Farewell until I see you again. May good fortune attend you always, wherever you go—in whatever direction you may travel—from us or toward us—from me or with me!
Meriwether Lewis sat, his face between his hands, staring down at what he saw. Should he go on, or should he hand over all to William Clark and return—return to keep his promise—return to comfort, as best he might, with the gift of all his life, that face which indeed he had left in tears by an unpardonable act of his own?
He owed her everything she could ask of him. What must she think of him now—that he was not only a dishonorable man, but also a coward running away from the responsibility of what he had done? No blow from the hands of fate could have given him more exquisite agony than this.
For a long time—he never knew how long—he sat thus, staring, pondering, but at length with sudden energy he rose and flung open the door of the dancing-room.
“Will!” he called to his companion.
When William Clark joined his friend in the outer air, he saw the open letter in Lewis’s hand—saw also the distress upon his countenance.
“Merne, it’s another letter from that woman! I wish I had her here, that I might wring her neck!” said William Clark viciously. “Who brought it?”
“I don’t know.”
Meriwether Lewis was folding up the letter. He placed it in the pocket of his coat with its fellow, received months ago.
“Will,” said he at length, “don’t you recall what I was telling you this very morning? I felt something coming—I felt that fate had something more for me. You know I spoke in doubt.”