CHAPTER II
MERIWETHER AND THEODOSIA
Soft is the sun in the summer season at Washington, softer at timesthan any old Dan Chaucer ever knew; but again so ardent that anyonewho would ride abroad would best do so in the early morning. This istrue today, and it was true when the capital city lay in the heart ofa sweeping forest at the edge of a yet unconquered morass.
The young man who now rode into this forest, leaving behind him theopen streets of the straggling city--then but beginning to lightenunder the rays of the morning sun--was one who evidently knew hisWashington. He knew his own mind as well, for he rode steadily, as ifwith some definite purpose, to some definite point, looking betweenhis horse's ears.
Sitting as erect and as easily as any cavalier of the world's best, hewas tall in his saddle seat, his legs were long and straight. Hisboots were neatly varnished, his coat well cut, his gloves of goodpattern for that time. His hat swept over a mass of dark hair, whichfell deep in its loose cue upon his neck. His cravat was immaculateand well tied. He was a good figure of a man, a fine example of theyoung manhood of America as he rode, his light, firm hand halfunconsciously curbing the antics of the splendid animal beneath him--ahorse deep bay in color, high-mettled, a mount fit for a monarch--orfor a young gentleman of Virginia a little more than one hundred yearsago.
If it was not the horse of a monarch the young man bestrode, none theless it was the horse of one who insisted that his stables should beas good as those of any king--none less, if you please, than Mr.Thomas Jefferson, then President of the United States of America.
This particular animal was none other than Arcturus, Mr. Jefferson'sfavorite saddler. It was the duty as well as the delight of Mr.Jefferson's private secretary to give Arcturus and his stable-mate,Wildair, their exercise on alternate days. On this summer morningArcturus was enjoying his turn beneath his rider--who forsooth wasmore often in the saddle than Mr. Jefferson himself.
Horse and rider made a picture in perfect keeping as they fared ontoward the little-used forest road which led out Rock Creek way.Yonder, a few miles distant, was a stone mill owned by an old German,who sometimes would offer a cup of coffee to an early horseman.Perhaps this rider knew the way from earlier wanderings thither onother summer mornings.
Arcturus curveted along and tossed his head, mincing daintily, andmaking all manner of pretense at being dangerous, with sudden gusts ofspeed and shakings of his head and blowing out of his nostrils--thoughall the time the noble bay was as gentle as a dog. Whether or not hereally were dangerous would have made small difference to the youngman who bestrode him, for his seat was that of the born horseman.
They advanced comfortably enough, the rider seemingly less alive tothe joys of the morning than was the animal beneath him. The youngman's face was grave, his mouth unsmiling--a mouth of half Indianlines, broken in its down-sweeping curve merely by the point of a bowwhich spoke of gentleness as well as strength. His head was that ofthe new man, the American, the new man of a new world, young andstrong, a continent that had lain fallow from the birth of time.
What burdened the mind of a man like this, of years which should haveleft him yet in full attunement with the morning of life and with thedawn of a country? Why should he pay so little heed to the playfuladvances of Arcturus, inviting him for a run along the shady road?
Arcturus could not tell. He could but prance insinuatingly, his earsforward, his head tossed, his eye now and again turned about,inquiring.
But though the young man, moody and abstracted, still looked on ahead,some of his senses seemed yet on guard. His head turned at theslightest sound of the forest life that came to him. If a twigcracked, he heard it. If a green nut cut by some early squirrelclattered softly on the leaves, that was not lost to him.
A bevy of partridges, feeding at dawn along the edge of the forestpath, whirled up in his horse's face; and though he held the startledanimal close, he followed the flight of the birds with the trained eyeof the fowler, and marked well where they pitched again. He did thesethings unconsciously as one well used to the woods, even though hiseye turned again straight down the road and the look of intentness, ofsadness, almost of melancholy, once more settled upon his features.
He advanced into the wood until all sight of the city was quite cutoff from him, until the light grew yet dimmer along the forest road,in places almost half covered with a leafy canopy, until at length hecame to the valley of the little stream. He followed the trail as itrambled along the bank toward the mill, through scenes apparentlyfamiliar to him.
Abstracted as he was he must have been alert, alive, for now,suddenly, he broke his moody reverie at some sound which he heard onahead. He reined in for just an instant, then loosed the bridle andleaned forward. The horse under him sprang forward in giant strides.
It was the sound of a voice that the young cavalier had heard--thevoice of a woman--apparently a woman in some distress. What cavalierat any time of the world has not instinctively leaped forward at suchsound? In less than half a moment the rider was around the turn of theleafy trail.
She was there, the woman who had cried out, herself mounted, and nowupon the point of trying conclusions with her mount. Whetherdissatisfaction with the latter or some fear of her own had causedher to cry out might have been less certain, had it not been sure thather eye was at the moment fastened, not upon the fractious steed, butupon the cause of his unwonted misbehavior.
The keen eye of the young man looked with hers, and found thereason for the sudden scene. A serpent, some feet in length--oneof the mottled, harmless species sometimes locally called theblow-snake--obviously had come out into the morning sun to warmhimself, and his yellow body, lying loose and uncoiled, had beeninvisible to horse and rider until they were almost upon it. Then,naturally, the serpent had moved his head, and both horse and riderhad seen him, to the dismay of both.
This the young man saw and understood in a second, even as he spurredforward alongside the plunging animal. His firm hand on the bridlebrought both horses back to their haunches. An instant later both hadcontrol of their mounts again, and had set them down to their paces inworkmanlike fashion.
There was color in the young woman's face, but it was the color ofcourage, of resolution. There was breeding in every line of her. Classand lineage marked her as she sat easily, her supple young bodyaccommodating itself handsomely to the restrained restiveness of thesteed beneath her. She rode with perfect confidence, as an experiencedhorsewoman, and was well turned out in a close habit, neither old nornew.
Her dark hair--cut rather squarely across her forehead after anindividual fashion of her own--was surmounted by a slashed hat,decorated with a wide-flung plume of smoky color, caught with a jewelat the side. Both jewel and plume had come, no doubt, in some shipfrom across seas. Her hands were small, and gloved as well as might beat that day of the world. There was small ornament about her; nor didthis young woman need ornament beyond the color of her cheek and hairand eye, and perhaps the touch of a bold ribbon at her throat, whichheld a white collar closer to a neck almost as white.
An aristocrat, you must have called her, had you seen her in anychance company. And had you been a young man such as this, and had youmet her alone, in some sort of agitation, and had consent been givenyou--or had you taken consent--surely you would have been loath topart company with one so fair, and would have ridden on with her as hedid now.
But at first they did not speak. A quick, startled look came into theface of the young woman. A deeper shade glowed upon the cheek of thecavalier, reddening under the skin--a flush which shamed him, butwhich he could not master. He only kept his eyes straight between hishorse's ears as he rode--after he had raised his hat and bowed at theclose of the episode.
"I am to thank Captain Lewis once more," began the young woman, in avoice vibrant and clear--the sweetest, kindest voice in the world. "Itis good fortune that you rode abroad so early this morning. You alwayscome at need!"
He turned upon her, mute for a time, yet
looking full into her face.It was sadness, not boldness, not any gay challenge, that marked hisown.
"Can you then call it good fortune?" His own voice was low,suppressed.
"Why not, then?"
"You did not need me. A moment, and you would have been in commandagain--there was no real need of me. Ah, you never need me!"
"Yet you come. You were here, had the need been worse. And, indeed, Iwas quite off my guard--I must have been thinking of something else."
"And I also."
"And there was the serpent."
"Madam, there was the serpent! And why not? Is this not Eden? I swearit is paradise enough for me. Tell me, why is it that in the glimpsesthe sages give us of paradise they no more than lift the curtain--andlet it fall again?"
"Captain Meriwether Lewis is singularly gloomy this morning!"
"Not more than I have been always. How brief was my little hour! Yetfor that time I knew paradise--as I do now. We should part here,madam, now, forever. Yon serpent spelled danger for both of us."
"For both of us?"
"No, forgive me! None the less, I could not help my thoughts--cannothelp them now. I ride here every morning. I saw your horse'shoof-marks some two miles back. Do you suppose I did not know whosethey were?"
"And you followed me? Ah!"
"I suppose I did, and yet I did not. If I did I knew I was riding tomy fate."
She would have spoken--her lips half parted--but what she might havesaid none heard.
He went on:
"I have ridden here since first I saw you turn this way one morning. Iguessed this might be your haunt at dawn. I have ridden hereoften--and feared each time that I might meet you. Perhaps I came thismorning in the same way, not knowing that you were near, but hopingthat you might be. You see, madam, I speak the absolute truth withyou."
"You have never spoken aught else to any human soul. That I know."
"And yet you try to evade the truth? Why deceive your heart about it,since I have not deceived my own? I have faced it out in my own heart,and I have, I trust, come off the victor. At some cost!"
Her face was troubled. She looked aside as she replied in a voice low,but firm:
"Any woman would be glad to hear such words from Captain Lewis, and Iam glad. But--the honest wife never lived who could listen to themoften."
"I know that," he said simply.
"No!" Her voice was very low now; her eyes soft and cast down as theyfell upon a ring under her glove. "We must not meet, CaptainMeriwether Lewis. At least, we must not meet thus alone in the woods.It might cause talk. The administration has enemies enough, as youknow--and never was a woman who did not have enemies, no matter howclean her life has been."
"Clean as the snow, yours! I have never asked you to be aught else,and never will. I sought you once, when I rode from Virginia to NewYork--when I first had my captain's pay, before Mr. Jefferson asked meto join his family. Before that time I had too little to offer you;but then, with my hopes and my ambitions, I ventured. I made thatjourney to offer you my hand. I was two weeks late--you were alreadywedded to Mr. Alston. Then I learned that happiness never could bemine.... Yes, we must part! You are the only thing in life I fear. AndI fear as well for you. One wagging tongue in this hotbed ofgossip--and there is harm for you, whom all good men should wish toshield."
As he rode, speaking thus, his were the features of a man oftremendous emotions, a resolute man, a man of strength, of passionsnot easily put down.
She turned aside her own face for an instant. At last her little handwent to him in a simple gesture of farewell. Meriwether Lewis leanedand kissed it reverently as he rode.
"Good-by!" said he. "Now we may go on for the brief space that remainsfor us," he added a moment later. "No one is likely to ride this waythis morning. Let us go on to the old mill. May I give you a cup ofcoffee there?"
"I trust Captain Meriwether Lewis," she replied.
They advanced silently, and presently came in sight of a littlecascade above a rocky shallowing of the stream. Below this, afterthey had splashed through the ford, they saw the gray stone walls ofRock Creek Mill.
The miller was a plain man, and silent. Other folk, younger or older,married or single, had come hither of a morning, and he spoke the nameof none. He welcomed these two after his fashion. Under the shade of agreat tree, which flung an arm out to the rivulet, he pulled out alittle table spread in white and departed to tell his wife of thecompany. She, busy and smiling, came out presently with her best inold china and linen and wherewith to go with both.
They sat now, face to face across the little table, their horsescropping the dewy grass near by. Lewis's riding crop and gloves lay onhis knee. He cast his hat upon the grass. Little birds hopped about onthe ground and flitted here and there in the trees, twittering. Amocker, trilling in sudden ecstacy of life, spread a larger melodythrough all the wood.
The sun drew gently up in the heavens, screened by the waving trees.The ripple of the stream was very sweet.
"Theodosia, look!" said the young man, suddenly swinging a gestureabout him. "Did I not say right? It is Eden! Ah, what a pity it isthat Eden must ever be the same--a serpent--repentance--and farewell!Yet it was so beautiful."
"A sinless Eden, sir."
"No! I will not lie--I will not say that I do not love you more thanever. That is my sin; so I must go away. This must be our lastmeeting--I am fortunate that it came by chance today."
"Going away--where, then, my friend?"
"Into the West. It always has called me. Ah, if only I had remained inthe Indian country yonder, where I belonged, and never made my ride toNew York--to learn that I had come too late! But the West still isthere--the wilderness still exists to welcome such as me!"
"But you will--you will come back again?"
"It is in the lap of the gods. I do not know or care. But my plans areall arranged. Mr. Jefferson and I have agreed that it is almost timeto start. You see, Theodosia, I am now back from my schooling. Youbehold in me, madam, a scientist! At least I am competent to read bythe sun and stars, can reckon longitude and latitude--as one must, tojourney into the desert yonder. If only I dared orient my soul aswell!"
"You would never doubt my faith in my husband."
"No! Of course, you love your husband. I could not look at you asecond time if you did not."
"You are a good man, Meriwether Lewis!"
"Do not say it! I am a man accursed of evil passions--the most unhappyof all men. There is nothing else, I say, in all the world that I fearbut my love for you. Tell me it will not last--tell me it willchange--tell me that I shall forget! I should not believe you--buttell me that. Does a man never forget? Success--for others;happiness--for someone else. My mother said that was to be my fate.What did she mean?"
"She meant, Meriwether Lewis, that you were a great man, a greatsoul! Only a man of noble soul could speak as you have spoken to me.We women, in our souls, love something noble and good and strong. Thenwe imagine someone like that. We believe, or try to believe, or saythat we believe; but always----"
"And a woman may divide not love, only love of love itself?"
"I shall love your future, and shall watch it always," she replied,coloring. "You will be a great man, and there will be a great placefor you."
"And what then?"
"Do not ask what then. You ask if men never change. Alas, they do, alltoo frequently! Do not deny the imperious way of nature.Only--remember me as long as you can, Meriwether Lewis."
She spoke softly, and the color of her cheek, still rising, told ofher self-reproof.
He turned suddenly at this, a wonderfully sweet smile now upon hisface.
"As long as I can?"
"Yes. Let your own mind run on the ambitions of a proud man, a strongman. Ambition--power--place--these things will all be yours in thecoming years. They belong to any man of ability such as yours, and Icovet them for you. I shall pray always for your success; but successmakes men forget."
He still sat looking
at her unmoved, with thoughts in his heart thathe would not have cared to let her know. She went on still, halftremblingly:
"I want to see you happy after a time--with some good woman at yourside--your children by you--in your own home. I want everything foryou which ought to come to any man. And yet I know how hard it is toalter your resolve, once formed. Captain Lewis, you are a stubbornman, a hard man!"
He shook his head.
"Yes, I do not seem to change," said he simply. "I hope I shall beable to carry my burden and to hold my trail."
"Fie! I will not have such talk on a morning like this."
Fearlessly she reached out her hand to his, which lay upon the table.She smiled at him, but he looked down, the lean fingers of his ownhand not trembling nor responding.
If she sensed the rigidity of the muscles which held his fingersoutward, at least she feared it not. If she felt the repression whichkept him silent, at least she feared it not. Her intuitions told herat last that the danger was gone. His hand did not close on hers.
She raised her cup and saluted laughingly.
"A good journey, Meriwether Lewis," said she, "and a happy return fromit! Cast away such melancholy--you will forget all this!"
"I ask you not to wound me more than need be. I am hard to die. I cancarry many wounds, but they may pain me none the less."
"Forgive me, then," she said, and once more her small hand reached outtoward him. "I would not wound you. I asked you only to remember meas----"
"As----"
"As I shall you, of course. And I remember that bright day when youcame to me--yonder in New York. You offered me all that any man canever offer any woman. I am proud of that! I told my husband, yes. Henever mentions your name save in seriousness and respect. I amambitious for you. All the Burrs are full of ambition, and I am aBurr, as you know. How long will it be before you come back to higheroffice and higher place? Will it be six months hence?"
"More likely six years. If there is healing for me, the wildernessalone must give it."
"I shall be an old woman--old and sallow from the Carolina suns. Youwill have forgotten me then."
"It is enough," said he. "You have lightened my burden for me as muchas may be--you have made the trial as easy as any can. The rest is forme. At least I can go feeling that I have not wronged you in any way."
"Yes, Meriwether Lewis," said she quietly, "there has not been oneword or act of yours to cause you regret, or me. You have put nosecret on me that I must keep. That was like a man! I trust you willfind it easy to forget me."
He raised a hand.
"I said, madam, that I am hard to die. I asked you not to wound meovermuch. Do not talk to me of hopes or sympathy. I do not ask--I willnot have it! Only this remains to comfort me--if I had laid on my soulthe memory of one secret that I had dared to place on yours, ah, then,how wretched would life be for me forever after! That thought, itseems to me, I could not endure."
"Go, then, my savage gentleman, and let me----"
"And let you never see my face again?"
She rose and stood looking at him, her own eyes wet with a suddenmoisture.
"Women worth loving are so few!" she said slowly. "Clean men are sofew! How a woman could have loved you, Meriwether Lewis! How somewoman ought to love you! Yes, go now," she concluded. "Yes, go!"
"Mrs. Alston will wait with you here for a few moments," saidMeriwether Lewis to the miller's wife quietly. He stood with hisbridle rein across his arm. "See that she is very comfortable. Shemight have a second cup of your good coffee?"
He swung into his saddle, reined his horse about, turned and bowedformally to his late _vis-a-vis_, who still remained seated at thetable. Then he was off at such speed as left Arcturus no more cause tofret at his bridle rein.