The face of Meriwether Lewis was pale when presently he opened the door leading to the apartment which had been indicated. He knew, or thought he knew, who this must be. But why—why?
The interior was dim. A single lamp of the inefficient sort then in use served only to lessen the gloom. Presently, however, he saw awaiting him the figure he had anticipated. Yes, it was she herself. Almost his heart stood still.
Theodosia Alston arose from the spot where she sat in the deeper shadows, and came forward to him. He met her, his hands outstretched, his pulse leaping eagerly in spite of his reproofs. He dreaded, yet rejoiced.
“Why are you here?” he asked at length.
“My father and I are on a journey down the river to visit Mr. Blennerhasset on his island. You know his castle there?”
“Why is it that you always come to torment me the more? Another day and I should have been gone!”
“Torment you, sir?”
“You rebuke me properly. I presume I should have courage to meet you always—to speak with you—to look into your eyes—to take your hands in mine. But I find it hard, terribly hard! Each time it is worse—because each time I must leave you. Why did you not wait one day?”
She made no reply. He fought for his self-control.
“Mr. Jefferson, how is he?” he demanded at length. “You left him well?”