Her tone seemed icy, though her soul was in her eyes. She was all upon the defense, as Lewis instantly understood. He took her hand in both of his own, and looked into her face.

She gazed up at him, and swiftly, mercifully, the tears came. Gently, as if she had been a child, he dried them for her--as once when a boy, he had promised to do. They were alone now. The cold silence of the prison was about them; but their own long silence seemed a golden, glowing thing. Thus only--in their silence--could they speak. They did not know that they stood hand in hand.

"My husband is not here," said she at length, gently disengaging her hand from his. "No one knows me now, every one avoids me. You must not be seen with me--a pariah, an outcast! I am my father's only friend.

Already they condemn him; yet he is as innocent as any man ever was."

"I shall say no word to change that belief," said Meriwether Lewis.

"But your husband is not here? It is he whom I must see at once."

"Why must you see him?"

"You must know! It is my duty to go to him and to tell him that I am the man who--who made you weep. He must have his satisfaction. Nothing that he can do will punish me as my own conscience has already punished me. It is no use--I shall not ask you to forgive me--I will not be so cheap."

"But--_suppose he does not know_?"

He could only stand silent, regarding her fixedly.

"He must never know!" she went on. "It is no time for quixotism to make yet another suffer. We two must be strong enough to carry our own secret. It is better and kinder that it should be between two than among three. I thought you dead. Let the past remain past--let it bury its own dead!"

"It is our time of reckoning," said he, at length. "Guilty as I have been, sinning as I have sinned--tell me, was I alone in the wrong?

Listen. Those who joined your father's cause were asked to join in treason to their country. What he purposed was _treason_. Tell me, did you know this when you came to me?"

He saw the quick pain upon her face, the flush that rose to her pale cheek. She drew herself up proudly.

"I shall not answer that!" said she.

"No!" he exclaimed, swiftly contrite. "Nor shall I ask it. Forgive me!

You never knew--you were innocent. You do right not to answer such a question."

"I only wanted you to be happy--that was my one desire."

She looked aside, and a moment pa.s.sed before she heard his deep voice reply.

"Happy! I am the most unhappy man in all the world. Happiness?

No--rags, shreds, patches of happiness--that is all that is left of happiness for us, as men and women usually count it. But tell me, what would make you most happy now, of these things remaining? I have come back to pay my debts. Is there anything I can do? What would make you happiest?"

"_My father's freedom!_"

"I cannot promise that; but all that I can do I will."

"Were my father guilty, that would be the act of a n.o.ble mind. But how? You are Mr. Jefferson's friend, not the friend of Aaron Burr. All the world knows that."

"Precisely. All the world knows that, or thinks it does. It thinks it knows that Mr. Jefferson is implacable. But suppose all the world were set to wondering? I am just wondering myself if it would be right to suborn a juryman, like John Randolph of Roanoke!"[6]

[Footnote 6: The import of the visit of Governor Lewis and Mrs. Alston to the court-room during the Burr trial is better conveyed if there be held in mind the personality of that eccentric and extraordinary man, so prominent in the history of America and the traditions of Virginia--John Randolph of Roanoke. Irascible, high-voiced, high-headed, truculent, insolent, vitriolic--yet gallant, courteous, kind, just, and fair; the enemy and the friend in turn of almost every public man of his day; truckling to none, defiant of all, sure to do what could not be predicted of any other man--it was always certain that John Randolph of Roanoke would do what he liked, and do what--for that present time--he fancied to be just.

Now the ardent adherent, again the bitter caluminator of Jefferson, it would be held probable that John Randolph of Roanoke would do what he fancied Thomas Jefferson had not asked him to do, or had asked him not to do. But the shrewd old man at Washington spoke advisedly when he said that John Randolph of Roanoke would try the Burr case in the jury-room, and himself preside as judge, counsel, and jury all in one!]

"That is impossible. What do you mean?"

"I mean this. This afternoon you and I will go into the trial-room together. I have not yet attended a session of the court. Today I will hand you to your seat in full sight of the jury box."

"You--give your presence to one who is now a social pariah? The ladies of Richmond no longer speak to me. But to what purpose?"

"Perhaps to small purpose. I cannot tell. But let us suppose that I go with you, and that we sit there in sight of all. I am known to be the intimate friend of Mr. Jefferson. _Ergo_----"

"_Ergo_, Mr. Jefferson is not hostile to us! And you would do that--you would take that chance?"

"For you."

And he did--for her! That afternoon all the crowded court-room saw the beadle make way for two persons of importance. One was a tall, grave, distinguished-looking man, impa.s.sive, calm, a man whose face was known to all--the new Governor of Louisiana, viceroy of the country that Burr had lost. Upon his arm, pale, clad all in black, walked the daughter of the prisoner at the bar!

Was it in defiance or in compliance that this act was done? Was it by orders, or against orders, or without orders, that the President's best friend walked in public, before all the world, with the daughter of the President's worst enemy? It was the guess of anybody and the query of all.

There, in full view of all the attendants, in full view of the jury--and of John Randolph of Roanoke, its foreman--sat the two persons who had had most to do with this scene of which they now made a part. There sat the man who had explored the great West, and the woman who had done her best to prevent that exploration; Mr.

Jefferson's friend, and the daughter of the great conspirator, Aaron Burr. _Ergo, ergo_, said many tongues swiftly--and leaned head to head to whisper it. Mind sometimes speaks to mind--even across the rail of a jury-box. Sympathy runs deep and swift sometimes. All the world loved Meriwether Lewis then, would favor him--or favor what he favored.

The issue of that great trial was not to come for weeks as yet; but when it came, and by whatever process, Aaron Burr was acquitted of the charges brought against him. The republic for whose downfall he had plotted set him free and bade him begone.

But now, at the close of this day, the two central figures of the tragic drama found themselves together once more. They could be alone nowhere but in the prison room; and it was there that they parted.

Between them, as they stood now at last, about to part, there stretched an abysmal gulf which might never personally be pa.s.sed by either.

She faced him at length, trembling, pleading, helpless.

"How mighty a thing is a man's sense of honor!" she said slowly. "You have done what I never would have asked you to do, and I am glad that you did. I once asked you to do what you would not do, and I am glad that you did not. How can I repay you for what you have done today? I cannot tell how, but I feel that you have turned the tide for us. Ah, if ever you felt that you owed me anything, it is paid--all your debt to me and mine. See, I no longer weep. You have dried my tears!"

"We cannot balance debits and credits," he replied. "There is no way in the world in which you and I can cry quits. Only one thing is sure--I must go!"

"I cannot say good-by!" said she. "Ah, do not ask me that! We are but beginning now. Oh, see! see!"

He looked at her still, an unspeakable sadness in his gaze--at her hand, extended pleadingly toward him.

"Won't you take my hand, Merne?" said she. "Won't you?"

"I dare not," said he hoa.r.s.ely. "No, I dare not!"

"Why? Do you wish to leave me still feeling that I am in your debt?

You can afford so much now," she said brokenly, "for those who have not won!"

"Think you that I have won?" he broke out. "Theodosia--Theo--I shall call you by your old name just once--I do not take your hand--I dare not touch you--because I love you! I always shall. G.o.d help me, it is the truth!"

"Did you get my letters?" she said suddenly, and looked him fair in the face.

Meriwether Lewis stood searching her countenance with his own grave eyes.

"_Letters?_" said he at length. "_What letters?_"