“You must speak with my daughter, lieutenant, before we part,” continued Mr. Guilford. “Her gratitude has no limit.”
Lieutenant Somers was astounded by the effrontery of his military companion, who had claimed to be his friend, and forced himself upon the acquaintance of the powerful man on the strength of that intimacy; had even brought to his notice the fact—if it was a fact—that he had been at Magenta and in the Crimea. The simple-minded young man had seen no such diplomacy in Pinchbrook, or in the course of his travels in Maryland and Virginia; and he was fearful that the audacious fellow would dare to address the daughter as he had the father.
“Be seated,” said the Senator, as he pointed to the seat in front of Miss Emmie.
She was pale, and appeared to be suffering from the pain of her broken arm; but she bestowed a sweet smile upon him as he took the proffered seat.
“Lieutenant Somers, after what I have heard from Mr. Holman”—that was the gentleman who had spoken so handsomely of him—“I feel sure that I owe my life to you.”
“I think not, Miss Guilford,” replied the lieutenant, very much embarrassed. “I only pulled you out from the ruins; I couldn’t have helped doing it if I had tried; and I hope you won’t feel under any obligations to me.”
“But I do feel under very great obligations to you, and I assure you I am happy to owe my life to so brave and gallant a soldier.”
Somers felt just as though he was reading an exciting chapter in a sensational novel; though he could not help thinking of Lilian Ashford, and thus spoiling all the romance of the affair. He made no reply to Miss Emmie’s pretty speech; it was utterly impossible for him to do so; and therein he differed from all the heroes of the novels.
“I want to hear from you some time, and even to see you again. You must promise to call and see me when we get to Washington.”
“I may not be able to leave my regiment at that time.”