Aaron Burr came to St. Louis in the spring of 1804 as much in desperation as with definite plans. Matters were going none too well for him. All the time he was getting advices from the lower country, where lay the center of his own audacious plans; but the thought of the people was directed westward, up the Missouri.

The fame of the Lewis and Clark expedition now had gathered volume. Constitution or no Constitution, the purchase of Louisiana had been completed, the transfer had been formally made. The American wedge was driving on through. If ever he was to do anything for his own enterprise, it was now high time.

Burr’s was a mind to see to the core of any problem in statecraft. He knew what this sudden access of interest in the West indicated, so far as his plans were concerned. It must be stopped—else it would be too late for any dream of Aaron Burr for an empire of his own.

His resources were dwindling. He needed funds for the many secret agents in his employ—needed yet more funds for the purchase and support of his lands in the South. And the minister of Great Britain had given plain warning that unless this expedition up the Missouri could be stopped, no further aid need be expected from him.

Little by little Burr saw hope slip away from him. True, Captain Lewis was still detained by his duties among the Osage Indians, a little way out from the city; but the main expedition had actually started.

William Clark, occupied with the final details, did not finally get his party under way until five days after the formal transfer of the new territory of Louisiana to our flag, and three days after Burr’s arrival. At last, however, on the 14th of May, the three boats had left St. Louis wharf, with their full complement of men and the last of the supplies aboard for the great voyage. Captain Clark, ever light-hearted and careless of his spelling-book, if not of his rifle, says it was “a jentle brease” which aided the oars and the square-sail as they started up the river.

Assuredly the bark of Aaron Burr was sailing under no propitious following wind. Distracted, he paced up and down his apartment in the home where he was a guest, preoccupied, absorbed, almost ready to despair. He spoke but little, but time and again he cast an estimating eye upon the young woman who accompanied him.

“You are ill, Theodosia!” he exclaimed at last “Come, come, my daughter, this will not do! Have you no arts of the toilet that can overcome the story of your megrims? Shall I get you some sort of bitter herbs? You need your brightest face, your best apparel now. These folk of St. Louis must see us at our best, my dear, our very best. Besides——”

He needed not to complete the sentence. Theodosia Alston knew well enough what was in her father’s mind—knew well enough why they both were here. It was because she would not have come alone. And she knew that the burden of the work they had at heart must once more lie upon her shoulders. She once more must see Captain Meriwether Lewis—and it must be soon, if ever. He was reported as being ready to leave town at once upon his return from the Osage Indians.

But courtesy did not fail the young Virginian, and at last—although with dread in his own heart—within an hour of his actual departure, he called to pay his compliments to guests so distinguished as these, to a man so high in rank under the government which he himself served. He found it necessary to apologize for his garb, suited rather to the trail than to the drawing-room. He stood in the hall of the Chouteau home, a picture of the soldier of the frontier rather than the courtier of the capital.

His three-cornered military hat, his blue uniform coat—these made the sole formality of his attire, for his feet were moccasined, his limbs were clad in tight-fitting buckskins, and his shirt was of rough linsey, suitable for the work ahead.

“I ask your pardon, Colonel Burr,” said he, “for coming to you as I am, but the moment for my start is now directly at hand. I could not leave without coming to present my duties to you and Mrs. Alston. Indeed, I have done so at once upon my return to town. I pray you carry back to Mr. Jefferson my sincerest compliments. Say to him, if you will, that we are setting forth with high hopes of success.”

Formal, cold, polite—it was the one wish of Captain Lewis to end this interview as soon as he might, and to leave all sleeping dogs lying as they were.

But Aaron Burr planned otherwise. His low, deep voice was never more persuasive, his dark eye never more compelling—nor was his bold heart ever more in trepidation than now, as he made excuse for delay—delay—delay.

“My daughter, Mrs. Alston, will join us presently,” he said. “So you are ready, Captain Lewis?”

“We are quite prepared, Colonel Burr. My men are on ahead two days’ journey, camped at St. Charles, and waiting for me to overtake them. Dr. Saugrain, Mr. Chouteau, Mr. Labadie—one or two others of the gentlemen in the city—are so kind as to offer me a convoy of honor so far as St. Charles. We are quite flattered. So now we start—they are waiting for me at the wharf now, and I must go. All bridges are burned behind me!”

“All bridges burned?”

The deep voice of Aaron Burr almost trembled. His keen eye searched the face of the young man before him.

“Every one,” replied the young Virginian. “I do not know how or when I may return. Perhaps Mr. Clark or myself may come back by sea—should we ever reach the sea. We can only trust to Providence.”

He was bowing and extending his own hand in farewell, with polite excuses as to his haste—relieved that his last ordeal had been spared him. He turned, as he felt rather than heard the approach of another, whose coming caused his heart almost to stop beating—the woman dreaded and demanded by every fiber of his being.

“Oh, not so fast, not so fast!” laughed Theodosia Alston as she came into the room, offering her hand. “I heard you talking, and have been hurrying to pretty myself up for Captain Lewis. What? Were you trying to run away without ever saying good-by to me? And how you are prettied up!”

Her gaze, following her light speech, resolved itself into one of admiration. Theodosia Alston, as she looked, found him a goodly picture as he stood ready for the trail.

“I was just going, yes,” stammered Meriwether Lewis. “I had hoped——” But what he had hoped he did not say.

“Why might we not walk down with you to the wharf, if you are so soon to go?” she demanded—her own self-control concealing any disappointment she may have felt at her cavalier reception.

“An excellent idea!” said Aaron Burr, backing his daughter’s hand, and trusting to her to have some plan. “A warrior must spend his last word with some woman, captain! Go you on ahead—I surrender my daughter to you, and I shall follow presently to bid you a last Godspeed. You said those other gentlemen were to join you there?”

Meriwether Lewis found himself walking down the narrow street of the frontier settlement between the lines of hollyhocks and budding roses which fronted many of the little residences. It was spring, the air was soft. He was young. The woman at his side was very beautiful. So far as he could see they were alone.

They passed along the street, turned, made their way down the rock-faced bluff to the water front; but still they were alone. All St. Louis was at the farther end of the wharf, waiting for a last look at the idol of the town.

Theodosia sighed.

“And so Captain Lewis is going to have his way as usual? And he was going—in spite of all—even without saying good-by to me!”

“Yes, I would have preferred that.”

“Captain Lewis is mad. Look at that river! They say that when the boat started last week it took them an hour to make a quarter of a mile, when they struck into the Missouri. How many thousands of hours will it take to ascend to the mountains? How will you get your boats across the mountains? What cascades and rapids lie on ahead? Your men will mutiny and destroy you. You cannot succeed—you will fail!”

“I thank you, madam!”

“Oh, you must start now, I presume—in fact, you have started; but I want you to come back before your obstinacy has driven you too far.”

“Just what do you mean?”

“Listen. You have given me no time, unkind as you are—not a moment—at an hour like this! In these unsettled times, who knows what may happen? In that very unsettlement lies the probable success of the plan which my father and I have put before you so often. We need you to help us. When are you going to come back to us, Merne?”

As she spoke, they were approaching the long wharf along the water front, lined with rude craft which plied the rivers at that time—flatboats, keel-boats, pirogues, canoes—and, far off at the extremity of the line, the boat which Lewis and his friends were to take. A party of idlers and observers stood about it even now. The gaze of the young leader was fixed in that direction. He did not make any immediate sign that he had heard her speech.

“I told Shannon, my aide, to meet me here,” he said at last. “He was to fetch my long spyglass. There are certain little articles of my equipment over yonder in the wharf shed. Would you excuse me for just a moment?”

He stooped at the low door and entered. But she followed him—followed after him unconsciously, without plan, feeling only that he must not go, that she could not let him away from her.

She saw the light floating through the door fall on his dense hair, long, loosely bagged in its cue. She saw the quality of his strong figure, in all the fittings of a frontiersman, saw his stern face, his troubled eye, saw the unconscious strength which marked his every movement as he strode about, eager, as it seemed to her, only to be done with his last errands, and away on that trail which so long had beckoned to him.

The strength of the man, the strength of his purpose—the sudden and full realization of both—this caught her like a tangible thing, and left her no more than the old, blind, unformed protest. He must not go! She could not let him go!

But the words she had spoken had caught him, after all. He had been pondering—had been trying to set them aside as if unheard.

“Coming back?” he began, and stopped short once more. They were now both within the shelter of the old building.

“Yes, Merne!” she broke out suddenly. “When are you coming back to me, Merne?”

He stood icy silent, motionless, for just a moment. It seemed to her as if he was made of stone. Then he spoke very slowly, deliberately.

“Coming back to you? And you call me by that name? Only my mother, Mr. Jefferson and Will Clark ever did so.”

“Oh, stiff-necked man! It is so hard to be kind with you! And all I have ever done—every time I have followed you in this way, each time I have humiliated myself thus—it always was only in kindness for you!”

He made no reply.

“Fate ran against us, Merne,” she went on tremblingly. “We have both accepted fate. But in a woman’s heart are many mansions. Is there none in a man’s—in yours—for me? Can’t I ask a place in a good man’s heart—an innocent, clean place? Oh, think not you have had all the unhappiness in your own heart! Is all the world’s misery yours? I don’t want you to go away, Merne, but if you do—if you must—won’t you come back? Oh, won’t you, Merne?”

Her voice was trembling, her hand half raised, her eyes sought after him. She stood partly in shadow, the flare of light from the open door falling over her face. She might have been some saint of old in pictured guise; but she was a woman, alive, beautiful, delectable, alluring—especially now, with this tone in her voice, this strangely beseeching look in her eyes.

Her hands were almost lifted to be held out to him. She stood almost inclined to him, wholly unconscious of her attitude, forgetting that her words were imploring, remembering only that he was going.

He seemed not to hear her voice as he stood there, but somewhere as if out of some savage past, a voice did speak to him, saying that when a man is sore athirst, then a man may drink—that the well-spring would not miss the draft, and would tell no tale of it!

He stood, as many another man has stood, and fought the fight many another man has fought—the fight between man the primitive and man the gentleman, chivalry contending with impulse, blood warring with breeding.

“Yes!” so said the voice in his ear. “Why should the spring grudge a draft to a soul aflame with an undying thirst? Vows? What have vows to do with this? Duty? What is duty to a man perishing?—I know not what it was. I heard it. I felt it. Forgive me, it was not I myself! Oh, Theo, what have I done?”

She could not speak, could not even sob. Neither horror nor resentment was possible for her, nor any protest, save the tears which welled silently, terribly.

Unable longer to endure this, Meriwether Lewis turned to leave behind him his last hope of happiness, and to face alone what he now felt to be the impenetrable night of his own destiny. He never knew when his hands fell from Theodosia Alston’s face, or when he turned away; but at last he felt himself walking, forcing his head upright, his face forward.

He passed, a tall, proud man in his half-savage trappings—a man in full ownership of splendid physical powers; but as he walked his feet were lead, his heart was worse than lead. And though his face was turned away from her, he knew that always he would see what he had left—this picture of Theodosia weeping—this picture of a saint mocked, of an altar desecrated. She wept, and it was because of him!

The dumb cry of his remorse, his despair, must have struck back to where she still stood, her hands on her bosom, staring at him as he passed:

“Theo! Theo! What have I done? What have I done?”