they were afraid she would expose their
folly. If most people were fools, it was no fault of hers, and she was
not obliged to indulge them by pretending to believe that they knew
anything. She had once owned considerable property, but was reticent
about her affairs, and told no one how much she was worth, though it was
supposed that she had considerable ready money, besides her house and
some other real estate. Mrs. Carteret was her nearest living relative,
though her grand-nephew Tom Delamere had been a great favorite with her.
If she did not spare him her tongue-lashings, it was nevertheless
expected in the family that she would leave him something handsome in
her will.

Mrs. Ochiltree had shared in the general rejoicing upon the advent of
the Carteret baby. She had been one of his godmothers, and had hinted at
certain intentions held by her concerning him. During Mammy Jane's
administration she had tried the old nurse's patience more or less by
her dictatorial interference. Since her partial confinement to the
house, she had gone, when her health and the weather would permit, to
see the child, and at other times had insisted that it be sent to her in
charge of the nurse at least every other day.

Mrs. Ochiltree's faculties had shared insensibly in the decline of her
health. This weakness manifested itself by fits of absent-mindedness, in
which she would seemingly lose connection with the present, and live
over again, in imagination, the earlier years of her life. She had
buried two husbands, had tried in vain to secure a third, and had never
borne any children. Long ago she had petrified into a character which
nothing under heaven could change, and which, if death is to take us as
it finds us, and the future life to keep us as it takes us, promised
anything but eternal felicity to those with whom she might associate
after this life. Tom Delamere had been heard to say, profanely, that if
his Aunt Polly went to heaven, he would let his mansion in the skies on
a long lease, at a low figure.

When the carriage drove up with Mrs. Carteret, her aunt was seated on
the little front piazza, with her wrinkled hands folded in her lap,
dozing the afternoon away in fitful slumber.

"Tie the horse, William," said Mrs. Carteret, "and then go in and wake
Aunt Polly, and tell her I want her to come and drive with me."

Mrs. Ochiltree had not observed her niece's approach, nor did she look
up when William drew near. Her eyes were closed, and she would let her
head sink slowly forward, recovering it now and then with a spasmodic
jerk.

"Colonel Ochiltree," she muttered, "was shot at the battle of Culpepper
Court House, and left me a widow for the second time. But I would not
have married any man on earth after him."

"Mis' Ochiltree!" cried William, raising his voice, "oh, Mis'
Ochiltree!"

"If I had found a man,--a real man,--I might have married again. I did
not care for weaklings. I could have married John Delamere if I had
wanted him. But pshaw! I could have wound him round"--

"Go round to the kitchen, William," interrupted Mrs. Carteret
impatiently, "and tell Aunt Dinah to come and wake her up."

William returned in a few moments with a fat, comfortable looking black
woman, who curtsied to Mrs. Carteret at the gate, and then going up to
her mistress seized her by the shoulder and shook her vigorously.

"Wake up dere, Mis' Polly," she screamed, as harshly as her mellow voice
would permit. "Mis' 'Livy wants you ter go drivin' wid 'er!"

"Dinah," exclaimed the old lady, sitting suddenly upright with a defiant
assumption of wakefulness, "why do you take so long to come when I call?
Bring me my bonnet and shawl. Don't you see my niece waiting for me at
the gate?"

"Hyuh dey is, hyuh dey is!" returned Dinah, producing the bonnet and
shawl, and assisting Mrs. Ochiltree to put them on.

Leaning on William's arm, the old lady went slowly down the walk, and
was handed to the rear seat with Mrs. Carteret.

"How's the baby to-day, Olivia, and why didn't you bring him?"

"He has a cold to-day, and is a little hoarse," replied Mrs. Carteret,
"so I thought it best not to bring him out. Drive out the Weldon road,
William, and back by Pine Street."

The drive led past an eminence crowned by a handsome brick building of
modern construction, evidently an institution of some kind, surrounded
on three sides by a grove of venerable oaks.

"Hugh Poindexter," Mrs. Ochiltree exclaimed explosively, after a
considerable silence, "has been building a new house, in place of the
old family mansion burned during the war."

"It isn't Mr. Poindexter's house, Aunt Polly. That is the new colored
hospital built by the colored doctor."

"The new colored hospital, indeed, and the colored doctor! Before the
war the negroes were all healthy, and when they got sick we took care of
them ourselves! Hugh Poindexter has sold the graves of his ancestors to
a negro,--I should have starved first!"

"He had his grandfather's grave opened, and there was nothing to remove,
except a few bits of heart-pine from the coffin. All the rest had
crumbled into dust."

"And he sold the dust to a negro! The world is upside down."

"He had the tombstone transferred to the white cemetery, Aunt Polly, and
he has moved away."

"Esau sold his birthright for a mess of pottage. When I die, if you
outlive me, Olivia, which is not likely, I shall leave my house and
land to this child! He is a Carteret,--he would never sell them to a
negro. I can't trust Tom Delamere, I'm afraid."

The carriage had skirted the hill, passing to the rear of the new
building.

"Turn to the right, William," ordered Mrs. Carteret, addressing the
coachman, "and come back past the other side of the hospital."

A turn to the right into another road soon brought them to the front of
the building, which stood slightly back from the street, with no
intervening fence or inclosure. A sorrel pony in a light buggy was
fastened to a hitching-post near the entrance. As they drove past, a
lady came out of the front door and descended the steps, holding by the
hand a very pretty child about six years old.

"Who is that woman, Olivia?" asked Mrs. Ochiltree abruptly, with signs
of agitation.

The lady coming down the steps darted at the approaching carriage a look
which lingered involuntarily.

Mrs. Carteret, perceiving this glance, turned away coldly.

With a sudden hardening of her own features the other woman lifted the
little boy into the buggy and drove sharply away in the direction
opposite to that taken by Mrs. Carteret's carriage.

"Who is that woman, Olivia?" repeated Mrs. Ochiltree, with marked
emotion.

"I have not the honor of her acquaintance," returned Mrs. Carteret
sharply. "Drive faster, William."

"I want to know who that woman is," persisted Mrs. Ochiltree
querulously. "William," she cried shrilly, poking the coachman in the
back with the end of her cane, "who is that woman?"

"Dat's Mis' Miller, ma'am," returned the coachman, touching his hat;
"Doctuh Miller's wife."

"What was her mother's name?"

"Her mother's name wuz Julia Brown. She's be'n dead dese twenty years
er mo'. Why, you knowed Julia, Mis' Polly!--she used ter b'long ter yo'
own father befo' de wah; an' after de wah she kep' house fer"--

"Look to your horses, William!" exclaimed Mrs. Carteret sharply.

"It's that hussy's child," said Mrs. Ochiltree, turning to her niece
with great excitement. "When your father died, I turned the mother and
the child out into the street. The mother died and went to--the place
provided for such as she. If I hadn't been just in time, Olivia, they
would have turned you out. I saved the property for you and your son!
You can thank me for it all!"

"Hush, Aunt Polly, for goodness' sake! William will hear you. Tell me
about it when you get home."

Mrs. Ochiltree was silent, except for a few incoherent mumblings. What
she might say, what distressing family secret she might repeat in
William's hearing, should she take another talkative turn, was beyond
conjecture.

Olivia looked anxiously around for something to distract her aunt's
attention, and caught sight of a colored man, dressed in sober gray, who
was coming toward the carriage.

"There's Mr. Delamere's Sandy!" exclaimed Mrs. Carteret, touching her
aunt on the arm. "I wonder how his master is? Sandy, oh, Sandy!"

Sandy approached the carriage, lifting his hat with a slight
exaggeration of Chesterfieldian elegance. Sandy, no less than his
master, was a survival of an interesting type. He had inherited the
feudal deference for his superiors in position, joined to a certain
self-respect which saved him from sycophancy. His manners had been
formed upon those of old Mr. Delamere, and were not a bad imitation; for
in the man, as in the master, they were the harmonious reflection of a
mental state.

"How is Mr. Delamere, Sandy?" asked Mrs. Carteret, acknowledging Sandy's
salutation with a nod and a smile.

"He ain't ez peart ez he has be'n, ma'am," replied Sandy, "but he's
doin' tol'able well. De doctuh say he's good fer a dozen years yit, ef
he'll jes' take good keer of hisse'f an' keep f'm gittin' excited; fer
sence dat secon' stroke, excitement is dange'ous fer 'im."

"I'm sure you take the best care of him," returned Mrs. Carteret kindly.

"You can't do anything for him, Sandy," interposed old Mrs. Ochiltree,
shaking her head slowly to emphasize her dissent. "All the doctors in
creation couldn't keep him alive another year. I shall outlive him by
twenty years, though we are not far from the same age."

"Lawd, ma'am!" exclaimed Sandy, lifting his hands in affected
amazement,--his study of gentle manners had been more than
superficial,--"whoever would 'a' s'picion' dat you an' Mars John wuz
nigh de same age? I'd 'a' 'lowed you wuz ten years younger 'n him, easy,
ef you wuz a day!"

"Give my compliments to the poor old gentleman," returned Mrs.
Ochiltree, with a simper of senile vanity, though her back was
weakening under the strain of the effort to sit erect that she might
maintain this illusion of comparative youthfulness. "Bring him to see me
some day when he is able to walk."

"Yas'm, I will," rejoined Sandy. "He's gwine out ter Belleview nex'
week, fer ter stay a mont' er so, but I'll fetch him 'roun' w'en he
comes back. I'll tell 'im dat you ladies 'quired fer 'im."

Sandy made another deep bow, and held his hat in his hand until the
carriage had moved away. He had not condescended to notice the coachman
at all, who was one of the young negroes of the new generation; while
Sandy regarded himself as belonging to the quality, and seldom stooped
to notice those beneath him. It would not have been becoming in him,
either, while conversing with white ladies, to have noticed a colored
servant. Moreover, the coachman was a Baptist, while Sandy was a
Methodist, though under a cloud, and considered a Methodist in poor
standing as better than a Baptist of any degree of sanctity.

"Lawd, Lawd!" chuckled Sandy, after the carriage had departed, "I never
seed nothin' lack de way dat ole lady do keep up her temper! Wid one
foot in de grave, an' de other hov'rin' on de edge, she talks 'bout my
ole marster lack he wuz in his secon' chil'hood. But I'm jes' willin'
ter bet dat he'll outlas' her! She ain't half de woman she wuz dat
night I waited on de table at de christenin' pa'ty, w'en she 'lowed she
wuzn' feared er no man livin'."

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

completion: Mrs. Carteret takes her carriage out one day to visit old Mrs. Ochiltree. Mrs. Ochiltree has been in poor health as of late and does not leave the house much. Olivia had attempted to persuade her to move into their estate, but Mrs. Ochiltree maintained her fierce independence and declined the offer. Though she lives in a small house on a quiet street with only two servants, people in the town suspect that she is worth a great deal of money and will give that money to both Olivia and Tom Delamere when she dies. Olivia has Mrs. Ochiltree's servants wake her. They rouse her from a dream in which she is muttering of how she would never have married any man, even John Delamere. Once she is woken, she and Olivia begin their carriage ride, driven by William, one of Mrs. Carteret's servants. Aunt Polly is disoriented and loses track of her memories easily. She points towards a great brick building and believes it to be the house of Hugh Poindexter, although it is the hospital that Dr. Miller has built. The carriage passes Dr. Miller's wife and Aunt Polly has a flashback to how she kicked Julia Brown and her daughter out of the house and saved Olivia from being displaced. Olivia tries to hush these stories for she does not want William, the servant, to overhear. Finally, the carriage passes Sandy who bows with "a slight exaggeration of Chesterfieldian elegance. Mrs. Ochiltree asks how old Mr. Delamere is doing and then proceeds to tell both Olivia and Sandy that she is sure she will outlive that old man by at least twenty years. As the carriage pulls off, Sandy thinks to himself that the old woman will not last another year


prompt:
Chapter: As a stone dropped into a pool of water sets in motion a series of
concentric circles which disturb the whole mass in varying degree, so
Mrs. Ochiltree's enigmatical remark had started in her niece's mind a
disturbing train of thought. Had her words, Mrs. Carteret asked herself,
any serious meaning, or were they the mere empty babblings of a clouded
intellect?

"William," she said to the coachman when they reached Mrs. Ochiltree's
house, "you may tie the horse and help us out. I shall be here a little
while."

William helped the ladies down, assisted Mrs. Ochiltree into the house,
and then went round to the kitchen. Dinah was an excellent hand at
potato-pone and other culinary delicacies dear to the Southern heart,
and William was a welcome visitor in her domain.

"Now, Aunt Polly," said Mrs. Carteret resolutely, as soon as they were
alone, "I want to know what you meant by what you said about my father
and Julia, and this--this child of hers?"

The old woman smiled cunningly, but her expression soon changed to one
more grave.

"Why do you want to know?" she asked suspiciously. "You've got the
land, the houses, and the money. You've nothing to complain of. Enjoy
yourself, and be thankful!"

"I'm thankful to God," returned Olivia, "for all his good gifts,--and
He has blessed me abundantly,--but why should I be thankful to _you_ for
the property my father left me?"

"Why should you be thankful to me?" rejoined Mrs. Ochiltree with
querulous indignation. "You'd better ask why _shouldn't_ you be
thankful to me. What have I not done for you?"

"Yes, Aunt Polly, I know you've done a great deal. You reared me in
your own house when I had been cast out of my father's; you have been a
second mother to me, and I am very grateful,--you can never say that I
have not shown my gratitude. But if you have done anything else for me,
I wish to know it. Why should I thank you for my inheritance?"

"Why should you thank me? Well, because I drove that woman and her brat
away."

"But she had no right to stay, Aunt Polly, after father died. Of course
she had no moral right before, but it was his house, and he could keep
her there if he chose. But after his death she surely had no right."

"Perhaps not so surely as you think,--if she had not been a negro. Had
she been white, there might have been a difference. When I told her to
go, she said"--

"What did she say, Aunt Polly," demanded Olivia eagerly.

It seemed for a moment as though Mrs. Ochiltree would speak no further:
but her once strong will, now weakened by her bodily infirmities,
yielded to the influence of her niece's imperious demand.

"I'll tell you the whole story," she said, "and then you'll know what
I did for you and yours." Mrs. Ochiltree's eyes assumed an
introspective expression, and her story, as it advanced, became as
keenly dramatic as though memory had thrown aside the veil of
intervening years and carried her back directly to the events which she
now described.

"Your father," she said, "while living with that woman, left home one
morning the picture of health. Five minutes later he tottered into the
house groaning with pain, stricken unto death by the hand of a just God,
as a punishment for his sins."

Olivia gave a start of indignation, but restrained herself.

"I was at once informed of what had happened, for I had means of knowing
all that took place in the household. Old Jane--she was younger
then--had come with you to my house; but her daughter remained, and
through her I learned all that went on.

"I hastened immediately to the house, entered without knocking, and
approached Mr. Merkell's bedroom, which was on the lower floor and
opened into the hall. The door was ajar, and as I stood there for a
moment I heard your father's voice.

"'Listen, Julia,' he was saying. 'I shall not live until the doctor
comes. But I wish you to know, dear Julia!'--he called her 'dear
Julia!'--'before I die, that I have kept my promise. You did me one
great service, Julia,--you saved me from Polly Ochiltree!' Yes, Olivia,
that is what he said! 'You have served me faithfully and well, and I owe
you a great deal, which I have tried to pay.'

"'Oh, Mr. Merkell, dear Mr. Merkell,' cried the hypocritical hussy,
falling to her knees by his bedside, and shedding her crocodile tears,
'you owe me nothing. You have done more for me than I could ever repay.
You will not die and leave me,--no, no, it cannot be!'

"'Yes, I am going to die,--I am dying now, Julia. But listen,--compose
yourself and listen, for this is a more important matter. Take the keys
from under my pillow, open the desk in the next room, look in the second
drawer on the right, and you will find an envelope containing three
papers: one of them is yours, one is the paper I promised to make, and
the third is a letter which I wrote last night. As soon as the breath
has left my body, deliver the envelope to the address indorsed upon it.
Do not delay one moment, or you may live to regret it. Say nothing until
you have delivered the package, and then be guided by the advice which
you receive,--it will come from a friend of mine who will not see you
wronged.'

"I slipped away from the door without making my presence known and
entered, by a door from the hall, the room adjoining the one where Mr.
Merkell lay. A moment later there was a loud scream. Returning quickly
to the hall, I entered Mr. Merkell's room as though just arrived.

"'How is Mr. Merkell?' I demanded, as I crossed the threshold.

"'He is dead,' sobbed the woman, without lifting her head,--she had
fallen on her knees by the bedside. She had good cause to weep, for my
time had come.

"'Get up,' I said. 'You have no right here. You pollute Mr. Merkell's
dead body by your touch. Leave the house immediately,--your day is
over!'

"'I will not!' she cried, rising to her feet and facing me with
brazen-faced impudence. 'I have a right to stay,--he has given me the
right!'

"'Ha, ha!' I laughed. 'Mr. Merkell is dead, and I am mistress here
henceforth. Go, and go at once,--do you hear?'

"'I hear, but I shall not heed. I can prove my rights! I shall not
leave!'

"'Very well,' I replied, 'we shall see. The law will decide.'

"I left the room, but did not leave the house. On the contrary, I
concealed myself where I could see what took place in the room adjoining
the death-chamber.

"She entered the room a moment later, with her child on one arm and the
keys in the other hand. Placing the child on the floor, she put the key
in the lock, and seemed surprised to find the desk already unfastened.
She opened the desk, picked up a roll of money and a ladies' watch,
which first caught her eye, and was reaching toward the drawer upon the
right, when I interrupted her:--

"'Well, thief, are you trying to strip the house before you leave it?'

"She gave an involuntary cry, clasped one hand to her bosom and with the
other caught up her child, and stood like a wild beast at bay.

"'I am not a thief,' she panted. 'The things are mine!'

"'You lie,' I replied. 'You have no right to them,--no more right than
you have to remain in this house!'

"'I have a right,' she persisted, 'and I can prove it!'

"She turned toward the desk, seized the drawer, and drew it open. Never
shall I forget her look,--never shall I forget that moment; it was the
happiest of my life. The drawer was empty!

"Pale as death she turned and faced me.

"'The papers!' she shrieked, 'the papers! _You_ have stolen them!'

"'Papers?' I laughed, 'what papers? Do you take me for a thief, like
yourself?'

"'There were papers here,' she cried, 'only a minute since. They are
mine,--give them back to me!'

"'Listen, woman,' I said sternly, 'you are lying--or dreaming. My
brother-in-law's papers are doubtless in his safe at his office, where
they ought to be. As for the rest,--you are a thief.'

"'I am not,' she screamed; 'I am his wife. He married me, and the papers
that were in the desk will prove it.'

"'Listen,' I exclaimed, when she had finished,--'listen carefully, and
take heed to what I say. You are a liar. You have no proofs,--there
never were any proofs of what you say, because it never happened,--it is
absurd upon the face of it. Not one person in Wellington would believe
it. Why should he marry you? He did not need to! You are merely
lying,--you are not even self-deceived. If he had really married you,
you would have made it known long ago. That you did not is proof that
your story is false.'

"She was hit so hard that she trembled and sank into a chair. But I had
no mercy--she had saved your father from _me_--'dear Julia,' indeed!

"'Stand up,' I ordered. 'Do not dare to sit down in my presence. I have
you on the hip, my lady, and will teach you your place.'

"She struggled to her feet, and stood supporting herself with one hand
on the chair. I could have killed her, Olivia! She had been my father's
slave; if it had been before the war, I would have had her whipped to
death.

"'You are a thief,' I said, 'and of that there _are_ proofs. I have
caught you in the act. The watch in your bosom is my own, the money
belongs to Mr. Merkell's estate, which belongs to my niece, his daughter
Olivia. I saw you steal them. My word is worth yours a hundred times
over, for I am a lady, and you are--what? And now hear me: if ever you
breathe to a living soul one word of this preposterous story, I will
charge you with the theft, and have you sent to the penitentiary. Your
child will be taken from you, and you shall never see it again. I will
give you now just ten minutes to take your brat and your rags out of
this house forever. But before you go, put down your plunder there upon
the desk!'

"She laid down the money and the watch, and a few minutes later left the
house with the child in her arms.

"And now, Olivia, you know how I saved your estate, and why you should
be grateful to me."

Olivia had listened to her aunt's story with intense interest. Having
perceived the old woman's mood, and fearful lest any interruption might
break the flow of her narrative, she had with an effort kept back the
one question which had been hovering upon her lips, but which could now
no longer be withheld.

"What became of the papers, Aunt Polly?"

"Ha, ha!" chuckled Mrs. Ochiltree with a cunning look, "did I not tell
you that she found no papers?"

A change had come over Mrs. Ochiltree's face, marking the reaction from
her burst of energy. Her eyes were half closed, and she was muttering
incoherently. Olivia made some slight effort to arouse her, but in vain,
and realizing the futility of any further attempt to extract information
from her aunt at this time, she called William and drove homeward.

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

completion: Mrs. Carteret is troubled by what she heard from her Aunt. When they return from their carriage ride, she goes into the house and sits with her for a while. She tells her, "I want to know what you meant by what you said about my father and Julia, and this - this child of hers. Olivia wants to know why she should thank her Aunt for saving her inheritance. Aunt Polly relents and begins to tell her a story. Mrs. Ochiltree had been able to keep abreast of news in the household of Olivia's father because Mammy Jane's sister had worked there. Therefore, she very quickly heard the news when Mr. Merkell fell ill. She went immediately to the house and snuck in just in time to hear Mr. Merkell give Julia his final words. He told her that he loved her more than anything, and that she did a great service to him, "you saved me from Polly Ochiltree. He tells Julia that there is a locked drawer in his office desk and that there are three papers there, which will make sure she is provided for upon his death. Moments later, Mr. Merkell died. Aunt Polly burst into the room as if she had just arrived and demanded that Julia take her child and leave since she had no rights to be there anymore. Julia protested and told Aunt Polly that she could prove that she has the right. Julia went into Mr. Merkell's office and opened the desk drawer only to find a roll of money and a lady's watch. Aunt Polly then entered the office and accused Julia of stealing. She told Julia that she should leave immediately or else she will have her arrested. Julia realized that Mrs. Ochiltree had stolen the papers. She told her that she had married Mr. Merkell, but Aunt Polly demanded for her to prove it. Knowing that she had been defeated, Julia took her child and left the house. That, Aunt Polly tells Olivia, is "how I saved your estate and why you should be grateful to me. Once the story is over, Olivia is pensive and asks only one question: "What became of the papers, Aunt Polly. Aunt Polly only laughs and reminds her that Julia found no papers


prompt:
Chapter: ELLIS TAKES A TRICK

Late one afternoon a handsome trap, drawn by two spirited bays, drove up
to Carteret's gate. Three places were taken by Mrs. Carteret, Clara, and
the major, leaving the fourth seat vacant.

"I've asked Ellis to drive out with us," said the major, as he took the
lines from the colored man who had the trap in charge. "We'll go by the
office and pick him up."

Clara frowned, but perceiving Mrs. Carteret's eye fixed upon her,
restrained any further expression of annoyance.

The major's liking for Ellis had increased within the year. The young
man was not only a good journalist, but possessed sufficient cleverness
and tact to make him excellent company. The major was fond of argument,
but extremely tenacious of his own opinions. Ellis handled the foils of
discussion with just the requisite skill to draw out the major,
permitting himself to be vanquished, not too easily, but, as it were,
inevitably, by the major's incontrovertible arguments.

Olivia had long suspected Ellis of feeling a more than friendly interest
in Clara. Herself partial to Tom, she had more than once thought it
hardly fair to Delamere, or even to Clara, who was young and
impressionable, to have another young man constantly about the house.
True, there had seemed to be no great danger, for Ellis had neither the
family nor the means to make him a suitable match for the major's
sister; nor had Clara made any secret of her dislike for Ellis, or of
her resentment for his supposed depreciation of Delamere. Mrs. Carteret
was inclined to a more just and reasonable view of Ellis's conduct in
this matter, but nevertheless did not deem it wise to undeceive Clara.
Dislike was a stout barrier, which remorse might have broken down. The
major, absorbed in schemes of empire and dreams of his child's future,
had not become cognizant of the affair. His wife, out of friendship for
Tom, had refrained from mentioning it; while the major, with a delicate
regard for Clara's feelings, had said nothing at home in regard to his
interview with her lover.

At the Chronicle office Ellis took the front seat beside the major.
After leaving the city pavements, they bowled along merrily over an
excellent toll-road, built of oyster shells from the neighboring sound,
stopping at intervals to pay toll to the gate-keepers, most of whom were
white women with tallow complexions and snuff-stained lips,--the
traditional "poor-white." For part of the way the road was bordered with
a growth of scrub oak and pine, interspersed with stretches of cleared
land, white with the opening cotton or yellow with ripening corn. To the
right, along the distant river-bank, were visible here and there groups
of turpentine pines, though most of this growth had for some years been
exhausted. Twenty years before, Wellington had been the world's greatest
shipping port for naval stores. But as the turpentine industry had moved
southward, leaving a trail of devastated forests in its rear, the city
had fallen to a poor fifth or sixth place in this trade, relying now
almost entirely upon cotton for its export business.

Occasionally our party passed a person, or a group of persons,--mostly
negroes approximating the pure type, for those of lighter color grew
noticeably scarcer as the town was left behind. Now and then one of
these would salute the party respectfully, while others glanced at them
indifferently or turned away. There would have seemed, to a stranger, a
lack, of spontaneous friendliness between the people of these two races,
as though each felt that it had no part or lot in the other's life. At
one point the carriage drew near a party of colored folks who were
laughing and jesting among themselves with great glee. Paying no
attention to the white people, they continued to laugh and shout
boisterously as the carriage swept by.

Major Carteret's countenance wore an angry look.

"The negroes around this town are becoming absolutely insufferable," he
averred. "They are sadly in need of a lesson in manners."

Half an hour later they neared another group, who were also making
merry. As the carriage approached, they became mute and silent as the
grave until the major's party had passed.

"The negroes are a sullen race," remarked the major thoughtfully. "They
will learn their lesson in a rude school, and perhaps much sooner than
they dream. By the way," he added, turning to the ladies, "what was the
arrangement with Tom? Was he to come out this evening?"

"He came out early in the afternoon," replied Clara, "to go a-fishing.
He is to join us at the hotel."

After an hour's drive they reached the hotel, in front of which
stretched the beach, white and inviting, along the shallow sound. Mrs.
Carteret and Clara found seats on the veranda. Having turned the trap
over to a hostler, the major joined a group of gentlemen, among whom was
General Belmont, and was soon deep in the discussion of the standing
problem of how best to keep the negroes down.

Ellis remained by the ladies. Clara seemed restless and ill at ease.
Half an hour elapsed and Delamere had not appeared.

"I wonder where Tom is," said Mrs. Carteret.

"I guess he hasn't come in yet from fishing," said Clara. "I wish he
would come. It's lonesome here. Mr. Ellis, would you mind looking about
the hotel and seeing if there's any one here that we know?"

For Ellis the party was already one too large. He had accepted this
invitation eagerly, hoping to make friends with Clara during the
evening. He had never been able to learn definitely the reason of her
coldness, but had dated it from his meeting with old Mrs. Ochiltree,
with which he felt it was obscurely connected. He had noticed Delamere's
scowling look, too, at their last meeting. Clara's injustice, whatever
its cause, he felt keenly. To Delamere's scowl he had paid little
attention,--he despised Tom so much that, but for his engagement to
Clara, he would have held his opinions in utter contempt.

He had even wished that Clara might make some charge against him,--he
would have preferred that to her attitude of studied indifference, the
only redeeming feature about which was that it _was_ studied, showing
that she, at least, had him in mind. The next best thing, he reasoned,
to having a woman love you, is to have her dislike you violently,--the
main point is that you should be kept in mind, and made the subject of
strong emotions. He thought of the story of Hall Caine's, where the
woman, after years of persecution at the hands of an unwelcome suitor,
is on the point of yielding, out of sheer irresistible admiration for
the man's strength and persistency, when the lover, unaware of his
victory and despairing of success, seizes her in his arms and, springing
into the sea, finds a watery grave for both. The analogy of this case
with his own was, of course, not strong. He did not anticipate any
tragedy in their relations; but he was glad to be thought of upon almost
any terms. He would not have done a mean thing to make her think of him;
but if she did so because of a misconception, which he was given no
opportunity to clear up, while at the same time his conscience absolved
him from evil and gave him the compensating glow of martyrdom, it was at
least better than nothing.

He would, of course, have preferred to be upon a different footing. It
had been a pleasure to have her speak to him during the drive,--they had
exchanged a few trivial remarks in the general conversation. It was a
greater pleasure to have her ask a favor of him,--a pleasure which, in
this instance, was partly offset when he interpreted her request to mean
that he was to look for Tom Delamere. He accepted the situation
gracefully, however, and left the ladies alone.

Knowing Delamere's habits, he first went directly to the bar-room,--the
atmosphere would be congenial, even if he were not drinking. Delamere
was not there. Stepping next into the office, he asked the clerk if
young Mr. Delamere had been at the hotel.

"Yes, sir," returned the man at the desk, "he was here at luncheon, and
then went out fishing in a boat with several other gentlemen. I think
they came back about three o'clock. I'll find out for you."

He rang the bell, to which a colored boy responded.

"Front," said the clerk, "see if young Mr. Delamere's upstairs. Look in
255 or 256, and let me know at once."

The bell-boy returned in a moment.

"Yas, suh," he reported, with a suppressed grin, "he's in 256, suh. De
do' was open, an' I seed 'im from de hall, suh."

"I wish you'd go up and tell him," said Ellis, "that--What are you
grinning about?" he asked suddenly, noticing the waiter's expression.

"Nothin', suh, nothin' at all, suh," responded the negro, lapsing into
the stolidity of a wooden Indian. "What shall I tell Mr. Delamere, suh?"

"Tell him," resumed Ellis, still watching the boy suspiciously,--"no, I'll
tell him myself."

He ascended the broad stair to the second floor. There was an upper
balcony and a parlor, with a piano for the musically inclined. To reach
these one had to pass along the hall upon which the room mentioned by
the bell-boy opened. Ellis was quite familiar with the hotel. He could
imagine circumstances under which he would not care to speak to
Delamere; he would merely pass through the hall and glance into the room
casually, as any one else might do, and see what the darky downstairs
might have meant by his impudence.

It required but a moment to reach the room. The door was not wide open,
but far enough ajar for him to see what was going on within.

Two young men, members of the fast set at the Clarendon Club, were
playing cards at a small table, near which stood another, decorated with
an array of empty bottles and glasses. Sprawling on a lounge, with
flushed face and disheveled hair, his collar unfastened, his vest
buttoned awry, lay Tom Delamere, breathing stertorously, in what seemed
a drunken sleep. Lest there should be any doubt of the cause of his
condition, the fingers of his right hand had remained clasped
mechanically around the neck of a bottle which lay across his bosom.

Ellis turned away in disgust, and went slowly back to the ladies.

"There seems to be no one here yet," he reported. "We came a little
early for the evening crowd. The clerk says Tom Delamere was here to
luncheon, but he hasn't seen him for several hours."

"He's not a very gallant cavalier," said Mrs. Carteret severely. "He
ought to have been waiting for us."

Clara was clearly disappointed, and made no effort to conceal her
displeasure, leaving Ellis in doubt as to whether or not he were its
object. Perhaps she suspected him of not having made a very thorough
search. Her next remark might have borne such a construction.

"Sister Olivia," she said pettishly, "let's go up to the parlor. I can
play the piano anyway, if there's no one to talk to."

"I find it very comfortable here, Clara," replied her sister placidly.
"Mr. Ellis will go with you. You'll probably find some one in the
parlor, or they'll come when you begin to play."

Clara's expression was not cordial, but she rose as if to go. Ellis was
in a quandary. If she went through the hall, the chances were at least
even that she would see Delamere. He did not care a rap for
Delamere,--if he chose to make a public exhibition of himself, it was
his own affair; but to see him would surely spoil Miss Pemberton's
evening, and, in her frame of mind, might lead to the suspicion that
Ellis had prearranged the exposure. Even if she should not harbor this
unjust thought, she would not love the witness of her discomfiture. We
had rather not meet the persons who have seen, even though they never
mention, the skeletons in our closets. Delamere had disposed of himself
for the evening. Ellis would have a fairer field with Delamere out of
sight and unaccounted for, than with Delamere in evidence in his present
condition.

"Wouldn't you rather take a stroll on the beach, Miss Clara?" he asked,
in the hope of creating a diversion.

"No, I'm going to the parlor. _You_ needn't come, Mr. Ellis, if you'd
rather go down to the beach. I can quite as well go alone."

"I'd rather go with you," he said meekly.

They were moving toward the door opening into the hall, from which the
broad staircase ascended. Ellis, whose thoughts did not always respond
quickly to a sudden emergency, was puzzling his brain as to how he
should save her from any risk of seeing Delamere. Through the side door
leading from the hall into the office, he saw the bell-boy to whom he
had spoken seated on the bench provided for the servants.

"Won't you wait for me just a moment, Miss Clara, while I step into the
office? I'll be with you in an instant."

Clara hesitated.

"Oh, certainly," she replied nonchalantly.

Ellis went direct to the bell-boy. "Sit right where you are," he said,
"and don't move a hair. What is the lady in the hall doing?"

"She's got her back tu'ned this way, suh. I 'spec' she's lookin' at the
picture on the opposite wall, suh."

"All right," whispered Ellis, pressing a coin into the servant's hand.
"I'm going up to the parlor with the lady. You go up ahead of us, and
keep in front of us along the hall. Don't dare to look back. I shall
keep on talking to the lady, so that you can tell by my voice where we
are. When you get to room 256, go in and shut the door behind you:
pretend that you were called,--ask the gentlemen what they want,--tell
any kind of a lie you like,--but keep the door shut until you're sure
we've got by. Do you hear?"

"Yes, suh," replied the negro intelligently.

The plan worked without a hitch. Ellis talked steadily, about the hotel,
the furnishings, all sorts of irrelevant subjects, to which Miss
Pemberton paid little attention. She was angry with Delamere, and took
no pains to conceal her feelings. The bell-boy entered room 256 just
before they reached the door. Ellis had heard loud talking as they
approached, and as they were passing there was a crash of broken glass,
as though some object had been thrown at the door.

"What is the matter there?" exclaimed Clara, quickening her footsteps
and instinctively drawing closer to Ellis.

"Some one dropped a glass, I presume," replied Ellis calmly.

Miss Pemberton glanced at him suspiciously. She was in a decidedly
perverse mood. Seating herself at the piano, she played brilliantly for
a quarter of an hour. Quite a number of couples strolled up to the
parlor, but Delamere was not among them.

"Oh dear!" exclaimed Miss Pemberton, as she let her fingers fall upon
the keys with a discordant crash, after the last note, "I don't see why
we came out here to-night. Let's go back downstairs."

Ellis felt despondent. He had done his utmost to serve and to please
Miss Pemberton, but was not likely, he foresaw, to derive much benefit
from his opportunity. Delamere was evidently as much or more in her
thoughts by reason of his absence than if he had been present. If the
door should have been opened, and she should see him from the hall upon
their return, Ellis could not help it. He took the side next to the
door, however, meaning to hurry past the room so that she might not
recognize Delamere.

Fortunately the door was closed and all quiet within the room. On the
stairway they met the bellboy, rubbing his head with one hand and
holding a bottle of seltzer upon a tray in the other. The boy was well
enough trained to give no sign of recognition, though Ellis guessed the
destination of the bottle.

Ellis hardly knew whether to feel pleased or disappointed at the success
of his manoeuvres. He had spared Miss Pemberton some mortification, but
he had saved Tom Delamere from merited exposure. Clara ought to know the
truth, for her own sake.

On the beach, a few rods away, fires were burning, around which several
merry groups had gathered. The smoke went mostly to one side, but a
slight whiff came now and then to where Mrs. Carteret sat awaiting
them.

"They're roasting oysters," said Mrs. Carteret. "I wish you'd bring me
some, Mr. Ellis."

Ellis strolled down to the beach. A large iron plate, with a turned-up
rim like a great baking-pan, supported by legs which held it off the
ground, was set over a fire built upon the sand. This primitive oven was
heaped with small oysters in the shell, taken from the neighboring
sound, and hauled up to the hotel by a negro whose pony cart stood near
by. A wet coffee-sack of burlaps was spread over the oysters, which,
when steamed sufficiently, were opened by a colored man and served
gratis to all who cared for them.

Ellis secured a couple of plates of oysters, which he brought to Mrs.
Carteret and Clara; they were small, but finely flavored.

Meanwhile Delamere, who possessed a remarkable faculty of recuperation
from the effects of drink, had waked from his sleep, and remembering his
engagement, had exerted himself to overcome the ravages of the
afternoon's debauch. A dash of cold water braced him up somewhat. A
bottle of seltzer and a big cup of strong coffee still further
strengthened his nerves.

When Ellis returned to the veranda, after having taken away the plates,
Delamere had joined the ladies and was explaining the cause of his
absence.

He had been overcome by the heat, he said, while out fishing, and had
been lying down ever since. Perhaps he ought to have sent for a doctor,
but the fellows had looked after him. He hadn't sent word to his friends
because he hadn't wished to spoil their evening.

"That was very considerate of you, Tom," said Mrs. Carteret dryly, "but
you ought to have let us know. We have been worrying about you very
much. Clara has found the evening dreadfully dull."

"Indeed, no, sister Olivia," said the young lady cheerfully, "I've been
having a lovely time. Mr. Ellis and I have been up in the parlor; I
played the piano; and we've been eating oysters and having a most
delightful time. Won't you take me down there to the beach, Mr. Ellis? I
want to see the fires. Come on."

"Can't I go?" asked Tom jealously.

"No, indeed, you mustn't stir a foot! You must not overtax yourself so
soon; it might do you serious injury. Stay here with sister Olivia."

She took Ellis's arm with exaggerated cordiality. Delamere glared after
them angrily. Ellis did not stop to question her motives, but took the
goods the gods provided. With no very great apparent effort, Miss
Pemberton became quite friendly, and they strolled along the beach, in
sight of the hotel, for nearly half an hour. As they were coming up she
asked him abruptly,--

"Mr. Ellis, did you know Tom was in the hotel?"

Ellis was looking across the sound, at the lights of a distant steamer
which was making her way toward the harbor.

"I wonder," he said musingly, as though he had not heard her question,
"if that is the Ocean Belle?"

"And was he really sick?" she demanded.

"She's later than usual this trip," continued Ellis, pursuing his
thought. "She was due about five o'clock."

Miss Pemberton, under cover of the darkness, smiled a fine smile, which
foreboded ill for some one. When they joined the party on the piazza,
the major had come up and was saying that it was time to go. He had
been engaged in conversation, for most of the evening, with General
Belmont and several other gentlemen.

"Here comes the general now. Let me see. There are five of us. The
general has offered me a seat in his buggy, and Tom can go with
you-all."

The general came up and spoke to the ladies. Tom murmured his thanks; it
would enable him to make up a part of the delightful evening he had
missed.

When Mrs. Carteret had taken the rear seat, Clara promptly took the
place beside her. Ellis and Delamere sat in front. When Delamere, who
had offered to drive, took the reins, Ellis saw that his hands were
shaking.

"Give me the lines," he whispered. "Your nerves are unsteady and the
road is not well lighted."

Delamere prudently yielded the reins. He did not like Ellis's tone,
which seemed sneering rather than expressive of sympathy with one who
had been suffering. He wondered if the beggar knew anything about his
illness. Clara had been acting strangely. It would have been just like
Ellis to have slandered him. The upstart had no business with Clara
anyway. He would cheerfully have strangled Ellis, if he could have done
so with safety to himself and no chance of discovery.

The drive homeward through the night was almost a silent journey. Mrs.
Carteret was anxious about her baby. Clara did not speak, except now and
then to Ellis with reference to some object in or near the road.
Occasionally they passed a vehicle in the darkness, sometimes barely
avoiding a collision. Far to the north the sky was lit up with the glow
of a forest fire. The breeze from the Sound was deliciously cool. Soon
the last toll-gate was passed and the lights of the town appeared.

Ellis threw the lines to William, who was waiting, and hastened to help
the ladies out.

"Good-night, Mr. Ellis," said Clara sweetly, as she gave Ellis her hand.
"Thank you for a very pleasant evening. Come up and see us soon."

She ran into the house without a word to Tom.

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

completion: One afternoon, Clara, Major Carteret, Mrs. Carteret, and Ellis all take a trip to the seashore for dinner at a hotel with Tom Delamere. Major Carteret has a fondness for Ellis because of his sharp wit and Mrs. Carteret senses his fondness for Clara, but chooses not to interfere with her love life. On the road, they pass through several toll roads looked over by the "poor whites" of the countryside. Several decades before, Wellington had hosted a booming naval export business, but recent times had left the town's economy faltering. This left many whites without decent income and reliant upon cotton for their livelihoods. The group also passes several groups of black persons; some are gathered in groups, laughing boisterously while others are more solemn and deferential to the carriage. Major Carteret thoughtfully remarks, "They will learn their lesson in a rude school, and perhaps much sooner than they dream. When the group arrives at the hotel, Tom Delamere is not present. They sit down for dinner and Ellis feels the discomfort of Clara's indifference towards him. He despises Delamere and "but for his engagement to Clara, he would have held his opinions in utter contempt. He takes heart only in the fact that Clara seems to ignore him, meaning that she actually has kept him in mind and made him "the subject of strong emotions. Clara asks Ellis to inquire with the hotel staff as to Delamere's whereabouts and he reluctantly accepts the job. On the advice of a porter, Ellis goes upstairs and finds Tom Delamere passed out, sleeping and drunk, in a hotel room with several other young men who are playing cards. Not wanting to embarrass Clara, Ellis returns to the table and tells them all that Tom has not arrived. Now bored, Clara decides to go upstairs and play the piano. Ellis makes the snap decision to send the bellboy up to close the hotel room door where Delamere is passed out, saving both him and Clara the embarrassment. Ellis and Clara then take a walk on the beach, though she is distant to him because of her anger at Tom's disappearance. While they are on the beach, Tom wakes up and freshens himself enough to make an appearance at dinner, telling everyone that he suffered heat exhaustion that afternoon and had been lying down. Clara then tells Ellis that she wants to see the fires on the beach and leaves with him, not inviting Tom to join them. On the beach, Clara interrogates Ellis as to whether he knew Tom was in the hotel and if he was truly sick. Ellis avoids answering which gives Clara the only answer she needs. On the trip home, she is cold to Tom Delamere, but strangely warm to Ellis. When they return to Wellington, she invites Ellis to come by the house anytime but does not say a word to Delamere


prompt:
Chapter: THE SOCIAL ASPIRATIONS OF CAPTAIN McBANE

It was only eleven o'clock, and Delamere, not being at all sleepy, and
feeling somewhat out of sorts as the combined results of his afternoon's
debauch and the snubbing he had received at Clara's hands, directed the
major's coachman, who had taken charge of the trap upon its arrival, to
drive him to the St. James Hotel before returning the horses to the
stable. First, however, the coachman left Ellis at his boarding-house,
which was near by. The two young men parted with as scant courtesy as
was possible without an open rupture.

Delamere hoped to find at the hotel some form of distraction to fill in
an hour or two before going home. Ill fortune favored him by placing in
his way the burly form of Captain George McBane, who was sitting in an
armchair alone, smoking a midnight cigar, under the hotel balcony. Upon
Delamere's making known his desire for amusement, the captain proposed a
small game of poker in his own room.

McBane had been waiting for some such convenient opportunity. We have
already seen that the captain was desirous of social recognition, which
he had not yet obtained beyond the superficial acquaintance acquired by
association with men about town. He had determined to assault society in
its citadel by seeking membership in the Clarendon Club, of which most
gentlemen of the best families of the city were members.

The Clarendon Club was a historic institution, and its membership a
social cult, the temple of which was located just off the main street of
the city, in a dignified old colonial mansion which had housed it for
the nearly one hundred years during which it had maintained its
existence unbroken. There had grown up around it many traditions and
special usages. Membership in the Clarendon was the _sine qua non_ of
high social standing, and was conditional upon two of three
things,--birth, wealth, and breeding. Breeding was the prime essential,
but, with rare exceptions, must be backed by either birth or money.

Having decided, therefore, to seek admission into this social arcanum,
the captain, who had either not quite appreciated the standard of the
Clarendon's membership, or had failed to see that he fell beneath it,
looked about for an intermediary through whom to approach the object of
his desire. He had already thought of Tom Delamere in this connection,
having with him such an acquaintance as one forms around a hotel, and
having long ago discovered that Delamere was a young man of
superficially amiable disposition, vicious instincts, lax principles,
and a weak will, and, which was quite as much to the purpose, a member
of the Clarendon Club. Possessing mental characteristics almost entirely
opposite, Delamere and the captain had certain tastes in common, and had
smoked, drunk, and played cards together more than once.

Still more to his purpose, McBane had detected Delamere trying to cheat
him at cards. He had said nothing about this discovery, but had merely
noted it as something which at some future time might prove useful. The
captain had not suffered by Delamere's deviation from the straight line
of honor, for while Tom was as clever with the cards as might be
expected of a young man who had devoted most of his leisure for several
years to handling them, McBane was past master in their manipulation.
During a stormy career he had touched more or less pitch, and had
escaped few sorts of defilement.

The appearance of Delamere at a late hour, unaccompanied, and wearing
upon his countenance an expression in which the captain read aright the
craving for mental and physical excitement, gave him the opportunity for
which he had been looking. McBane was not the man to lose an
opportunity, nor did Delamere require a second invitation. Neither was
it necessary, during the progress of the game, for the captain to press
upon his guest the contents of the decanter which stood upon the table
within convenient reach.

The captain permitted Delamere to win from him several small amounts,
after which he gradually increased the stakes and turned the tables.

Delamere, with every instinct of a gamester, was no more a match for
McBane in self-control than in skill. When the young man had lost all
his money, the captain expressed his entire willingness to accept notes
of hand, for which he happened to have convenient blanks in his
apartment.

When Delamere, flushed with excitement and wine, rose from the gaming
table at two o'clock, he was vaguely conscious that he owed McBane a
considerable sum, but could not have stated how much. His opponent, who
was entirely cool and collected, ran his eye carelessly over the bits of
paper to which Delamere had attached his signature. "Just one thousand
dollars even," he remarked.

The announcement of this total had as sobering an effect upon Delamere
as though he had been suddenly deluged with a shower of cold water. For
a moment he caught his breath. He had not a dollar in the world with
which to pay this sum. His only source of income was an allowance from
his grandfather, the monthly installment of which, drawn that very day,
he had just lost to McBane, before starting in upon the notes of hand.

"I'll give you your revenge another time," said McBane, as they rose.
"Luck is against you to-night, and I'm unwilling to take advantage of a
clever young fellow like you. Meantime," he added, tossing the notes of
hand carelessly on a bureau, "don't worry about these bits of paper.
Such small matters shouldn't cut any figure between friends; but if you
are around the hotel to-morrow, I should like to speak to you upon
another subject."

"Very well, captain," returned Tom somewhat ungraciously.

Delamere had been completely beaten with his own weapons. He had tried
desperately to cheat McBane. He knew perfectly well that McBane had
discovered his efforts and had cheated him in turn, for the captain's
play had clearly been gauged to meet his own. The biter had been bit,
and could not complain of the outcome.

The following afternoon McBane met Delamere at the hotel, and bluntly
requested the latter to propose him for membership in the Clarendon
Club.

Delamere was annoyed at this request. His aristocratic gorge rose at the
presumption of this son of an overseer and ex-driver of convicts.
McBane was good enough to win money from, or even to lose money to, but
not good enough to be recognized as a social equal. He would
instinctively have blackballed McBane had he been proposed by some one
else; with what grace could he put himself forward as the sponsor for
this impossible social aspirant? Moreover, it was clearly a vulgar,
cold-blooded attempt on McBane's part to use his power over him for a
personal advantage.

"Well, now, Captain McBane," returned Delamere diplomatically, "I've
never put any one up yet, and it's not regarded as good form for so
young a member as myself to propose candidates. I'd much rather you'd
ask some older man."

"Oh, well," replied McBane, "just as you say, only I thought you had cut
your eye teeth."

Delamere was not pleased with McBane's tone. His remark was not
acquiescent, though couched in terms of assent. There was a sneering
savagery about it, too, that left Delamere uneasy. He was, in a measure,
in McBane's power. He could not pay the thousand dollars, unless it fell
from heaven, or he could win it from some one else. He would not dare go
to his grandfather for help. Mr. Delamere did not even know that his
grandson gambled. He might not have objected, perhaps, to a gentleman's
game, with moderate stakes, but he would certainly, Tom knew very well,
have looked upon a thousand dollars as a preposterous sum to be lost at
cards by a man who had nothing with which to pay it. It was part of Mr.
Delamere's creed that a gentleman should not make debts that he was not
reasonably able to pay.

There was still another difficulty. If he had lost the money to a
gentleman, and it had been his first serious departure from Mr.
Delamere's perfectly well understood standard of honor, Tom might have
risked a confession and thrown himself on his grandfather's mercy; but
he owed other sums here and there, which, to his just now much disturbed
imagination, loomed up in alarming number and amount. He had recently
observed signs of coldness, too, on the part of certain members of the
club. Moreover, like most men with one commanding vice, he was addicted
to several subsidiary forms of iniquity, which in case of a scandal were
more than likely to come to light. He was clearly and most disagreeably
caught in the net of his own hypocrisy. His grandfather believed him a
model of integrity, a pattern of honor; he could not afford to have his
grandfather undeceived.

He thought of old Mrs. Ochiltree. If she were a liberal soul, she could
give him a thousand dollars now, when he needed it, instead of making
him wait until she died, which might not be for ten years or more, for a
legacy which was steadily growing less and might be entirely exhausted
if she lived long enough,--some old people were very tenacious of life!
She was a careless old woman, too, he reflected, and very foolishly kept
her money in the house. Latterly she had been growing weak and childish.
Some day she might be robbed, and then his prospective inheritance from
that source would vanish into thin air!

With regard to this debt to McBane, if he could not pay it, he could at
least gain a long respite by proposing the captain at the club. True, he
would undoubtedly be blackballed, but before this inevitable event his
name must remain posted for several weeks, during which interval McBane
would be conciliatory. On the other hand, to propose McBane would arouse
suspicion of his own motives; it might reach his grandfather's ears, and
lead to a demand for an explanation, which it would be difficult to
make. Clearly, the better plan would be to temporize with McBane, with
the hope that something might intervene to remove this cursed
obligation.

"Suppose, captain," he said affably, "we leave the matter open for a few
days. This is a thing that can't be rushed. I'll feel the pulse of my
friends and yours, and when we get the lay of the land, the affair can
be accomplished much more easily."

"Well, that's better," returned McBane, somewhat mollified,--"if you'll
do that."

"To be sure I will," replied Tom easily, too much relieved to resent, if
not too preoccupied to perceive, the implied doubt of his veracity.

McBane ordered and paid for more drinks, and they parted on amicable
terms.

"We'll let these notes stand for the time being, Tom," said McBane,
with significant emphasis, when they separated.

Delamere winced at the familiarity. He had reached that degree of moral
deterioration where, while principles were of little moment, the
externals of social intercourse possessed an exaggerated importance.
McBane had never before been so personal.

He had addressed the young aristocrat first as "Mr. Delamere," then, as
their acquaintance advanced, as "Delamere." He had now reached the
abbreviated Christian name stage of familiarity. There was no lower
depth to which Tom could sink, unless McBane should invent a nickname by
which to address him. He did not like McBane's manner,--it was
characterized by a veiled insolence which was exceedingly offensive. He
would go over to the club and try his luck with some honest
player,--perhaps something might turn up to relieve him from his
embarrassment.

He put his hand in his pocket mechanically,--and found it empty! In the
present state of his credit, he could hardly play without money.

A thought struck him. Leaving the hotel, he hastened home, where he
found Sandy dusting his famous suit of clothes on the back piazza. Mr.
Delamere was not at home, having departed for Belleview about two
o'clock, leaving Sandy to follow him in the morning.

"Hello, Sandy," exclaimed Tom, with an assumed jocularity which he was
very far from feeling, "what are you doing with those gorgeous
garments?"

"I'm a-dustin' of 'em, Mistuh Tom, dat's w'at I'm a-doin'. Dere's
somethin' wrong 'bout dese clo's er mine--I don' never seem ter be able
ter keep 'em clean no mo'. Ef I b'lieved in dem ole-timey sayin's, I'd
'low dere wuz a witch come here eve'y night an' tuk 'em out an' wo' 'em,
er tuk me out an' rid me in 'em. Dere wuz somethin' wrong 'bout dat
cakewalk business, too, dat I ain' never unde'stood an' don' know how
ter 'count fer, 'less dere wuz some kin' er dev'lishness goin' on dat
don' show on de su'face."

"Sandy," asked Tom irrelevantly, "have you any money in the house?"

"Yas, suh, I got de money Mars John give me ter git dem things ter take
out ter Belleview in de mawnin."

"I mean money of your own."

"I got a qua'ter ter buy terbacker wid," returned Sandy cautiously.

"Is that all? Haven't you some saved up?"

"Well, yas, Mistuh Tom," returned Sandy, with evident reluctance, "dere's
a few dollahs put away in my bureau drawer fer a rainy day,--not
much, suh."

"I'm a little short this afternoon, Sandy, and need some money right
away. Grandfather isn't here, so I can't get any from him. Let me take
what you have for a day or two, Sandy, and I'll return it with good
interest."

"Now, Mistuh Tom," said Sandy seriously, "I don' min' lettin' you take
my money, but I hopes you ain' gwine ter use it fer none er dem
rakehelly gwines-on er yo'n,--gamblin' an' bettin' an' so fo'th. Yo'
grandaddy 'll fin' out 'bout you yit, ef you don' min' yo' P's an' Q's.
I does my bes' ter keep yo' misdoin's f'm 'im, an' sense I b'en tu'ned
out er de chu'ch--thoo no fault er my own, God knows!--I've tol' lies
'nuff 'bout you ter sink a ship. But it ain't right, Mistuh Tom, it
ain't right! an' I only does it fer de sake er de fam'ly honuh, dat Mars
John sets so much sto' by, an' ter save his feelin's; fer de doctuh says
he mus'n' git ixcited 'bout nothin', er it mought bring on another
stroke."

"That's right, Sandy," replied Tom approvingly; "but the family honor is
as safe in my hands as in grandfather's own, and I'm going to use the
money for an excellent purpose, in fact to relieve a case of genuine
distress; and I'll hand it back to you in a day or two,--perhaps
to-morrow. Fetch me the money, Sandy,--that's a good darky!"

"All right, Mistuh Tom, you shill have de money; but I wants ter tell
you, suh, dat in all de yeahs I has wo'ked fer yo' gran'daddy, he has
never called me a 'darky' ter my face, suh. Co'se I knows dere's w'ite
folks an' black folks,--but dere's manners, suh, dere's manners, an'
gent'emen oughter be de ones ter use 'em, suh, ef dey ain't ter be
fergot enti'ely!"

"There, there, Sandy," returned Tom in a conciliatory tone, "I beg your
pardon! I've been associating with some Northern white folks at the
hotel, and picked up the word from them. You're a high-toned colored
gentleman, Sandy,--the finest one on the footstool."

Still muttering to himself, Sandy retired to his own room, which was in
the house, so that he might be always near his master. He soon returned
with a time-stained leather pocket-book and a coarse-knit cotton sock,
from which two receptacles he painfully extracted a number of bills and
coins.

"You count dat, Mistuh Tom, so I'll know how much I'm lettin' you have."

"This isn't worth anything," said Tom, pushing aside one roll of bills.
"It's Confederate money."

"So it is, suh. It ain't wuth nothin' now; but it has be'n money, an'
who kin tell but what it mought be money agin? De rest er dem bills is
greenbacks,--dey'll pass all right, I reckon."

The good money amounted to about fifty dollars, which Delamere thrust
eagerly into his pocket.

"You won't say anything to grandfather about this, will you, Sandy," he
said, as he turned away.

"No, suh, co'se I won't! Does I ever tell 'im 'bout yo' gwines-on? Ef I
did," he added to himself, as the young man disappeared down the street,
"I wouldn' have time ter do nothin' e'se ha'dly. I don' know whether
I'll ever see dat money agin er no, do' I 'magine de ole gent'eman
wouldn' lemme lose it ef he knowed. But I ain' gwine ter tell him,
whether I git my money back er no, fer he is jes' so wrop' up in dat boy
dat I b'lieve it'd jes' break his hea't ter fin' out how he's be'n
gwine on. Doctuh Price has tol' me not ter let de ole gent'eman git
ixcited, er e'se dere's no tellin' w'at mought happen. He's be'n good
ter me, he has, an' I'm gwine ter take keer er him,--dat's w'at I is,
ez long ez I has de chance."

       *       *       *       *       *

Delamere went directly to the club, and soon lounged into the card-room,
where several of the members were engaged in play. He sauntered here and
there, too much absorbed in his own thoughts to notice that the
greetings he received were less cordial than those usually exchanged
between the members of a small and select social club. Finally, when
Augustus, commonly and more appropriately called "Gus," Davidson came
into the room, Tom stepped toward him.

"Will you take a hand in a game, Gus?"

"Don't care if I do," said the other. "Let's sit over here."

Davidson led the way to a table near the fireplace, near which stood a
tall screen, which at times occupied various places in the room.
Davidson took the seat opposite the fireplace, leaving Delamere with his
back to the screen.

Delamere staked half of Sandy's money, and lost. He staked the rest, and
determined to win, because he could not afford to lose. He had just
reached out his hand to gather in the stakes, when he was charged with
cheating at cards, of which two members, who had quietly entered the
room and posted themselves behind the screen, had secured specific
proof. A meeting of the membership committee was hastily summoned, it
being an hour at which most of them might be found at the club. To avoid
a scandal, and to save the feelings of a prominent family, Delamere was
given an opportunity to resign quietly from the club, on condition that
he paid all his gambling debts within three days, and took an oath never
to play cards again for money. This latter condition was made at the
suggestion of an elderly member, who apparently believed that a man who
would cheat at cards would stick at perjury.

Delamere acquiesced very promptly. The taking of the oath was easy. The
payment of some fifteen hundred dollars of debts was a different matter.
He went away from the club thoughtfully, and it may be said, in full
justice to a past which was far from immaculate, that in his present
thoughts he touched a depth of scoundrelism far beyond anything of which
he had as yet deemed himself capable. When a man of good position, of
whom much is expected, takes to evil courses, his progress is apt to
resemble that of a well-bred woman who has started on the downward
path,--the pace is all the swifter because of the distance which must be
traversed to reach the bottom. Delamere had made rapid headway; having
hitherto played with sin, his servant had now become his master, and
held him in an iron grip.

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

completion: After dropping Ellis off at his apartment, Tom Delamere makes his way to the St. James Hotel for some cards and drink before he has to return home. Upon arriving at the hotel, Tom meets Captain McBane and proposes a game of poker in his room. McBane has been waiting for the opportunity to take advantage of Delamere. He has noticed how Delamere cheats at cards and knows that he can take advantage of this trickery. McBane wants to become a part of the Clarendon Club, the one hundred year old social club for those of "birth, wealth, and breeding" in Wellington. He plans to use Delamere to help him get into this club. After several hours of card playing and drinking, Delamere loses all of his money. McBane extends him credit and by the end of the evening, "flushed with excitement and wine. he was vaguely conscious that he owed McBane a considerable sum" of one thousand dollars. Delamere knows that he does not have the money and McBane tells him they will talk on the matter later. The next day, at the hotel, McBane brings up the issue of his membership in the club. Tom is annoyed at the request by someone of such low social status but, since his debts are so high, he feels he must oblige. He tries to think of ways to pay off the debt. He knows that he cannot ask his old grandfather for the money since he does not know that Tom drinks and plays cards. Only his old Aunt Polly would have the money, but Tom knows that she will make "him wait until she died, which might not be for ten years or more, for a legacy which was steadily growing less and might be entirely exhausted if she lived long enough. Tom suggests that they leave the matter open for a few days while he tests the waters with his fellow club members. That evening, with no money in his pocket, Tom goes to visit Sandy. He asks Sandy if he has any savings he can borrow and Sandy reluctantly lets him take fifty dollars but warns him that if his grandfather were to find out about his misdeeds, it might cause another stroke. Tom agrees to pay the money back. When he returns to the club, he is set up by a group of club members who find out that he is cheating at cards. The members are called together and they agree to spare Tom the shame of the matter if he quietly resigns from the club and pays back all $1500 of his debt within three days. Tom acquiesces, though he does not know where he will find the money


prompt:
Chapter: SANDY SEES HIS OWN HA'NT

Having finished cleaning his clothes, Sandy went out to the kitchen for
supper, after which he found himself with nothing to do. Mr. Delamere's
absence relieved him from attendance at the house during the evening. He
might have smoked his pipe tranquilly in the kitchen until bedtime, had
not the cook intimated, rather pointedly, that she expected other
company. To a man of Sandy's tact a word was sufficient, and he resigned
himself to seeking companionship elsewhere.

Under normal circumstances, Sandy would have attended prayer-meeting on
this particular evening of the week; but being still in contumacy, and
cherishing what he considered the just resentment of a man falsely
accused, he stifled the inclination which by long habit led him toward
the church, and set out for the house of a friend with whom it occurred
to him that he might spend the evening pleasantly. Unfortunately, his
friend proved to be not at home, so Sandy turned his footsteps toward
the lower part of the town, where the streets were well lighted, and on
pleasant evenings quite animated. On the way he met Josh Green, whom he
had known for many years, though their paths did not often cross. In his
loneliness Sandy accepted an invitation to go with Josh and have a
drink,--a single drink. When Sandy was going home about eleven
o'clock, three sheets in the wind, such was the potent effect of the
single drink and those which had followed it, he was scared almost into
soberness by a remarkable apparition. As it seemed to Sandy, he saw
himself hurrying along in front of himself toward the house. Possibly
the muddled condition of Sandy's intellect had so affected his judgment
as to vitiate any conclusion he might draw, but Sandy was quite sober
enough to perceive that the figure ahead of him wore his best clothes
and looked exactly like him, but seemed to be in something more of a
hurry, a discrepancy which Sandy at once corrected by quickening his own
pace so as to maintain as nearly as possible an equal distance between
himself and his double. The situation was certainly an incomprehensible
one, and savored of the supernatural.

"Ef dat's me gwine 'long in front," mused Sandy, in vinous perplexity,
"den who is dis behin' here? Dere ain' but one er me, an' my ha'nt wouldn'
leave my body 'tel I wuz dead. Ef dat's me in front, den I mus' be my
own ha'nt; an' whichever one of us is de ha'nt, de yuther must be dead
an' don' know it. I don' know what ter make er no sech gwines-on, I
don't. Maybe it ain' me after all, but it certainly do look lack me."

When the apparition disappeared in the house by the side door, Sandy
stood in the yard for several minutes, under the shade of an elm-tree,
before he could make up his mind to enter the house. He took courage,
however, upon the reflection that perhaps, after all, it was only the
bad liquor he had drunk. Bad liquor often made people see double.

He entered the house. It was dark, except for a light in Tom Delamere's
room. Sandy tapped softly at the door.

"Who's there?" came Delamere's voice, in a somewhat startled tone, after
a momentary silence.

"It's me, suh; Sandy."

They both spoke softly. It was the rule of the house when Mr. Delamere
had retired, and though he was not at home, habit held its wonted sway.

"Just a moment, Sandy."

Sandy waited patiently in the hall until the door was opened. If the
room showed any signs of haste or disorder, Sandy was too full of his
own thoughts--and other things--to notice them.

"What do you want, Sandy," asked Tom.

"Mistuh Tom," asked Sandy solemnly, "ef I wuz in yo' place, an' you wuz
in my place, an' we wuz bofe in de same place, whar would I be?"

Tom looked at Sandy keenly, with a touch of apprehension. Did Sandy mean
anything in particular by this enigmatical inquiry, and if so, what? But
Sandy's face clearly indicated a state of mind in which consecutive
thought was improbable; and after a brief glance Delamere breathed more
freely.

"I give it up, Sandy," he responded lightly. "That's too deep for me."

"'Scuse me, Mistuh Tom, but is you heared er seed anybody er anything
come in de house fer de las' ten minutes?"

"Why, no, Sandy, I haven't heard any one. I came from the club an hour
ago. I had forgotten my key, and Sally got up and let me in, and then
went back to bed. I've been sitting here reading ever since. I should
have heard any one who came in."

"Mistuh Tom," inquired Sandy anxiously, "would you 'low dat I'd be'n
drinkin' too much?"

"No, Sandy, I should say you were sober enough, though of course you
may have had a few drinks. Perhaps you'd like another? I've got
something good here."

"No, suh, Mistuh Tom, no, suh! No mo' liquor fer me, suh, never! When
liquor kin make a man see his own ha'nt, it's 'bout time fer dat man
ter quit drinkin', it sho' is! Good-night, Mistuh Tom."

As Sandy turned to go, Delamere was struck by a sudden and daring
thought. The creature of impulse, he acted upon it immediately.

"By the way, Sandy," he exclaimed carelessly, "I can pay you back that
money you were good enough to lend me this afternoon. I think I'll
sleep better if I have the debt off my mind, and I shouldn't wonder if
you would. You don't mind having it in gold, do you?"

"No, indeed, suh," replied Sandy. "I ain' seen no gol' fer so long dat
de sight er it'd be good fer my eyes."

Tom counted out ten five-dollar gold pieces upon the table at his elbow.

"And here's another, Sandy," he said, adding an eleventh, "as interest
for the use of it."

"Thank y', Mistuh Tom. I didn't spec' no in-trus', but I don' never
'fuse gol' w'en I kin git it."

"And here," added Delamere, reaching carelessly into a bureau drawer,
"is a little old silk purse that I've had since I was a boy. I'll put
the gold in it, Sandy; it will hold it very nicely."

"Thank y', Mistuh Tom. You're a gentleman, suh, an' wo'thy er de fam'ly
name. Good-night, suh, an' I hope yo' dreams 'll be pleasanter 'n' mine.
Ef it wa'n't fer dis gol' kinder takin' my min' off'n dat ha'nt, I don'
s'pose I'd be able to do much sleepin' ter-night. Good-night, suh."

"Good-night, Sandy."

Whether or not Delamere slept soundly, or was troubled by dreams,
pleasant or unpleasant, it is nevertheless true that he locked his door,
and sat up an hour later, looking through the drawers of his bureau, and
burning several articles in the little iron stove which constituted part
of the bedroom furniture.

It is also true that he rose very early, before the household was
stirring. The cook slept in a room off the kitchen, which was in an
outhouse in the back yard. She was just stretching herself, preparatory
to getting up, when Tom came to her window and said that he was going
off fishing, to be gone all day, and that he would not wait for
breakfast.

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

completion: Sandy finishes his evening chores and goes out for the night. Usually, he would go to the church, but since being disallowed from attending services he decides to go to "the lower part of town" to visit some friends. On the way, he meets Josh Green who invites him to have a drink with him. The one drink turns into many and by the time Sandy stumbles home at eleven o'clock, he is quite drunk. As he walks home, Sandy sees someone walking ahead of him wearing his same suits and looking just like him. Sandy is convinced that he is seeing his own ghost and that "whichever one of us is de ha'nt, de uther must be dead an' don' know it. When he gets home, he goes up to Tom's room and startles him with his knock. Sandy asks if he has seen anyone come in or out of the house and, sensing that Sandy is drunk, Tom tells him that he has not. As Sandy turns to leave, Tom tells him that he can pay him back the money that he borrowed. He counts out five ten dollar gold coins and then gives Sandy an extra coin for the interest. He hands Sandy an old silk purse, telling him that he had owned the purse since he was a boy, and Sandy leaves very pleased. Tom spends the remainder of the evening "burning several articles" from his drawers on a little iron stove. He then wakes very early the next morning and tells the cook that he is going fishing all day and will not return until later


prompt:
Chapter: Ellis left the office of the Morning Chronicle about eleven o'clock the
same evening and set out to walk home. His boarding-house was only a
short distance beyond old Mr. Delamere's residence, and while he might
have saved time and labor by a slightly shorter route, he generally
selected this one because it led also by Major Carteret's house.
Sometimes there would be a ray of light from Clara's room, which was on
one of the front corners; and at any rate he would have the pleasure of
gazing at the outside of the casket that enshrined the jewel of his
heart. It was true that this purely sentimental pleasure was sometimes
dashed with bitterness at the thought of his rival; but one in love must
take the bitter with the sweet, and who would say that a spice of
jealousy does not add a certain zest to love? On this particular
evening, however, he was in a hopeful mood. At the Clarendon Club, where
he had gone, a couple of hours before, to verify a certain news item for
the morning paper, he had heard a story about Tom Delamere which, he
imagined, would spike that gentleman's guns for all time, so far as Miss
Pemberton was concerned. So grave an affair as cheating at cards could
never be kept secret,--it was certain to reach her ears; and Ellis was
morally certain that Clara would never marry a man who had been proved
dishonorable. In all probability there would be no great sensation
about the matter. Delamere was too well connected; too many prominent
people would be involved--even Clara, and the editor himself, of whom
Delamere was a distant cousin. The reputation of the club was also to be
considered. Ellis was not the man to feel a malicious delight in the
misfortunes of another, nor was he a pessimist who welcomed scandal and
disgrace with open arms, as confirming a gloomy theory of human life.
But, with the best intentions in the world, it was no more than human
nature that he should feel a certain elation in the thought that his
rival had been practically disposed of, and the field left clear;
especially since this good situation had been brought about merely by
the unmasking of a hypocrite, who had held him at an unfair disadvantage
in the race for Clara's favor.

The night was quiet, except for the faint sound of distant music now and
then, or the mellow laughter of some group of revelers. Ellis met but
few pedestrians, but as he neared old Mr. Delamere's, he saw two men
walking in the same direction as his own, on the opposite side of the
street. He had observed that they kept at about an equal distance apart,
and that the second, from the stealthy manner in which he was making his
way, was anxious to keep the first in sight, without disclosing his own
presence. This aroused Ellis's curiosity, which was satisfied in some
degree when the man in advance stopped beneath a lamp-post and stood for
a moment looking across the street, with his face plainly visible in the
yellow circle of light. It was a dark face, and Ellis recognized it
instantly as that of old Mr. Delamere's body servant, whose personal
appearance had been very vividly impressed upon Ellis at the
christening dinner at Major Carteret's. He had seen Sandy once since,
too, at the hotel cakewalk. The negro had a small bundle in his hand,
the nature of which Ellis could not make out.

When Sandy had stopped beneath the lamp-post, the man who was following
him had dodged behind a tree-trunk. When Sandy moved on, Ellis, who had
stopped in turn, saw the man in hiding come out and follow Sandy. When
this second man came in range of the light, Ellis wondered that there
should be two men so much alike. The first of the two had undoubtedly
been Sandy. Ellis had recognized the peculiar, old-fashioned coat that
Sandy had worn upon the two occasions when he had noticed him. Barring
this difference, and the somewhat unsteady gait of the second man, the
two were as much alike as twin brothers.

When they had entered Mr. Delamere's house, one after the other,--in the
stillness of the night Ellis could perceive that each of them tried to
make as little noise as possible,--Ellis supposed that they were
probably relatives, both employed as servants, or that some younger
negro, taking Sandy for a model, was trying to pattern himself after his
superior. Why all this mystery, of course he could not imagine, unless
the younger man had been out without permission and was trying to avoid
the accusing eye of Sandy. Ellis was vaguely conscious that he had seen
the other negro somewhere, but he could not for the moment place
him,--there were so many negroes, nearly three negroes to one white man
in the city of Wellington!

The subject, however, while curious, was not important as compared with
the thoughts of his sweetheart which drove it from his mind. Clara had
been kind to him the night before,--whatever her motive, she had been
kind, and could not consistently return to her attitude of coldness.
With Delamere hopelessly discredited, Ellis hoped to have at least fair
play,--with fair play, he would take his chances of the outcome.

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

completion: Ellis leaves the Morning Chronicle offices at about eleven and walks towards his boarding house down the same street as the Carteret and Delamere residences. Earlier in the day, Ellis went to the club to verify the rumor that Tom Delamere had been kicked out of the Clarendon Club. He is hopeful that Clara Pemberton will not be allowed to marry a man "who had been proved dishonorable" though he knows that many important people will be involved in the Delamere case and that nothing will probably come of it. As he walks down the street, Ellis observes two men, one walking in front of the other. The second man seems to be sneaking behind the first as if he does not want to be seen. Ellis sees the first man stop under a lamppost carrying some sort of small sack and Ellis immediately recognizes the man as Sandy because of his old-fashioned coat. This first man goes into the Delamere house quietly. The second man follows him, stopping briefly under a tree and Ellis is surprised to see that this man looks just like Sandy as well. Ellis is confused over the whole matter but even that mystery cannot distract his thoughts of Clara for long. He is sure that with Tom's demise, he might have a "fair play


prompt:
Chapter: On Friday morning, when old Mrs. Ochiltree's cook Dinah went to wake her
mistress, she was confronted with a sight that well-nigh blanched her
ebony cheek and caused her eyes almost to start from her head with
horror. As soon as she could command her trembling limbs sufficiently to
make them carry her, she rushed out of the house and down the street,
bareheaded, covering in an incredibly short time the few blocks that
separated Mrs. Ochiltree's residence from that of her niece.

She hastened around the house, and finding the back door open and the
servants stirring, ran into the house and up the stairs with the
familiarity of an old servant, not stopping until she reached the door
of Mrs. Carteret's chamber, at which she knocked in great agitation.

Entering in response to Mrs. Carteret's invitation, she found the lady,
dressed in a simple wrapper, superintending the morning toilet of little
Dodie, who was a wakeful child, and insisted upon rising with the birds,
for whose music he still showed a great fondness, in spite of his narrow
escape while listening to the mockingbird.

"What is it, Dinah?" asked Mrs. Carteret, alarmed at the frightened face
of her aunt's old servitor.

"O my Lawd, Mis' 'Livy, my Lawd, my Lawd! My legs is trim'lin' so dat I
can't ha'dly hol' my han's stiddy 'nough ter say w'at I got ter say! O
Lawd have mussy on us po' sinners! W'atever is gwine ter happen in dis
worl' er sin an' sorrer!"

"What in the world is the matter, Dinah?" demanded Mrs. Carteret, whose
own excitement had increased with the length of this preamble. "Has
anything happened to Aunt Polly?"

"Somebody done broke in de house las' night, Mis' 'Livy, an' kill' Mis'
Polly, an' lef' her layin' dead on de flo', in her own blood, wid her
cedar chis' broke' open, an' eve'thing scattered roun' de flo'! O my
Lawd, my Lawd, my Lawd, my Lawd!"

Mrs. Carteret was shocked beyond expression. Perhaps the spectacle of
Dinah's unrestrained terror aided her to retain a greater measure of
self-control than she might otherwise have been capable of. Giving the
nurse some directions in regard to the child, she hastily descended the
stairs, and seizing a hat and jacket from the rack in the hall, ran
immediately with Dinah to the scene of the tragedy. Before the thought
of this violent death all her aunt's faults faded into insignificance,
and only her good qualities were remembered. She had reared Olivia; she
had stood up for the memory of Olivia's mother when others had seemed to
forget what was due to it. To her niece she had been a second mother,
and had never been lacking in affection.

More than one motive, however, lent wings to Mrs. Carteret's feet. Her
aunt's incomplete disclosures on the day of the drive past the hospital
had been weighing upon Mrs. Carteret's mind, and she had intended to
make another effort this very day, to get an answer to her question
about the papers which the woman had claimed were in existence. Suppose
her aunt had really found such papers,--papers which would seem to prove
the preposterous claim made by her father's mulatto mistress? Suppose
that, with the fatuity which generally leads human beings to keep
compromising documents, her aunt had preserved these papers? If they
should be found there in the house, there might be a scandal, if nothing
worse, and this was to be avoided at all hazards.

Guided by some fortunate instinct, Dinah had as yet informed no one but
Mrs. Carteret of her discovery. If they could reach the house before the
murder became known to any third person, she might be the first to
secure access to the remaining contents of the cedar chest, which would
be likely to be held as evidence in case the officers of the law
forestalled her own arrival.

They found the house wrapped in the silence of death. Mrs. Carteret
entered the chamber of the dead woman. Upon the floor, where it had
fallen, lay the body in a pool of blood, the strongly marked countenance
scarcely more grim in the rigidity of death than it had been in life. A
gaping wound in the head accounted easily for the death. The cedar chest
stood open, its strong fastenings having been broken by a steel bar
which still lay beside it. Near it were scattered pieces of old lace,
antiquated jewelry, tarnished silverware,--the various mute souvenirs of
the joys and sorrows of a long and active life.

Kneeling by the open chest, Mrs. Carteret glanced hurriedly through its
contents. There were no papers there except a few old deeds and letters.
She had risen with a sigh of relief, when she perceived the end of a
paper projecting from beneath the edge of a rug which had been
carelessly rumpled, probably by the burglar in his hasty search for
plunder. This paper, or sealed envelope as it proved to be, which
evidently contained some inclosure, she seized, and at the sound of
approaching footsteps thrust hastily into her own bosom.

The sight of two agitated women rushing through the quiet streets at so
early an hour in the morning had attracted attention and aroused
curiosity, and the story of the murder, having once become known, spread
with the customary rapidity of bad news. Very soon a policeman, and a
little later a sheriff's officer, arrived at the house and took charge
of the remains to await the arrival of the coroner.

By nine o'clock a coroner's jury had been summoned, who, after brief
deliberation, returned a verdict of willful murder at the hands of some
person or persons unknown, while engaged in the commission of a
burglary.

No sooner was the verdict announced than the community, or at least the
white third of it, resolved itself spontaneously into a committee of the
whole to discover the perpetrator of this dastardly crime, which, at
this stage of the affair, seemed merely one of robbery and murder.

Suspicion was at once directed toward the negroes, as it always is when
an unexplained crime is committed in a Southern community. The suspicion
was not entirely an illogical one. Having been, for generations, trained
up to thriftlessness, theft, and immorality, against which only thirty
years of very limited opportunity can be offset, during which brief
period they have been denied in large measure the healthful social
stimulus and sympathy which holds most men in the path of rectitude,
colored people might reasonably be expected to commit at least a share
of crime proportionate to their numbers. The population of the town was
at least two thirds colored. The chances were, therefore, in the absence
of evidence, at least two to one that a man of color had committed the
crime. The Southern tendency to charge the negroes with all the crime
and immorality of that region, unjust and exaggerated as the claim may
be, was therefore not without a logical basis to the extent above
indicated.

It must not be imagined that any logic was needed, or any reasoning
consciously worked out. The mere suggestion that the crime had been
committed by a negro was equivalent to proof against any negro that
might be suspected and could not prove his innocence. A committee of
white men was hastily formed. Acting independently of the police force,
which was practically ignored as likely to favor the negroes, this
committee set to work to discover the murderer.

The spontaneous activity of the whites was accompanied by a visible
shrinkage of the colored population. This could not be taken as any
indication of guilt, but was merely a recognition of the palpable fact
that the American habit of lynching had so whetted the thirst for black
blood that a negro suspected of crime had to face at least the
possibility of a short shrift and a long rope, not to mention more
gruesome horrors, without the intervention of judge or jury. Since to
have a black face at such a time was to challenge suspicion, and since
there was neither the martyr's glory nor the saint's renown in being
killed for some one else's crime, and very little hope of successful
resistance in case of an attempt at lynching, it was obviously the part
of prudence for those thus marked to seek immunity in a temporary
disappearance from public view.

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

completion: On Friday morning, Mrs. Ochiltree's cook, Dinah, goes to wake her and find her murdered body lying on the floor. Dinah hurries over to Mrs. Carteret's house and announces the death in a terrified fashion. Olivia is filled with terror but also remembers that she had meant to ask her Aunt Polly about the papers that she mentioned that might give legitimacy to her father's black mistress. When she enters the room, she quickly searches for the papers and finds a wrinkled envelope amongst the scattered belongings of her dead aunt. A committee is formed to track down the killer. The entire black population of the town is immediately suspected. The suspicion was not entirely an illogical one. Having been, for generations, trained up to thriftlessness, theft, and immorality, against which only thirty years of very limited opportunity can be offset, during which brief period they have been denied in large measure the healthful social stimulus and sympathy which holds most men in the path of rectitude, colored people might reasonably be expected to commit at least a share of crime proportionate to their numbers. The Southern tendency to charge the negroes with all the crime and immorality of that region, unjust and exaggerated as the claim may be, was therefore not without logical basis. Wellington's black population goes into spontaneous hibernation. Everyone knows that there will be calls for a lynching and the best way to gain immunity was "a temporary disappearance from public view