CHAPTER I
MOTHER AND SON
A woman, tall, somewhat angular, dark of hair and eye, strong offeatures--a woman now approaching middle age--sat looking out over thelong, tree-clad slopes that ran down from the gallery front of themansion house to the gate at the distant roadway. She had sat thus forsome moments, many moments, her gaze intently fixed, as though waitingfor something--something or someone that she did not now see, butexpected soon to see.
It was late afternoon of a day so beautiful that not even oldAlbemarle, beauty spot of Virginia, ever produced one morebeautiful--not in the hundred years preceding that day, nor in thecentury since then. For this was more than a hundred years ago; andwhat is now an ancient land was then a half opened region, settledonly here and there by the great plantations of the well-to-do. Thehouse that lay at the summit of the long and gentle slope, flanked byits wide galleries--its flung doors opening it from front to rear tothe gaze as one approached--had all the rude comfort and assurednessusual with the gentry of that time and place.
It was the privilege, and the habit, of the Widow Lewis to sit idlywhen she liked, but her attitude now was not that of idleness.Intentness, reposeful acceptance of life, rather, showed in hermotionless, long-sustained position. She was patient, as women are;but her strong pose, its freedom from material support, her restrainedpower to do or to endure, gave her the look of owning something morethan resignation, something more than patience. A strong figure of awoman, one would have said had one seen her, sitting on the gallery ofher old home a hundred and twenty-four years ago.
The Widow Lewis stared straight down at the gate, a quarter of a mileaway, with yearning in her gaze. But as so often happens, what sheawaited did not appear at the time and place she herself had set.There fell at the western end of the gallery a shadow--a tall shadow,but she did not see it. She did not hear the footfall, not stealthy,but quite silent, with which the tall owner of the shadow came towardher from the gallery end.
It was a young man, or rather boy, no more than eighteen years of age,who stood now and gazed at her after his silent approach, so like thatof an Indian savage. Half savage himself he seemed now, as he stood,clad in the buckskin garments of the chase, then not unusual in theVirginian borderlands among settlers and hunters, and not held _outre_among a people so often called to the chase or to war.
His tunic was of dressed deer hide, his well-fitting leggings also ofthat material. His feet were covered with moccasins, although his hatand the neat scarf at his neck were those of a gentleman. He was apractical youth, one would have said, for no ornament of any sort wasto be seen upon his garb. In his hand he carried a long rifle of thesort then used thereabout. At his belt swung the hide of a raccoon,the bodies of a few squirrels.
Had you been a close observer, you would have found each squirrel shotfair through the head. Indeed, a look into the gray eye of thesilent-paced youth would have assured you in advance of his skill withhis weapons--you would have known that to be natural with him.
You would not soon have found his like, even in that land of tallhunting men. He was a grand young being as he stood there, straightand clean-limbed; hard-bitten of muscle, albeit so young; powerful andgraceful in his stride. The beauty of youth was his, and of a strongheredity--that you might have seen.
The years of youth were his, yes; but the lightness of youth did notrest on his brow. While he was not yet eighteen, the gravity ofmanhood was his.
He did not smile now, as he saw his mother sitting there absorbed,gazing out for his return, and not seeing him now that he hadreturned. Instead, he stepped forward, and quietly laid a hand uponher shoulder, not with any attempt to surprise or startle her, but asif he knew that she would accept it as the announcement of hispresence.
He was right. The strong figure in the chair did not start away. Noexclamation came from the straight mouth of the face now turnedtoward him. Evidently the nerves of these two were not of the sortreadily stampeded.
The young man's mother at first did not speak to him. She only reachedup her own hand to take that which lay upon her shoulder. Theyremained thus for a moment, until at last the youth stepped back tolean his rifle against the wall.
"I am late, mother," said he at length, as he turned and, seatinghimself at her feet, threw his arm across her lap--himself but boyagain now, and not the hunter and the man.
She stroked his dark hair, not foolishly fond, but with a sort ofstern maternal care, smoothing it back in place where it belonged,straightening out the riot it had assumed. It made a mane above hisforehead and reached down his neck to his shoulders, so heavy thatwhere its dark mass was lifted it showed the skin of his neck whitebeneath.
"You are late, yes."
"And you waited--so long?"
"I am always waiting for you, Merne," said she. She used theElizabethan vowel, as one should pronounce "bird," with no sound of"u"--"Mairne," the name sounded as she spoke it. And her voice wasfull and rich and strong, as was her son's; musically strong.
"I am always waiting for you, Merne," said she. "But I long agolearned not to expect anything else of you." She spoke with not theleast reproach in her tone. "No, I only knew that you would come backin time, because you told me that you would."
"And you did not fear for me, then--gone overnight in the woods?" Hehalf smiled at that thought himself.
"You know I would not. I know you, what you are--born woodsman. No, Itrust you to care for yourself in any wild country, my son, and tocome back. And then--to go back again into the forest. When will itbe, my son? Tomorrow? In two days, or four, or six? Sometime you willgo to the wilderness again. It draws you, does it not?"
She turned her head slightly toward the west, where lay the forestfrom which the boy had but now emerged. He did not smile, did notdeprecate. He was singularly mature in his actions, though buteighteen years of age.
"I did not desert my duty, mother," said he at length.
"Oh, no, you would not do that, Merne!" returned the widow.
"Please, mother," said he suddenly, "I want you to call me by my fullname--that of your people. Am I not Meriwether, too?"
The hand on his forehead ceased its gentle movement, fell to itsowner's lap. A sigh passed his mother's set lips.
"Yes, my son, Meriwether," said she. "This is the last journey! I havelost you, then, it seems? You do not wish to be my boy any longer? Youare a man altogether, then?"
"I am Meriwether Lewis, mother," said he gravely, and no more.
"Yes!" She spoke absently, musingly. "Yes, you always were!"
"I went westward, clear across the Ragged Mountains," said the youth."These"--and he pointed with contempt to the small trophies at hisbelt--"will do for the darkies at the stables. I put yon old ringtailup a tree last night, on my way home, and thought it was as well towait till dawn, till I could see the rifle-sights; and afterward--thewoods were beautiful today. As to the trails, even if there is notrail, I know the way back home--you know that, mother."
"I know that, my son, yes. You were born for the forest. I fear Ishall not hold you long on this quiet farm."
"All in time, mother! I am to stay here with you until I am fitted togo higher. You know what Mr. Jefferson has said to me. I am forWashington, mother, one of these days--for I hold it sure that Mr.Jefferson will go there in some still higher place. He was my father'sfriend, and is ours still."
"It may be that you will go to Washington, my son," said his mother;"I do not know. But will you stay there? The forest will call to youall your life--all your life! Do I not know you, then? Can I not seeyour life--all your life--as plainly as if it were written? Do I notknow--your mother? Why should not your mother know?"
He looked around at her rather gravely once again, unsmilingly, for herarely smiled.
"How do you know, mother? What do you know? Tell me--about myself!Then I will tell you also. We shall see how we agree as to what I amand what I ought to do!"
"My son, it is no question of what you ought to do, for tha
t blendstoo closely in fate with what you surely will do--must do--because itwas written for you. Yonder forest will always call to you." Sheturned now toward the sun, sinking across the red-leaved forest lands."The wilderness is your home. You will go out into it andreturn--often; and then at last you will go and not come backagain--not to me--not to anyone will you come back."
The youth did not move as she sat, her hands on his head. Her voicewent on, even and steady.
"You are old, Meriwether Lewis! It is time, now. You are a man. You_always_ were a man! You were born old. You never have been a boy, andnever can be one. You never were a child, but always a man. When youwere a baby, you did not smile; when you were a boy, you always hadyour way. My boy, a long time ago I ceased to oppose that will ofyours--I knew that it was useless. But, ah, how I have loved that willwhen I felt it was behind your promise! I knew you would do what youhad set for yourself to do. I knew you would come back with deeds inyour hand, my boy--gained through that will which never would bend forme or for anyone else in the world!"
He remained motionless, apparently unaffected, as his mother went on.
"You were always old, always grown up, always resolved, always yourown master--always Meriwether Lewis. When you were born, you were nota child. When the old nurse brought you to me--I can see her blackface grinning now--she carried you held by the feet instead of lyingon her arm. You _stood_, you were so strong! Your hair was dark andfull even then. You were old! In two weeks you turned where you hearda sound--you recognized sight and sound together, as no child usuallydoes for months. You were beautiful, my boy, so strong, sostraight--ah, yes!--but you never were a boy at all. When you shouldhave been a baby, you did not weep and you did not smile. I never knewyou to do so. From the first, you always were a man."
She paused, but still he did not speak.
"That was well enough, for later we were left alone. But your fatherwas in you. Do I not know well enough where you got that settledmelancholy of yours, that despondency, that somber grief--call it whatyou like--that marked him all his life, and even in his death? Thatcame from him, your father. I thank God I did not give you that,knowing what life must hold for you in suffering! He suffered, yes,but not as you will. And you must--you must, my son. Beyond all othermen, you will suffer!"
"You were better named Cassandra, mother!" Yet the young man scarcesmiled even now.
"Yes, I am a prophetess, all too sooth a prophetess, my son. I seeahead as only a mother can see--perhaps as only one of the oldHighland blood can see. I am soothseer and soothsayer, because you areblood of my blood, bone of my bone, and I cannot help but know. Icannot help but know what that melancholy and that resolution, allthese combined, must spell for you. You know how his heart was rackedat times?"
The boy nodded now.
"Then know how your own must be racked in turn!" said she. "My son, itis no ordinary fate that will be yours. You will go forward at allcosts; you will keep your word bright as the knife in your belt--youwill drive yourself. What that means to you in agony--what that meanswhen your will is set against the unalterable and the inevitable--Iwish--oh, I wish I could not see it! But I do see it, now, all laidout before me--all, all! Oh, Merne--may I not call you Merne once morebefore I let you go?"
She let her hands fall from his head to his shoulders as she gazedsteadily out beyond him, as if looking into his future; but sheherself sat, her strong face composed. She might, indeed, have been aprophetess of old.
"Tragedy is yours, my son," said she, slowly, "not happiness. No womanwill ever come and lie in your arms happy and content."
"Mother!"
He half flung off her hands, but she laid them again more firmly onhis shoulders, and went on speaking, as if half in reverie, half intrance, looking down the long slope of green and gold as if it showedthe vista of the years.
"You will love, my boy, but with your nature how could love meanhappiness to you? Love? No man could love more terribly. You will beintent, resolved, but the firmness of your will means that much moresuffering for you. You will suffer, my boy--I see that for you, myfirst-born boy! You will love--why should you not, a man fit to loveand be loved by any woman? But that love, the stronger it grows, willbut burn you the deeper. You will struggle through on your own path;but happiness does not lie at the end of that path for you. You willsucceed, yes--you could not fail; but always the load on yourshoulders will grow heavier and heavier. You will carry it alone,until at last it will be too much for you. Your strong heart willbreak. You will lie down and die. Such a fate for you, Merne, myboy--such a man as you will be!"
She sighed, shivered, and looked about her, startled, as if she hadspoken aloud in some dream.
"Well, then, go on!" she said, and withdrew her hands from hisshoulders. The faces of both were now gazing straight on over thegold-flecked slope before them. "Go on, you are a man. I know you willnot turn back from what you undertake. You will not change, you willnot turn--because you cannot. You were born to earn and not to own; tofind, but not to possess. But as you have lived, so you will die."
"You give me no long shrift, mother?" said the youth, with a twinklein his eye.
"How can I? I can only tell you what is in the book of life. Do I notknow? A mother always loves her son; so it takes all her courage toface what she knows will be his lot. Any mother can read her son'sfuture--if she dares to read it. She knows--she knows!"
There was a long silence; then the widow continued.
"Listen, Merne," she said. "You call me a prophetess of evil. I am notthat. Do you think I speak only in despair, my boy? No, there issomething larger than mere happiness. Listen, and believe me, for nowI could not fail to know. I tell you that your great desire, the greatwish of your life, shall be yours! You never will relinquish it, youalways will possess it, and at last it will be yours."
Again silence fell between them before she went on, her hand againresting on her son's dark hair.
"Your great desire will cost me my son. Be it so! We breed men for theworld, we women, and we give them up. Out of the agony of our hearts,we do and must always give them up. That is the price I must pay. ButI give you up to the great hope, the great thing of your life. ShouldI complain? Am I not your mother, and therefore a woman? And should awoman complain? But, Oh, Merne, Merne, my son, my boy!"
She drew his head back, so that she could see deep into his eyes. Herdark brows half frowning, she gazed down upon him, not so much intenderness as in intentness. For the first time in many months--forthe last time in his life--she kissed him on the forehead; and thenshe let him go.
He rose now, and, silently as he had come, passed around the end ofthe wide gallery.
Her gaze did not follow him. She sat still looking down thegolden-green slope where the leaves were dropping silently. She sat,her chin in her hand, her elbows upon her knees, facing that future,somber but splendid, to which she had devoted her son, and which inlater years he so singularly fulfilled.
That was the time when the mother of Meriwether Lewis gave him to hisfate--his fate, so closely linked with yours and mine.
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