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CHAPTER XXXII

A MYSTERIOUS LOVE.

SIMONSON'S FLIGHT FROM RICHMOND

D

URING the almost eleven "solitary" months, February

to January, Simonson never saw the Commandant's wife; and though he often heard about her the references were always incidental, elidical, elliptical, the verbal photographs always being the merest silhouettes.

That she was tall and stately, grave and dignified and, like the fairy elf Elaine, beautiful, he had not a single doubt.

He also surmised that she was tenderly and broodingly sorrowful; that somehow, somewhere, somewhen, there had been a great tragedy in her life, a shadow that lifted never

more.

This, however, was a mere conjecture based on such intangible evidence as the lowering of the husband's and the daughter's voices whenever they spoke of her; a wistful look in Elaine's eyes and a pathetic drooping of her usually merry lips; and always on the part of both a winsome vocal caressingness in speaking of "Our Heloise."

But though husband and daughter never permitted a day to pass without seeing him, she never came, never sent any message.

Incidentally Simonson had learned that Heloise Turney was a Dinwiddie, one of the historic Dinwiddies who in the Middle Ages had allied themselves with William the Conqueror and, with him, had gone to France; that her grandfather, the great Baron Esterhazy Dinwiddie, had been one of Napoleon's Field-Marshals at Waterloo; and that her

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father when a young man had fled for his life to Charleston, South Carolina, where he had married Gabrielle Elaine Monteagle, only daughter of Pierre Monteagle, Governor of the Commonwealth and son of that Honoré Monteagle who had come over with the Marquis de Lafayette and fought with Washington for American Independence; that she, Heloise, had been educated in Paris at the Ecole Notre Dame des Champs; that at twenty, a year after graduating, she had married Thomas P. Turney, of the distinguished Hillary Potter Turney family, who at the time of their marriage was a banker-politician and member of her father's gubernatorial staff; that she was the mother of three children, only one of whom, Elaine, had survived; and, finally, that she was a devout Catholic-all learned, however, from passing remarks, incidental or parenthetical.

What wonder the name "Heloise" came to be very musical to Simonson, and that its cultured and devout bearer was at last idealized to sainthood?

Only once was he invited to the Commandant's home. In citizen dress, full bearded, razors not being permitted in Libby Prison, and accompanied by Major Turney, no one would have recognized him as the Samuel Simonson of other days; and he often reflected that it was strange, considering the high regard in which he was evidently held by Elaine and her father, he had never been invited to their home.

Indeed they had often jokingly referred to their rudeness in monopolizing so much of his time, and selfishness in requiring him to bear all the burdens and perform all the offices of hospitality; and once Elaine, when alone with him, had struck a deeper note that had startled him and set his pulses to beating to swifter and happier rhythms than he had thought possible again.

It was an afternoon in October. There was the wildest

excitement in Richmond, occasioned by Sheridan's debonairly galloping with his troopers entirely around the Confederate Capitol; and Benjamin, the Hebrew Secretary of State, subsequently declared that only Sheridan's Irish chivalry prevented him from promenading into the city and paying his respects to President Davis at the Executive Mansion.

But now the intelligence had been received that General Kilpatrick was mercilessly slaughtering the Confederate officers and sentinels at Belle Isle, and setting the Federal prisoners free-the unsuccessful expedition in which the brave Ulric Dahlgren lost his life-and that soon they would be storming the walls of Libby Prison.

In the deep gloom of the prison Simonson could not see Elaine's face distinctly; but he knew, by her agitated breathing and trembling voice, that she was greatly frightened and excited. He strove as best he could to quiet her fears and allay her excitement; but this was not easily done on account of the unusual shuffling of feet overhead, and the clattering of flying hoofs on the pavement without; and presently, when a deafening volley was fired for the purpose of intimidating the prisoners and keeping them away from the windows she trembled violently and sought his hand.

"Have no fear, Elaine," he entreated.

"Oh, I haven't for myself."

"For whom then should you be afraid?" having no thought of himself. "Your home is guarded, and your father has all the troops of the Capitol at his command." Unconsciously all the while he was pressing her hand in a manner that bid fair to break or dislocate several delicate bones-though strangely enough Elaine, at the time, was not conscious of any pain.

"But," pressing closer, "what if they should be successful

and, in the confusion and excitement, an angry guard should kill you, or your comrades should take you away so that I -I should never, never see you again, and—and—”

"O-Elaine!"

"O my Captain !"

The next moment she was sobbing on his breast, and he was saying and doing all those things that men, so blissfully circumstanced, have said and done since the first lithe and winsome form yielded to strong encircling arms, and the first lips, coquettishly denied a single instant, uplifted freely all their honied sweets.

Now all fear was gone. Possibly they hoped Kilpatrick wouldn't come; or if he did come there wouldn't be any casualties-but even for these tender and pious hopes on their part we cannot vouch. But we are safe in asserting that, consciously or sub-consciously, they fervently prayed that if Kilpatrick must come he would be greatly delayed, and that when he arrived he might encounter (without casualties, however) such tremendous obstacles as would leave them undisturbed a long time.

How blissfully delicious were the days and weeks that followed-October, November, and December!

Love had come without invitation, indeed without observation, at least on Simonson's part. After the tempest through which he had passed-sickness and disappointment, tragedy and war-his eyes and ears were sealed, his tongue mute, and his heart dead to all earthly transports, or so he thought. He had been swept almost beyond control, indeed, till reason had reeled and life itself had hung in a balance, by two women of beauty and character, by two lures of love. But now he was done with love, and he was done with women; for to him all womankind was comprehended in the two types: Marjorie and Vergie. He was not thinking of love, least of all looking for it, or desiring it. He

had not become a misogynist, nor was he at all bitter, or morose, or misanthropic-he had simply failed in the great quest. After Marjorie and Vergie there never could be any third girl or woman. He didn't exactly say so he took it for granted; and both he deemed irrevocably lost to him. He was not definitely unhappy-it was rather a state of dazed or suspended sensation: no feeling at all, or desire, or expectation. Life's phrase or paragraph for him had closed with a double period-the passional life: Vergie's rejection of him, and Marjorie's marriage to Harold Culpepper; and he was too honorable, even had he been a-mind, to go philandering after another man's wife.

Also he was a hated prisoner. No woman would think of such as he, least of all of the lovely women of the lordly South.

And Elaine ? In Marjorie Gildersleeve and Virginia Culpepper, queenliness in height and form, and the ideals of blonde and brunette, found their highest expression; but Elaine was definitely neither the one or the other. After the stately Marjorie and Vergie, Elaine seemed to be (if he thought of instituting comparisons) little more than a child. Though her face was exceedingly fair to look upon, and her hair was chestnut-brown, her eyes, large and luminous, were neither turquoise or ebon, but more like the topaz or beryl-yet singularly expressive of all that she thought and felt. Petite, "perfectly formed as a Grecian vase of alabaster," she scarce more than came to his shoulders. The impression of childlikeness was doubly deepened by her unusual frankness, and fervency and openness of mind, such as is commonly associated with childhood-an innocent directness and confidingness not uncommon among Southern girls, but almost wholly unknown to their Northern sisters. Simonson's first feeling toward her was rather paternal until marking it one day, Elaine gaily said, "You forget,

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