'Ah, Laura! what request can I refuse, where I have so much to ask?'
'Promise me, that you will never make known to my father—that you will take every means to conceal from him the—,' she hesitated, 'the—our meeting last night,' she added, rejoiced to have found a palliative expression for her meaning.
'Oh! dearest Laura! forget it;—think of it no more.'
'Promise—promise solemnly. If indeed,' added she shuddering, while an expression of anguish crossed her features, 'if indeed promises can weigh with such a one as you.'
'For pity's sake, speak not such cutting words as those.'
'Colonel Hargrave, will you give me your promise?'
'I do promise—solemnly promise. Say, but that you forgive me.'
'I thank you, Sir, for so far ensuring the safety of my father, since he might have risked his life to avenge the wrongs of his child. You cannot be surprised, if I now wish to close our acquaintance, as speedily as may be consistent with the concealment so unfortunately necessary.'
Impatient to conclude an interview which tasked her fortitude to the utmost, Laura was about to retire. Hargrave seized her hand. 'Surely, Laura, you will not leave me thus. You cannot refuse forgiveness to a fault caused by intemperate passion alone. The only atonement in my power, I now come to offer: my hand—my fortune—my future rank.'
The native spirit, and wounded delicacy of Laura, flashed from her eyes, while she replied: 'I fear, Sir, I shall not be suitably grateful for your generosity, while I recollect the alternative you would have preferred.'