Ancestors by Gertrude Atherton

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PART I

1904

I

Miss Thangue, who had never seen her friend's hand tremble among the
teacups before, felt an edge on her mental appetite, stimulating after
two monotonous years abroad. It was several minutes, however, before she
made any effort to relieve her curiosity, for of all her patron-friends
Victoria Gwynne required the most delicate touch. Flora had learned to
be audacious without taking a liberty, which, indeed, was one secret of
her success; but although she prided herself upon her reading of this
enigma, whom even the ancestral dames of Capheaton looked down upon
inspectively, she was never quite sure of her ground. She particularly
wished to avoid mistakes upon the renewal of an intimacy kept alive by a
fitful correspondence during her sojourn on the Continent. Quite apart
from self-interest, she liked no one as well, and her curiosity was
tempered by a warm sympathy and a genuine interest. It was this capacity
for friendship, and her unlimited good-nature, that had saved her,
penniless as she was, from the ignominious footing of the social
parasite. The daughter of a clergyman in a Yorkshire village, and the
playmate in childhood of the little girls of the castle near by, she had
realized early in life that although pretty and well-bred, she was not
yet sufficiently dowered by either nature or fortune to hope for a
brilliant marriage; and she detested poverty. Upon her father's death
she must earn her bread, and, reasoning that self-support was merely the
marketing of one's essential commodity, and as her plump and indolent
body was disinclined to privations of any sort, she elected the role of
useful friend to fashionable and luxurious women. It was not an exalted
niche to fill in life, but at least she had learned to fill it to
perfection, and her ambitions were modest. Moreover, a certain integrity
of character and girlish enthusiasm had saved her from the more
corrosive properties of her anomalous position, and she was not only
clever enough to be frankly useful without servility, but she had become
so indispensable to certain of her friends, that although still blooming
in her early forties, she would no more have deserted them for a mere
husband than she would have renounced her comfortable and varied
existence for the no less varied uncertainties of matrimony.

It was not often that a kindly fate had overlooked her for so long a
period as two years, and when she had accepted the invitation of one of
the old castle playmates to visit her in Florence, it had been with a
lively anticipation that made dismay the more poignant in the face of
hypochondria. Nevertheless, realizing her debt to this first of her
patrons, and with much of her old affection revived, she wandered from
one capital and specialist to the next, until death gave her liberty.
She was not unrewarded, but the legacy inspired her with no desire for
an establishment beyond her room at the Club in Dover Street, the
companionship of friends not too exacting, the agreeable sense of
indispensableness, and a certain splendor of environment which gave a
warmth and color to life; and which she could not have commanded had she
set up in middle years as an independent spinster of limited income. She
had received many impatient letters while abroad, to which she had
replied with fluent affection and picturesque gossip, never losing touch
for a moment. When release came she had hastened home to book herself
for the house-parties, and with Victoria Gwynne, although one of the
least opulent of her friends, first on the list. She had had several
correspondents as ardent as herself, and there was little gossip of the
more intimate sort that had not reached her sooner or later, but she
found subtle changes in Victoria for which she could not as yet account.
She had now been at Capheaton and alone with her friend for three days,
but there had been a stress of duties for both, and the hostess had
never been more silent. To-day, as she seemed even less inclined to
conversation, although manifestly nervous, Miss Thangue merely drank her
tea with an air of being too comfortable and happy in England and
Capheaton for intellectual effort, and patiently waited for a cue or an
inspiration. But although she too kept silence, memory and imagination
held rendezvous in her circumspect brain, and she stole more than one
furtive glance at her companion.

Lady Victoria Gwynne, one of the tallest women of her time and still one
of the handsomest, had been extolled all her life for that fusion of the
romantic and the aristocratic ideals that so rarely find each other in
the same shell; and loved by a few. Her round slender figure, supple
with exercise and ignorant of disease, her black hair and eyes, the
utter absence of color in her smooth Orientally white skin, the mouth,
full at the middle and curving sharply upward at the corners, and the
irregular yet delicate nose that seemed presented as an afterthought to
save that brilliant and subtle face from classic severity, made her
look--for the most part--as if fashioned for the picture-gallery or the
poem, rather than for the commonplaces of life. Always one of those
Englishwomen that let their energy be felt rather than expressed, for
she made no effort in conversation whatever, her once mobile face had of
late years, without aging, composed itself into a sort of illuminated
mask. As far as possible removed from that other ideal, the British
Matron, and still suggesting an untamed something in the complex centres
of her character, she yet looked so aloof, so monumental, that she had
recently been painted by a great artist for a world exhibition, as an
illustration of what centuries of breeding and selection had done for
the noblewomen of England.

Some years before, a subtle Frenchman had expressed her in such a
fashion that while many vowed he had given to the world an epitome of
romantic youth, others remarked cynically that his handsome subject
looked as if about to seat herself on the corner of the table and smoke
a cigarette. The American artist, although habitually cruel to his
patrons, had, after triumphantly transferring the type to the canvas,
drawn to the surface only so much of the soul of the woman as all that
ran might admire. If there was a hint of bitterness in the lower part of
the face, from the eyes there looked an indomitable courage and much
sweetness. Only in the carnage of the head, the tilt of the chin, was
the insolence expressed that had made her many enemies. Some of the
wildest stories of the past thirty years had been current about her, and
rejected or believed according to the mental habit or personal bias of
those that tinker with reputations. The late Queen, it was well known,
had detested her, and made no secret of her resentment that through the
short-sighted loyalty of one of the first members of her Household, the
dangerous creature had been named after her. But whatever her secrets,
open scandal Lady Victoria had avoided: imperturbably, without even an
additional shade of insolence, never apologizing nor explaining;
wherein, no doubt, lay one secret of her strength. And then her
eminently respectable husband, Arthur Gwynne, second son of the Marquess
of Strathland and Zeal, had always fondly alluded to her as "The
Missus," and lauded her as a repository of all the unfashionable
virtues. To-day, presiding at the tea-table in her son's country-house,
an eager light in her eyes, she looked like neither of her portraits:
more nearly approached, perhaps, poor Arthur Gwynne's ideal of her; not
in the least the frozen stoic of the past three days. When she finally
made an uncontrollable movement that half-overturned the cream-jug,
Flora Thangue's curiosity overcame her, and she murmured, tentatively:

"If I had ever seen you nervous before, Vicky--"

"I am not nervous, but allowances are to be made for maternal anxiety."

"Oh!" Miss Thangue drew a deep breath. She continued, vaguely, "Oh, the
maternal role--"

"Have I ever failed as a mother?" asked Lady Victoria, dispassionately.

"No, but you are so many other things, too. Somehow, when I am away from
you I see you in almost every other capacity."

"Jack is thirty and I am forty-nine."

"_You_ look thirty," replied Flora, with equal candor.

"I am thankful that my age is in Lodge; I can never be tempted to enroll
myself with the millions that were married when just sixteen."

"Oh, you never could make a fool of yourself," murmured her friend.
Then, as Victoria showed signs of relapsing into silence, she plunged in
recklessly; "Jack is bound to be elected. When has he ever failed to get
what he wanted? But you, Vicky dear--is there anything wrong? You had a
bulky letter from California the day I arrived. I do hope that tiresome
property is not giving you trouble. What a pity it is such a long way
off."

"The San Francisco lease runs out shortly. Half of that, and the
southern ranch, are my only independent sources of income. The northern
ranch belongs to Jack. All three are getting less and less easy to let
in their entirety, my agents write me, and I feel half a pauper
already."

"This is not so bad," murmured Flora.

"Strathland would bundle me out in ten minutes if anything happened to
Jack."

"It would be a pity; it suits you." She was not referring to the hall,
which was somewhat too light and small for the heroic mould of its
chatelaine, but to the noble proportions of the old house itself, and
the treasures that had accumulated since the first foundations were laid
in the reign of Henry VI. There were rooms hung with ugly brocades and
velvets never duplicated, state bed-chambers and boudoirs sacred to the
memory of personages whose dust lay half-forgotten in their marbles; but
above all, Capheaton was famous for its pictures. Not only was there an
unusually large number of portraits by masters scattered about the
twenty rooms that lay behind and on either side of the hall, but many
hundreds of those portraits and landscapes from the brushes of artists
fashionable in their day, unknown in the annals of art, but seeming to
emit a faint scent of lavender and rose leaves from the walls of
England's old manor-houses and castles. In the dining-room there was a
full-length portrait of Mary Tudor, black but for the yellow face and
hands and ruff; and another, the scarlet coat and robust complexion
still fresh, of the fourth George, handsome, gay, devil-may-care; both
painted to commemorate visits to Capheaton, historically hospitable in
the past. But Lord Strathland, besides having been presented with six
daughters and an heir as extravagant as tradition demanded, was poor as
peers go, and had more than once succumbed to the titillating delights
of speculation, less cheering in the retrospect. Having a still larger
estate to keep up, he had been glad to lend Capheaton to his second son,
who, being an excellent manager and assisted by his wife's income, had
lived very comfortably upon its yield. Upon his death Elton Gwynne had
assumed possession as a matter of course; and a handsome allowance from
his doting grandfather supplementing his inheritance, the mind of the
haughty and promising young gentleman was free of sordid anxieties.

Lady Victoria's satirical gaze swept the simpering portraits of her
son's great-aunts and grandmothers, with which the hall was
promiscuously hung.

"Of course I am as English as if the strain had never been crossed, if
you mean that. But I'd rather like to get away for a while. I really
ought to visit my California estates, and I have always wanted to see
that part of America. I started for it once, but never even reached the
western boundaries of New York. One of us should spend a year there, at
least; and of course it is out of the question for Jack to leave England
again."

"You would not spend six months out of Curzon Street. You are the most
confirmed Londoner I know."

"Do you think so?"

Miss Thangue replied, impulsively, "I have often wondered if you
numbered satiety among your complexities!"

This was as far as she had ever adventured into the mysterious
backwaters of Victoria's soul, and she dropped her eyelids lest a
deprecating glance meet the contempt it deserved; both with a due regard
for the limit imposed by good taste, despised the faint heart.

"I hate the sight of London!" Her tone had changed so suddenly that
Flora winked. "If it were not for Jack I would leave--get out. I am sick
of the whole game."

"Oh, be on your guard," cried her friend, sharply. "That sort of thing
means the end of youth."

"Youth after fifty depends upon your doctor, your masseuse, and your
dressmaker. I do not say that my present state of mind is sown with
evergreens and immortelles, but the fact remains that for the present I
have come to the end of myself and am interested in no one on earth but
Jack."

Miss Thangue stared into her teacup, recalling the gossip of a year ago,
although she had given it little heed at the time: Victoria had been
transiently interested so often! But all the world knew that when Arthur
Gwynne was killed Sir Cadge Vanneck had been off his head about
Victoria; and that when obvious restrictions vanished into the family
vault he had left abruptly for Rhodesia to develop his mines, and had
not found time to return since. Sir Cadge was about the same age as the
famous beauty, and rose quite two inches above her lofty head. People
had grown accustomed to the fine appearance they made when
together--"Artie" was ruddy and stout--and although Victoria reinforced
her enemies, for Vanneck was one of the most agreeable and accomplished
men in London, the artistic sense of that lenient world was tickled at
their congruities and took their future mating for granted; Arthur
Gwynne was sure to meet his death on the hunting-field, for he was far
too heavy for a horse and rode vilely. When he fulfilled his destiny and
Vanneck fled, the world was as much annoyed as amused. But they were
amused, and Flora Thangue knew that this gall must have bitten deeper
than the loss of Vanneck, who may or may not have made an impression on
this woman too proud and too spoiled to accept homage in public
otherwise than passively, whatever may have been the unwritten tale of
her secret hours. The excuses hazarded by Vanneck's friends were neither
humorous nor sentimental, but no one denied that they were eminently
sensible: his first wife had died childless, his estates were large, his
title was one of the oldest in England. But although no one pitied
Victoria Gwynne, many were annoyed at having their mental attitude
disarranged, and this no doubt had kept the gossip alive and been a
constant source of irritation to a woman whose sense of humor was as
deep as her pride.

Flora replied at random. "Jack couldn't very well get on without you."

His mother's eyes flashed. "I flatter myself he could not--at present.
If Julia Kaye would only marry him!"

"She won't," cried Flora, relieved at the change of tone. "And
why do you wish it? She is two years older, of quite dreadful
origin--and--well--I don't like her; perhaps my opinion is a little
biased."

"She is immensely rich, one of the ablest political women in London, and
Jack is desperately in love with her."

"I cannot picture Jack in extremities about any one, although I don't
deny that he has his sentimental seizures. He even made love to me when
he was cutting his teeth. But he doesn't need a lot of money, you rank
higher than she among the political women, and--well, I believe her to
be bad-tempered, and more selfish than any woman I have ever known."

"He loves her. He wants her. He would dominate any woman he married. He
is such a dear that no woman who lived with him could help loving him.
Moreover, she is inordinately ambitious, and Jack's career is the most
promising in England."

"Jack is far too good for her, and I am glad that he will not get her. I
happen to know that she has made up her mind to marry Lord Brathland."

"Bratty is a donkey."

"She would be the last to deny it, but he is certain to be a duke if he
lives, and she would marry a man that had to be led round with a string
for the sake of being called 'your grace' by the servants. She'll never
be anything but a third-rate duchess, and people that tolerate her now
will snub her the moment she gives herself airs. But I suppose she
thinks a duchess is a duchess."

"Money goes pretty far with us," said Lady Victoria, dryly.

"Doesn't it? Nevertheless--you know it as well as I do--among the people
that really count other things go further, and duchesses have been put
in their place before this--you have done it yourself. Julia Kaye has
kept her head so far because she has been hunting for strawberry leaves,
and there is no denying she's clever; but once she is in the upper
air--well, I have seen her as rude as she dares be, and if she became a
duchess she would cultivate rudeness as part of the role."

"We can be rude enough."

"Yes, and know how to be. A parvenu never does."

"She is astonishingly clever."

"Duchesses are born--even the American ones. Julia Kaye has never
succeeded in being quite natural; she has always the effect of
rehearsing the part of the great lady for amateur theatricals. Poor
Gussy Kaye might have coached her better. The moment she mounts she'll
become wholly artificial, she'll patronize, she'll give herself no end
of ridiculous airs; she won't move without sending a paragraph to the
_Morning Post_. The back of her head will be quite in line with her
charming little bust, and I for one shall walk round and laugh in her
face. She is the only person that could inspire me to such a vicious
speech, but I am human, and as she so ingenuously snubs me as a person
of no consequence, my undazzled eyes see her as she is."

Lady Victoria, instead of responding with the faint, absent, somewhat
irritating smile which she commonly vouchsafed those that sought to
amuse her, lit another cigarette and leaned back among the cushions of
the sofa behind the tea-table. She drew her eyelids together, a rare
sign of perturbation. The only stigma of time on her face was a certain
sharpness of outline and leanness of throat. But the throat was always
covered, and her wardrobe reflected the most fleeting of the fashions,
assuring her position as a contemporary, if driving her dressmaker to
the verge of bankruptcy. When her bright, black, often laughing eyes
were in play she passed with the casual public, and abroad, as a woman
of thirty, but with her lids down the sharpness of the lower part of the
face arrested the lover of detail.

"Are you sure of that?" she asked, in a moment.

"Quite."

"I am sorry. It will be a great blow to Jack. I hoped she would come
round in time."

"She will marry Brathland. I saw Cecilia Spence in town. She was at
Maundrell Abbey with them both last week. You may expect the
announcement any day--she'll write it herself for the _Morning Post_.
How on earth can Jack find time to think about women with the immense
amount of work he gets through?--and his really immodest ambitions!
By-the-way--isn't this polling-day? I wonder if he has won his seat? But
as I said just now I do not associate Jack with defeat. His trifling
set-backs have merely served to throw his manifest destiny into higher
relief."

"The telegram should have come an hour ago. I have few doubts--and yet
he has so many enemies. I wonder if we shall be born into a world, after
we have been sufficiently chastened here, where one can get one's head
above the multitude without rousing some of the most hideous qualities
in human nature? It is a great responsibility! But there has been no
such speaker, nor fighter, for a quarter of a century." Her eyes glowed
again. "And heaven knows I have worked for him."

"What a pity he is not a Tory! He could have a dozen boroughs for the
asking. I wish he were. The whole Liberal party makes me sick. And it is
against every tradition of his family--"

"As if that mattered. Besides, he is a born fighter. He'd hate anything
he could have for the asking. And he's far too modern, too progressive,
for the Conservative party--even if there were anything but blue-mould
left in it."

"Well, you know I am not original, and my poor old dad brought us up on
the soundest Tory principles; he never would even compromise on the word
Conservative. But considering that Jack is as Liberal as if the taint
were in the marrow of his bones, what a blessing that poor Artie did not
happen to be the oldest son. Cecilia says they were all talking of it at
Maundrell Abbey, where of course it is a peculiarly interesting topic.
That ornamental and conscientious peer, Lord Barnstable, has never
ceased to regret his father's death, for reasons far removed from
sentimental. He told Cecilia that Lord Strathland almost confessed to
him that he would give his right eye to hand over his old shoes to Jack,
not only because he detests Zeal, but because it would take the backbone
out of his Liberalism--"

"And ruin _his_ career. Thank heaven Zeal is engaged at last. They will
marry in the spring, and then the only cloud on Jack's horizon will
vanish."

"What if there were no children?"

"There are so much more often than not--that is the least of my worries.
He had five girls by his first wife; there is no reason why this
splendid cow I have picked out should not produce a dozen boys. I never
worked so hard over one of Jack's elections--not only to overcome Zeal's
misogyny, which he calls scruples, but I had to fight Strathland every
inch of the way. When I think of Jack's desperation if he were
pitchforked up into the Peers--you do not know him as I do."

"Well, he is safe for a time, I fancy. There has been consumption in the
family before, and always the slowest sort--"

A footman entered with a yellow envelope on a tray.

Lady Victoria opened it without haste or change of color.

"Jack is returned," she said.

"How jolly," replied the other, with equal indifference.

II

"You look tired--I will take you up to your room. Vicky has so many on
her hands."

The American rose slowly, but with a flash of gratitude in her eyes.

"I am tired, and I don't know a soul here. I almost wish Lady Victoria
had not asked me down, although I have wanted all my life to visit one
of the ancestral homes of England."

"Oh, you'll get over that, and used to us," said Miss Thangue, smiling.
"Your staircase is behind this door, and we can slip out without
attracting attention. They are all gabbling over Jack's election."

She opened a door in a corner of the hall where the newly arrived guests
were gathered about Lady Victoria's tea-table, and led the way up a wide
dark and slippery stair. After the first landing the light was stronger,
and the walls were, to an inch, covered with portraits and landscapes,
the effect almost as careless as if the big open space were a
lumber-room.

"Are they _all_ old masters?" asked Miss Isabel Otis, politely, her eyes
roving over the dark canvases.

"Oh no; the masters are down-stairs. I'll show them to you to-morrow.
These are not bad, though."

"What a lot of ancestors to have!"

"Oh, you'll find them all over the house. These are not Gwynnes. This
house came to Lord Strathland through the female line. It will be Jack's
eventually--one way or another; and Jack must be more like the Eltons
than the Gwynnes--unless, indeed, he is like his American ancestors."
She turned her soft non-committal eyes on the stranger. "You are his
thirty-first cousin, are you not?"

"Not quite so remote. But why do you call him Jack? He is known to fame
as Elton Gwynne."

"His name is John Elton Cecil Gwynne. We are given to the nickname these
days--to the abbreviation in general."

They were walking down a corridor, and Miss Thangue was peering through
her lorgnette at the cards on the doors.

"I know you are on this side. I wrote your name myself. But exactly
where--ah, here it is."

She opened the door of a square room with large roses on the white
wall-paper, and fine old mahogany furniture. The sofa and chairs and
windows were covered with a chintz in harmony with the walls. "It is
cheerful, don't you think so?" asked Miss Thangue, drawing one of the
straight curtains aside. "Vicky had all the rooms done over, and I chose
the designs. She is quite intolerantly modern, and holds that when
wall-paper and chintz can save an old house from looking like a
sarcophagus, why not have them? That bell-cord connects with your maid's
room--"

"I have no maid. I am not well off at all. I wonder Lady Victoria
thought it worth while to ask me down."

"Dear me, how odd! May I sit with you a little while? I never before saw
a poor American girl."

"I'll be only too grateful if you will stay with me as long as you can.
I am not exactly poor. I have a ranch near Rosewater, some property and
an old house in San Francisco. All that makes me comfortable, but no
more; and there are so many terribly rich American girls!"

"There are, indeed!" Miss Thangue sat forward with the frank curiosity
of the Englishwoman when inspecting a foreign specimen. But her
curiosity was kindly, for she was still a girl at heart, interested in
other girls. Miss Otis, looking at her blond, virginal face, took for
granted that she was under thirty, and owed her weight to a fondness for
sweets and sauces.

"How can you travel in Europe if you are not rich?" demanded Flora. "I
never dare venture over except as the guest of some more fortunate
friend."

"Are _you_ poor?" asked Miss Otis, her eye arrested by the smart little
afternoon frock of lace and chiffon and crepe-de-chine.

"Oh, horribly. But then we all are, over here. If it were not for the
Jews and the Americans we'd have to make our own clothes. The
dressmakers never could afford to give us credit."

"They all looked very wealthy down-stairs."

"Smart, rather. This happens to be a set that knows how to dress. Many
don't. You know something of it yourself," she added, with a frank
survey of the girl's well-cut travelling-frock and small hat. "Lots of
Americans don't, if you don't mind my saying so--for all their
reputation. I went to a dinner at an American Legation once and two of
your countrywomen came with their hats on. They had brought letters to
the Minister, and he hadn't taken the precaution of looking them over.
He was terribly mortified, poor thing."

She related the anecdote with philanthropic intention, but Miss Otis put
her half-rejected doubts to flight by remarking, lightly:

"We don't do that even in Rosewater."

"Where _is_ Rosewater? What a jolly name!"

"It is in northern California, not far from Lady Victoria's ranch and
what is left of ours. I have spent most of my life in or near it--my
father was a lawyer."

"Do tell me about yourself!" Like most amiable spinsters, she was as
interested in the suggestive stranger as in a new novel. She sank with a
sigh of comfort into the depths of the chair. "May I smoke? Are you
shocked?"

Then she  apprehensively, fearing that her doubt might be
construed as an insult to Rosewater.

But Miss Otis met it with her first smile. "Oh no," she replied. "Will
you give me one? Mine are in my trunk and they haven't brought it up."
She took a cigarette from the gayly tendered case and smoked for a few
moments in silence.

"I don't know why you should be interested in my history," she said at
last in her slow cold voice, so strikingly devoid of the national
animation. "It has been far too uneventful. I have an adopted sister,
six years older than myself, who married twelve years ago. Her husband
is an artist in San Francisco, rather a genius, so they are always poor.
My mother died when I was little. After my sister married I took care of
my father until I was twenty-one, when he died--four years ago. There
are very good schools in Rosewater, particularly the High School. My
father also taught me languages. He had a very fine library. But I do
not believe this interests you. Doubtless you want to know something of
the life with which Lady Victoria is so remotely connected."

"I am far more interested in you. Tell me whichever you like first. How
_are_ you related, by-the-way?"

"Father used to draw our family tree whenever he had bronchitis in
winter. One of the most famous of the Spanish Californians was Don Jose
Argueello. We are descended from one of his sons, who had a ranch of a
hundred thousand acres in the south. When the Americans came, long
after, they robbed the Californians shamefully, but fortunately the son
of the Argueello that owned the ranch at the time married an American
girl whose father bought up the mortgages. He left the property to his
only grandchild, a girl, who married my great-grandfather, James Otis--a
northern rancher, born in Boston, and descended from old Sam Adams. He
had two children, a boy and a girl, who inherited the northern and
southern ranches in equal shares. The girl came over to England to visit
an aunt who lived here, was presented at court, and straightway married
a lord."

"Then you are second cousin to Vicky and third to Jack. I had no idea
the relationship was so close."

"It has seemed very remote to me ever since I laid eyes on Lady Victoria
down-stairs. Father made me promise, just before he died, that if ever I
visited Europe I would look her up. Somehow I hadn't thought of her
except as Elton Gwynne's mother, so I wrote to her without a qualm. But
I see that she is an individual."

"Rather! How self-contained our great London is, after all! Vicky has
been a beauty for over thirty years--to be sure her fame was at its
height before you were old enough to be interested in such things. But I
should have thought your father--"

"He must have known all about her. It comes back to me that he was very
proud of the connection for more than family reasons, but it made no
impression on me at the time."

"Proud?"

"Yes, he was rather a snob. He was very clever, but he fell out of
things, and being able to dwell on his English and Spanish connections
meant a good deal to him. I can recite the family history backwards."

"But if he was clever, why on earth did he live in Rosewater? Surely he
could have practised in San Francisco?"

"He drank. When a man drinks he doesn't care much where he lives. My
father had fads but no ambition."

"Great heaven!" exclaimed Miss Thangue, aghast at this toneless
frankness. "You must have been glad to be rid of him!"

"I was fond of him, but his death was a great relief. He was a hard
steady secret drinker. I nursed him through several attacks of delirium
tremens, and was always in fear that he would get out and disgrace us.
Sometimes he did, although when I saw the worst coming I generally
managed to get him over to the ranch. Of course it tied me down. I
rarely even visited my sister. My father hated San Francisco. He had
practised there in his youth, promised great things, had plenty of
money. The time came--" She shrugged her shoulders, although without the
slightest change of expression. "I never lived my own life until he
died, but I have lived it ever since."

"And the first thing you did with your liberty was to come to Europe,"
said Miss Thangue, with a sympathetic smile.

"Of course. My father and uncle had got rid of most of their property
long before they died; there isn't an acre left of our share in the
southern estate. But my uncle died six years ago and willed me all that
remained of the northern, as well as some land in the poorer quarter of
San Francisco. I could not touch the principal during the lifetime of my
father, but we lived on the ranch and I managed it and was entitled, by
the terms of the will, to what I could make it yield. When I was finally
mistress of my fortunes I left it in charge of an old servant, sold
enough to pay off the mortgage on a property in San Francisco I
inherited from my mother, and came to Europe with a personally conducted
tour."

Miss Thangue shuddered. The phrase unrolled a vista of commonness and
attrition. Miss Otis continued, calmly: "That is the way I should feel
now. But it was my only chance then; or rather I had seen enough of
business to avoid making mistakes when I could. In that way I learned
the ropes. After we had been rushed about for six weeks and I could not
have told you whether the Pitti Palace was in Italy or France, and the
celebrated frescos were one vast pink smudge, the party returned and I
wandered on by myself. I spent a winter in Paris, and months in
Brittany, Austria, Italy, Spain--Munich." It was here that her even
tones left their register for a second. "I studied the languages, the
literatures, the peoples, music, pictures. In Munich"--this time Flora's
alert ear detected no vibration--"and also in Rome, I saw something of
society. It was a life full of freedom, and I shall never cease to be
grateful for it, but I must go home soon and look after my affairs. I
left England to the last, like the best things of the banquet. I hope
Lady Victoria--I shall never be able to call her Cousin Victoria, as I
remember father did--will be nice to me. I have seen a good deal of
life, but have never had a real _girl's_ time, and I should love it.
Besides, I have a lot of new frocks."

"I am sure Vicky will be nice to you. If she isn't, I'll find some one
that will be. You might marry Jack if you had money enough. We are dying
to get him married--and a California cousin--it would be too romantic.
And you would hold your own anywhere!"

But Miss Otis expanded a fine nostril. "I have no desire to marry. I
feel as if I had had enough of men to last until I am forty--what with
those I have buried, and others I have known at home and in Europe--to
say nothing of the executors of my uncle's will, who did not approve of
my coming abroad alone and delayed the settlement of the estate as long
as possible. And now I have had too much liberty! Besides, I have seen
'Jack's' picture--two years ago, in a magazine. I will confess I had
some romantic notions about him: imagined him very dashing, bold,
handsome; insolent, if you like--the traditional young aristocrat,
glorified by genius. He looks like Uncle Hiram."

"Is that who Jack looks like? We never could make out. No, Jack is not
much to look at, except when he wakes up--I have seen him quite
transfigured on the platform. But he is as insolent as you could wish,
and has a superb confidence in himself that his enemies

Question: Summarize the above passage in exactly 500 words and give a brief outlook on it.


Beltane The Smith by Jeffery Farnol

[System] You are a helpful assistant. You will be given a passage from a book. Read it carefully, then summarize it in exactly 500 words and give a brief outlook on it.

[User]
Context:

CHAPTER I

HOW BELTANE LIVED WITHIN THE GREENWOOD

In a glade of the forest, yet not so far but that one might hear the
chime of bells stealing across the valley from the great minster of
Mortain on a still evening, dwelt Beltane the Smith.

Alone he lived in the shadow of the great trees, happy when the piping
of the birds was in his ears, and joying to listen to the plash and
murmur of the brook that ran merrily beside his hut; or pausing 'twixt
the strokes of his ponderous hammer to catch its never failing music.

A mighty man was Beltane the Smith, despite his youth already great of
stature and comely of feature. Much knew he of woodcraft, of the growth
of herb and tree and flower, of beast and bird, and how to tell each by
its cry or song or flight; he knew the ways of fish in the streams, and
could tell the course of the stars in the heavens; versed was he
likewise in the ancient wisdoms and philosophies, both Latin and Greek,
having learned all these things from him whom men called Ambrose the
Hermit. But of men and cities he knew little, and of women and the
ways of women, less than nothing, for of these matters Ambrose spake
not.

Thus, being grown from youth to manhood, for that a man must needs
live, Beltane builded him a hut beside the brook, and set up an anvil
thereby whereon he beat out bill-hooks and axe-heads and such
implements as the charcoal-burners and they that lived within the green
had need of.

Oft-times, of an evening, he would seek out the hermit Ambrose, and
they would talk together of many things, but seldom of men and cities,
and never of women and the ways of women. Once, therefore, wondering,
Beltane had said:

"My father, amongst all these matters you speak never of women and the
ways of women, though history is full of their doings, and all poets
sing praise of their wondrous beauty, as this Helena of Troy, whom men
called 'Desire of the World.'"

But Ambrose sighed and shook his head, saying:

"Art thou indeed a man, so soon, my Beltane?" and so sat watching him
awhile. Anon he rose and striding to and fro spake sudden and
passionate on this wise: "Beltane, I tell thee the beauty of women is
an evil thing, a lure to wreck the souls of men. By woman came sin
into the world, by her beauty she blinds the eyes of men to truth and
honour, leading them into all manner of wantonness whereby their very
manhood is destroyed. This Helen of Troy, of whom ye speak, was nought
but a vile adulteress, with a heart false and foul, by whose sin many
died and Troy town was utterly destroyed."

"Alas!" sighed Beltane, "that one so fair should be a thing so evil!"

Thereafter he went his way, very sad and thoughtful, and that night,
lying upon his bed, he heard the voices of the trees sighing and
murmuring one to another like souls that sorrowed for sin's sake, and
broken dreams and ideals.

"Alas! that one so fair should be a thing so evil!" But, above the
whispers of the trees, loud and insistent rose the merry chatter of the
brook speaking to him of many things; of life, and the lust of life;
the pomp and stir of cities; the sound of song and laughter; of women
and the beauty of women, and of the sweet, mad wonder of love. Of all
these things the brook sang in the darkness, and Beltane sighed, and
sighing, fell asleep.

Thus lived my Beltane in the woodland, ranging the forest with eye
quick to see the beauty of earth and sky, and ear open to the thousand
voices around him; or, busied at his anvil, hearkening to the wondrous
tales of travel and strange adventure told by wandering knight and
man-at-arms the while, with skilful hand, he mended broken mail or dented
casque; and thereafter, upon the mossy sward, would make trial of their
strength and valour, whereby he both took and gave right lusty knocks;
or again, when work failed, he would lie upon the grass, chin on fist,
poring over some ancient legend, or sit with brush and colours,
illuminating on vellum, wherein right cunning was he. Now it chanced
that as he sat thus, brush in hand, upon a certain fair afternoon, he
suddenly espied one who stood watching him from the shade of a tree,
near by. A very tall man he was, long and lean and grim of aspect, with
a mouth wry-twisted by reason of an ancient sword-cut, and yet, withal,
he had a jovial eye. But now, seeing himself observed, he shook his
grizzled head and sighed. Whereat said Beltane, busied with his brush
again:

"Good sir, pray what's amiss?"

"The world, youth, the world--'tis all amiss. Yet mark me! here sit you
a-dabbing colour with a little brush!"

Answered Beltane: "An so ye seek to do your duty as regardfully as I
now daub this colour, messire, in so much shall the world be bettered."

"My duty, youth," quoth the stranger, rasping a hand across his
grizzled chin, "my duty? Ha, 'tis well said, so needs must I now fight
with thee."

"Fight with me!" says Beltane, his keen gaze upon the speaker.

"Aye, verily!" nodded the stranger, and, forthwith, laying by his long
cloak, he showed two swords whose broad blades glittered, red and evil,
in the sunset.

"But," says Beltane, shaking his head, "I have no quarrel with thee,
good fellow."

"Quarrel?" exclaimed the stranger, "no quarrel, quotha? What matter for
that? Surely you would not forego a good bout for so small a matter?
Doth a man eat only when famishing, or drink but to quench his thirst?
Out upon thee, messire smith!"

"But sir," said Beltane, bending to his brush again, "an I should fight
with thee, where would be the reason?"

"Nowhere, youth, since fighting is ever at odds with reason; yet for
such unreasonable reasons do reasoning men fight."

"None the less, I will not fight thee," answered Beltane, deftly
touching in the wing of an archangel, "so let there be an end on't."

"End forsooth, we have not yet begun! An you must have a quarrel, right
fully will I provoke thee, since fight with thee I must, it being so my
duty--"

"How thy duty?"

"I am so commanded."

"By whom?"

"By one who, being dead, yet liveth. Nay, ask no names, yet mark me
this--the world's amiss, boy. Pentavalon groans beneath a black
usurper's heel, all the sins of hell are loose, murder and riot, lust
and rapine. March you eastward but a day through the forest yonder and
you shall see the trees bear strange fruit in our country. The world's
amiss, messire, yet here sit you wasting your days, a foolish brush
stuck in thy fist. So am I come, nor will I go hence until I have tried
thy mettle."

Quoth Beltane, shaking his head, intent upon his work:

"You speak me riddles, sir."

"Yet can I speak thee to the point and so it be thy wish, as thus--now
mark me, boy! Thou art a fool, a dog, a fatuous ass, a slave, a
nincompoop, a cowardly boy, and as such--mark me again!--now do I spit
at thee!"

Hereupon Beltane, having finished the archangel's wing, laid by his
brush and, with thoughtful mien, arose, and being upon his feet, turned
him, swift and sudden, and caught the stranger in a fierce and cunning
wrestling grip, and forthwith threw him upon his back. Whereat this
strange man, sitting cross-legged upon the sward, smiled his wry and
twisted smile and looked upon Beltane with bright, approving eye.

"A pretty spirit!" he nodded. "'Tis a sweet and gentle youth all good
beef and bone; a little green as yet, perchance, but 'tis no matter. A
mighty arm, a noble thigh, and shoulders--body o' me! But 'tis in the
breed. Young sir, by these same signs and portents my soul is uplifted
and hope singeth a new song within me!" So saying, the stranger sprang
nimbly to his feet and catching up one of the swords took it by the
blade and gave its massy hilt to Beltane's hand. Said he:

"Look well upon this blade, young sir; in duchy, kingdom or county you
shall not find its match, nor the like of the terrible hand that bore
it. Time was when this good steel--mark how it glitters yet!--struck
deep for liberty and justice and all fair things, before whose might
oppression quailed and hung its head, and in whose shadow peace and
mercy rested. 'Twas long ago, but this good steel is bright and
undimmed as ever. Ha! mark it, boy--those eyes o' thine shall ne'er
behold its equal!"

So Beltane took hold upon the great sword, felt the spring and balance
of the blade and viewed it up from glittering point to plain and simple
cross-guard. And thus, graven deep within the broad steel he read this
word:

RESURGAM.

"Ha!" cried the stranger, "see you the legend, good youth? Speak me now
what it doth signify."

And Beltane answered:

"'I shall arise!'"

"'Arise' good boy, aye, verily, mark me that. 'Tis a fair thought, look
you, and the motto of a great and noble house, and, by the Rood, I
think, likewise a prophecy!" Thus speaking the stranger stooped, and
taking up the other sword faced Beltane therewith, saying in soft and
wheedling tones: "Come now, let us fight together thou and I, and deny
me not, lest,--mark me this well, youth,--lest I spit at thee again."

Then he raised his sword, and smote Beltane with the flat of it, and
the blow stung, wherefore Beltane instinctively swung his weapon and
thrilled with sudden unknown joy at the clash of steel on steel; and
so they engaged.

And there, within the leafy solitude, Beltane and the stranger fought
together. The long blades whirled and flashed and rang upon the
stillness; and ever, as they fought, the stranger smiled his wry smile,
mocking and gibing at him, whereat Beltane's mouth grew the grimmer and
his blows the heavier, yet wherever he struck, there already was the
stranger's blade to meet him, whereat the stranger laughed fierce and
loud, taunting him on this wise:

"How now, thou dauber of colours, betake thee to thy little brush,
belike it shall serve thee better! Aye me, betake thee to thy little
brush, 'twere better fitted to thee than a noble sword, thou daubing
boy!"

Now did my Beltane wax wroth indeed and smote amain until his breath
grew short and thick, but ever steel rang on steel, and ever the
stranger laughed and gibed until Beltane's strokes grew slower:--then,
with a sudden fierce shout, did the stranger beset my Beltane with
strokes so swift and strong, now to right of him, now to left, that the
very air seemed full of flaming, whirling steel, and, in that moment,
as Beltane gave back, the stranger smote thrice in as many moments with
the flat of his blade, once upon the crown, once upon the shoulder, and
once upon the thigh. Fierce eyed and scant of breath, Beltane
redoubled his blows, striving to beat his mocker to the earth, whereat
he but laughed again, saying:

"Look to thy long legs, dullard!" and forthwith smote Beltane upon the
leg. "Now thine arm, slothful boy--thy left arm!" and he smote Beltane
upon the arm. "Now thy sconce, boy, thy mazzard, thy sleepy, golden
head!" and straightway he smote him on the head, and, thereafter, with
sudden, cunning stroke, beat the great sword from Beltane's grip, and
so, laughing yet, paused and stood leaning upon his own long weapon.

But Beltane stood with bent head, hurt in his pride, angry and beyond
all thought amazed; yet, being humbled most of all he kept his gaze
bent earthwards and spake no word.

Now hereupon the stranger grew solemn likewise and looked at Beltane
with kindly, approving eyes.

"Nay, indeed," quoth he, "be not abashed, good youth; take it not amiss
that I have worsted thee. 'Tis true, had I been so minded I might have
cut thee into gobbets no larger than thy little brush, but then, body
o' me! I have lived by stroke of sword from my youth up and have fought
in divers wars and countries, so take it not to heart, good youth!"
With the word he nodded and, stooping, took up the sword, and,
thereafter, cast his cloak about him, whereat Beltane lifted his head
and spake:

"Art going, sir? Wilt not try me once again? Methinks I might do a
little better this time, an so God wills."

"Aye, so thou shalt, sweet youth," cried the stranger, clapping him
upon the shoulder, "yet not now, for I must begone, yet shall I
return."

"Then I pray you leave with me the sword till you be come again."

"The sword--ha! doth thy soul cleave unto it so soon, my good, sweet
boy? Leave the sword, quotha? Aye, truly--some day. But for the nonce--
no, no, thy hand is not fitted to bear it yet, nor worthy such a blade,
but some day, belike--who knows? Fare thee well, sweet youth, I come
again to-morrow."

And so the tall, grim stranger turned him about, smiling his wry smile,
and strode away through the green. Then Beltane went back, minded to
finish his painting, but the colours had lost their charm for him,
moreover, the light was failing. Wherefore he put brushes and colours
aside, and, stripping, plunged into the cool, sweet waters of a certain
quiet pool, and so, much heartened and refreshed thereby, went betimes
to bed. But now he thought no more of women and the ways of women, but
rather of this stranger man, of his wry smile and of his wondrous
sword-play; and bethinking him of the great sword, he yearned after
it, as only youth may yearn, and so, sighing, fell asleep. And in his
dreams all night was the rushing thunder of many fierce feet and the
roaring din of bitter fight and conflict.

       *       *       *       *       *

Up to an elbow sprang Beltane to find the sun new risen, filling his
humble chamber with its golden glory, and, in this radiance, upon the
open threshold, the tall, grim figure of the stranger.

"Messire," quoth Beltane, rubbing sleepy eyes, "you wake betimes,
meseemeth."

"Aye, sluggard boy; there is work to do betwixt us." "How so, sir?"

"My time in the greenwood groweth short; within the week I must away,
for there are wars and rumours of wars upon the borders."

Quoth Beltane, wondering:

"War and conflict have been within my dreams all night!"

"Dreams, boy! I tell thee the time groweth ripe for action--and, mark
me this! wherein, perchance, thou too shalt share, yet much have I to
teach thee first, so rise, slug-a-bed, rise!"

Now when Beltane was risen and clad he folded his arms across his broad
chest and stared upon the stranger with grave, deep-searching eyes.

"Who art thou?" he questioned, "and what would you here again?"

"As to thy first question, sir smith, 'tis no matter for that, but as
for thy second, to-day am I come to teach thee the use and manage of
horse and lance, it being so my duty."

"And wherefore thy duty?"

"For that I am so commanded."

"By whom?"

"By one who yet liveth, being dead."

Now Beltane frowned at this, and shook his head, saying:

"More riddles, messire? Yet now will I speak thee plain, as thus: I am
a smith, and have no lust to strife or knightly deeds, nor will I e'er
attempt them, for strife begetteth bitter strife and war is an evil
thing. 'They that trust to the sword shall perish by the sword,' 'tis
so written, and is, meseemeth, a faithful saying. This sorry world hath
known over much of war and hate, of strife and bloodshed, so shall
these my hands go innocent of more."

Then indeed did the stranger stare with jaws agape for wonder at my
Beltane's saying, and, so staring, turned him to the door and back
again, and fain would speak, yet could not for a while. Then:

"Besotted boy!" he cried. "O craven youth! O babe! O suckling! Was it
for this thou wert begot? Hast thou no bowels, no blood, no manhood?
Forsooth, and must I spit on thee indeed?"

"And so it be thy will, messire," said Beltane, steady-eyed.

But as they stood thus, Beltane with arms yet crossed, his lips
up-curving at the other's fierce amaze, the stranger grim-faced and
frowning, came a shadow athwart the level glory of the sun, and,
turning, Beltane beheld the hermit Ambrose, tall and spare beneath his
tattered gown, bareheaded and bare of foot, whose eyes were bright and
quick, despite the snow of hair and beard, and in whose gentle face and
humble mien was yet a high and noble look at odds with his lowly guise
and tattered vesture; at sight of whom the grim-faced stranger, of a
sudden, bowed his grizzled head and sank upon his knee.

"Lord!" he said, and kissed the hermit's long, coarse robe. Whereon the
hermit bent and touched him with a gentle hand.

"_Benedicite_, my son!" said he. "Go you, and leave us together a
while."

Forthwith the stranger rose from his knee and went out into the glory
of the morning. Then the hermit came to Beltane and set his two hands
upon his mighty shoulders and spake to him very gently, on this wise:

"Thou knowest, my Beltane, how all thy days I have taught thee to love
all fair, and sweet, and noble things, for they are of God. 'Twere a
fair thought, now, to live out thy life here, within these calm, leafy
solitudes--but better death by the sword for some high, unselfish
purpose, than to live out a life of ease, safe and cloistered all thy
days. To live for thine own ends--'tis human; to die for some great
cause, for liberty, or for another's good--that, my son, were God-like.
And there was a Man of Sorrows Whose word was this, that He came
'not to bring peace on this earth, but a sword.' For good cannot
outface evil but strife must needs follow. Behold now here another
sword, my Beltane; keep it henceforth so long as thou keep honour." So
saying, Ambrose the Hermit took from beneath his habit that for which
Beltane had yearned, that same great blade whereon whose steel was
graven the legend:

RESURGAM.

So Ambrose put the sword in Beltane's hand, saying:

"Be terrible, my son, that evil may flee before thee, learn to be
strong that thou may'st be merciful." Then the hermit stretched forth
his hands and blessed my Beltane, and turned about, and so was gone.

But Beltane stood awhile to swing the great blade lightly to and fro
and to stare upon it with shining eyes. Then, having hid it within his
bed, he went forth into the glade. And here he presently beheld a great
grey horse tethered to a tree hard by, a mettled steed that tossed its
noble head and snuffed the fragrant air of morning, pawing at the earth
with impatient hoof. Now, as he stood gazing, came the stranger and
touched him on the arm.

"Messire," said he, "try an thou canst back the steed yonder."

Beltane smiled, for he had loved horses all his days, and loosing the
horse, led it out into the open and would have mounted, but the
spirited beast, knowing him not, reared and plunged and strove to break
the grip upon the bridle, but the grip was strong and compelling; then
Beltane soothed him with gentle voice and hand, and, of a sudden,
vaulted lightly into the saddle, and being there, felt the great beast
rear under him, and, laughing joyously, struck him with open palm and
set off at a thunderous gallop. Away, away they sped up the sunny
glade, past oak and beech and elm, through light and shadow, until
before them showed a tree of vast girth and mighty spread of branches.
Now would Beltane have reined aside, but the great horse, ears flat and
eyes rolling, held blindly on. Then Beltane frowned and leaning
forward, seized the bridle close beside the bit, and gripping it so,
put forth his strength. Slowly, slowly the great, fierce head was drawn
low and lower, the foam-flecked jaws gaped wide, but Beltane's grip
grew ever the fiercer until, snorting, panting, wild-eyed, the great
grey horse faltered in his stride, checked his pace, slipped, stumbled,
and so stood quivering in the shade of the tree. Thereafter Beltane
turned him and, galloping back, drew rein where the stranger sat,
cross-legged, watching him with his wry smile.

"Aye," he nodded, "we shall make of thee a horseman yet. But as to
lance now, and armour--"

Quoth Beltane, smiling:

"Good sir, I am a smith, and in my time have mended many a suit of
mail, aye, and made them too, though 'twas but to try my hand. As for a
lance, I have oft tilted at the ring astride a forest pony, and
betimes, have run a course with wandering men-at-arms."

"Say you so, boy?" said the stranger, and rising, took from behind a
tree a long and heavy lance and thrust it into Beltane's grip; then,
drawing his sword, he set it upright in the sward, and upon the hilt he
put his cap, saying:

"Ride back up the glade, and try an thou canst pick up my cap on thy
point, at a gallop." So Beltane rode up the glade and wheeling at a
distance, came galloping down with levelled lance, and thundered by
with the cap fluttering from his lance point.

"Art less of a dullard than I thought thee," said the stranger, taking
back his cap, "though, mark me boy, 'tis another matter to ride against
a man fully armed and equipped, lance to lance and shield to shield,
than to charge a harmless, ancient leathern cap. Still, art less of a
dullard than I thought thee. But there is the sword, now--with the
sword thou art indeed but a sorry fool! Go fetch the sword and I will
e'en belabor thee again."

So Beltane, lighting down from the horse that reared and plunged no
more, went and fetched the great sword; and when they had laid their
jerkins by (for the sun was hot) they faced each other, foot to foot
and eye to eye. Then once again the long blades whirled and flew and
rang together, and once again the stranger laughed and gibed and struck
my Beltane how and where he would, nor gave him stay or respite till
Beltane's mighty arm grew aweary and his shoulder ached and burned;
then, when he recked not of it, the stranger, with the same cunning
stroke, beat the sword from Beltane's hand, and laughed aloud and
wagged his head, saying:

"Art faint, boy, and scant o' breath already? Methinks we ne'er shall
make of thee a lusty sworder!" But beholding Beltane's flushing cheek
and drooping eye, reached out and clapped him on the shoulder.

"Go to!" cried he, "art young and all unlearned as yet--heed not my
gibes and quirks, 'tis ever so my custom when steel is ringing, and
mark me, I do think it a good custom, as apt to put a man off his ward
and flurry him in his stroke. Never despair, youth, for I tell thee,
north and south, and east and west my name is known, nor shall you find
in any duchy, kingdom or county, a sworder such as I. For, mark me now!
your knight and man-at-arms, trusting to his armour, doth use his sword
but to thrust and smite. But--and mark me again, boy! a man cannot go
ever in his armour, nor yet be sure when foes are nigh, and, at all
times, 'tis well to make thy weapon both sword and shield; 'tis a
goodly art, indeed I think a pretty one. Come now, take up thy sword
and I will teach thee all my strokes and show thee how 'tis done."

Thus then, this stranger dwelt the week with Beltane in the greenwood,
teaching him, day by day, tricks of sword and much martial lore beside.
And, day by day, a friendship waxed and grew betwixt them so that upon
the seventh morning, as they broke their fast together, Beltane's heart
was heavy and his look downcast; whereat the stranger spake him thus:

"Whence thy dole, good youth?"

"For that to-day needs must I part with thee."

"And thy friends are few, belike?"

"None, messire," answered Beltane, sighing.

"Aye me! And yet 'tis well enough, for--mark me, youth!--friends be
ofttimes a mixed blessing. As for me, 'tis true I am thy friend and so
shall ever be, so long as you shall bear yon goodly blade."

"And wherefore?" questioned Beltane.

"Moreover thou art my scholar, and like, perchance, to prove thyself,
some day, a notable sworder and a sweet and doughty fighter, belike."

"Yet hast never spoken me thy name, messire."

"Why, hast questioned me but once, and then thou wert something of a
blockhead dreamer, methought. But now, messire Beltane, since thou
would'st know--Benedict of Bourne am I called."

Now hereupon Beltane rose and stood upon his feet, staring wide-eyed at
this grim-faced stranger who, with milk-bowl at lip, paused to smile
his wry smile. "Aha!" said he, "hast heard such a name ere now, even
here in the greenwood?"

"Sir," answered Beltane, "betimes I have talked with soldiers and
men-at-arms, so do I know thee for that same great knight who, of all the
nobles of Pentavalon, doth yet withstand the great Duke Ivo--"

"Call you that black usurper 'great,' youth? Body o' me! I knew a
greater, once, methinks!"

"Aye," nodded Beltane, "there was him men called 'Beltane the Strong.'"

"Ha!" quoth Sir Benedict, setting down his milk-bowl, "what know you
of Duke Beltane?"

"Nought but that he was a great and lusty fighter who yet loved peace
and mercy, but truth and justice most of all."

"And to-day," sighed Sir Benedict, "to-day we have Black Ivo! Aye me!
these be sorry days for Pentavalon. 'Tis said he woos the young Duchess
yonder. Hast ever seen Helen of Mortain, sir smith?"

"Nay, but I've heard tell that she is wondrous fair."

"Hum!" quoth Sir Benedict, "I love not your red-haired spit-fires.
Methinks, an Ivo win her, she'll lead him how she will, or be broke in
the adventure--a malison upon him, be it how it may!"

So, having presently made an end of eating, Sir Benedict arose and
forthwith donned quilted gambeson, and thereafter his hauberk of bright
mail and plain surcoat, and buckling his sword about him, strode into
the glade where stood the great grey horse. Now, being mounted, Sir
Benedict stayed awhile to look down at Beltane, whiles Beltane looked
up at him.

"Messire Beltane," said he, pointing to his scarred cheek, "you look
upon my scar, I think?"

Quoth Beltane, flushing hot:

"Nay, sir; in truth, not I."

"Why look now, sweet youth, 'tis a scar that likes me well, though
'twas in no battle I took it, yet none the less, I would not be without
it. By this I may be known among a thousand. 'Benedict o' the Mark,'
some call me, and 'tis, methinks, as fair a name as any. But look now,
and mark me this well, Beltane,--should any come to thee within the
green, by day or night, and say to thee, 'Benedict o' the Mark bids
thee arise and follow,'--then follow, messire, and so, peradventure,
thou shalt arise indeed. Dost mark me well, youth?"

"Aye, Sir Benedict."

"Heigho!" sighed Sir Benedict, "thou'rt a fair sized babe to bear
within a cloak, and thou hast been baptized in blood ere now--and there
be more riddles for thee, boy, and so, until we meet, fare thee well,
messire Beltane!"

So saying, Sir Benedict of Bourne smiled his twisted smile and,
wheeling his horse, rode away down the glade, his mail glistening in
the early light and his lance point winking and twinkling amid the
green.

CHAPTER II

HOW BELTANE HAD WORD WITH THE DUKE, BLACK IVO

Now it fell out upon a day, that as Beltane strode the forest ways,
there met him a fine cavalcade, gay with the stir of broidered
petticoat and ermined mantle; and, pausing beneath a tree, he stood to
hearken to the soft, sweet voices of the ladies and to gaze enraptured
upon their varied beauty. Foremost of all rode a man richly habited, a
man of great strength and breadth of shoulder, and of a bearing high
and arrogant. His face, framed in long black hair that curled to meet
his shoulder, was of a dark and swarthy hue, fierce looking and
masterful by reason of prominent chin and high-arched nose, and of his
thin-lipped, relentless mouth. Black were his eyes and bold; now
staring bright and wide, now glittering 'twixt heavy, narrowed lids;
yet when he smiled they glittered brightest, and his lips showed
moistly red. Beside him rode a lady of a wondrous dark beauty, sleepy
eyed and languid; yet her glance was quick to meet the Duke's bold
look, and, 'neath her mantle, her fingers met, once in a while, and
clung with his, what time his red lips would smile; but, for the most
part, his brow was gloomy and he fingered his chin as one in thought.

As he paced along upon his richly caparisoned steed, pinching at his
long, blue-shaven chin with supple fingers, his heavy brows drawn low,
of a sudden his narrowed lids widened and his eyes gleamed bright and
black as they beheld my Beltane standing in the shade of the tree.

"Aha!" said he, drawing rein, "what insolent, long-legged rogue art
thou, to stand gaping at thy betters?"

And Beltane answered:

"No rogue, messire, but an honest man, I pray God, whom folk call
Beltane the Smith."

The staring eyes grew suddenly narrow, the scarlet mouth curled in a
slow smile, and the tall man spake, yet with his gaze bent ever upon
Beltane:

"Fair lords," he said, "and you, most sweet and gentle ladies, our
sport hath been but poor, hitherto--methinks I can show you a better,
'tis a game we play full oft in my country. Would that our gracious
lady of Mortain were here, nor had balked us of her wilful company. Ho!
Gefroi!" he called, "come you and break me the back of this 'honest'
rogue." And straightway came one from the rear, where rode the servants
and men-at-arms, a great, bronzed fellow, bearded to the eyes of him,
loosing his sword-belt as he came; who, having tossed aside cap and
pourpoint, strode toward Beltane, his eyes quick and bright, his teeth
agleam through the hair of his beard.

"Come, thou forest rogue," said he, "my lord Duke loveth not to wait
for man or maid, so--have at thee!"

Great he looked and tall as Beltane's self, a hairy man of mighty girth
with muscles that swelled on arm and breast and rippled upon his back.
Thus, as he stood and laughed, grimly confident and determined, not a
few were they who sighed for Beltane for his youth's sake, and because
of his golden curls and gentle eyes, for this Gefroi was accounted a
very strong man, and a matchless wrestler withal.

"'Tis a fair match, how think you, Sir Jocelyn?" said the Duke, and
turned him to one who rode at his elbow; a youthful, slender figure
with long curled hair and sleepy eyes, "a fair match, Sir Jocelyn?"

"In very sooth, sweet my lord, gramercy and by your gracious leave--not
so," sighed Sir Jocelyn. "This Gefroi o' thine is a rare breaker of
necks and hath o'er-thrown all the wrestlers in the three duchies; a
man is he, set in his strength and experienced, but this forester, tall
though he be, is but a beardless youth."

The Duke smiled his slow smile, his curving nostrils quivered and were
still, and he glanced toward Sir Jocelyn through veiling lids. Quoth
he:

"Art, rather, for a game of ball, messire, or a song upon a lute?" So
saying he turned and signed to Gefroi with his finger; as for Sir
Jocelyn, he only curled a lock of his long hair, and hummed beneath his
breath.

Now Beltane, misliking the matter, would fain have gone upon his way,
but wheresoever he turned, there Gefroi was also, barring his path,
wherefore Beltane's eye kindled and he raised his staff threateningly.

"Fellow," quoth he, "stand from my way, lest I mischief thee."

But Gefroi only laughed and looked to his lord, who, beckoning an
archer, bid him lay an arrow to his string.

"Shoot me the cowardly rogue so soon as he turn his back," said he,
whereat Gefroi laughed again, wagging his head.

"Come, forest knave," quoth he, "I know a trick to snap thy neck so
sweetly shalt never know, I warrant thee. Come, 'twill take but a
moment, and my lord begins to lack of patience."

So Beltane laid by his staff, and tightening his girdle, faced the
hairy Gefroi; and there befell that, the which, though you shall find
no mention of it in

Question: Summarize the above passage in exactly 500 words and give a brief outlook on it.