.
Burr sat in meditation, his face buried in his hands, his elbows resting
on the table, a foiled conspirator--frustrated, trapped, as he
conjectured, by his suave confederate. He had drifted into the eelpot
prepared for him. No mode of escape could he devise. He thought of Madam
Blennerhassett, of Theodosia, of glorious visions seen and royal
assurances given, in the secluded library of the White House on the
lonely island in the Ohio. Vividly he remembered his first voyage down
the beautiful river, the conversations with Arlington, the serio-comic
encounter with Plutarch Byle, the reverie on deck of the ark, the
evening in the ladies' bower. Slowly he raised his head from his hands,
and moved by the automatism of habit drew a cigar from its case, lit the
solacing weed at the blue-yellow cone of the candle flame, and smoked.
He now felt not disinclined to take up the neglected _billet-doux_. He
broke the seal and read.

PHILADELPHIA, NOV. 31, 1806.

"Forgive--forgive me, if you can--I am dying of remorse. You deceived
me, betrayed me, in my girlhood, but I pardoned that, for I loved
you more than any other woman ever loved a man. When we met in Ohio,
by strange accident, all was reconciled. How happy I was! But when I
learned of your perfidy; when I was forced to realize that I was not
only your jilted victim, but your hoodwinked dupe; that your object
in coaxing from me my fortune was wholly selfish; that you never
meant to restore either my property or my good name; while your
kisses were warm upon my lips your heart was planning proposals to
another woman to become your wife that I, your discarded tool, could
not claim even to be regarded as your mistress; when I felt sure of
all this, I was frantic with grief and rage. I went to Washington,
saw the President, gave him all the facts and papers you had
intrusted to me. I did this in hatred, for revenge. In my madness I
wanted to crush you, to blast your hopes, to kill you, if I could.
But anger gave way to remorse. I would undo what I have done, but it
is too late. I know you cannot love me--you cannot pity or forgive. I
never shall forgive myself. There is nothing for me to live for--I am
wretched, wretched, ruined--abandoned by you and despised by the
world. When this reaches you, if it ever reaches your dear hand, I
will be out of this a