“On this I insist. But not with the authority I have over you. I have no faith in that. I ask it of you as a favour. I ask it on my knees, as your father, your dearest friend. Full well, my child, do I know your honourable nature; and that if given, it will be kept. Promise me, then, that you will neither write to nor see him again!”
Once more the young girl sobbed convulsively. Her own father—her proud father at her feet as an intercessor! No wonder she wept.
And with the thought of for ever, and by one single word, cutting herself off from all communication with the man she loved—the man who had saved her life only to make it for ever after unhappy!
No wonder she hesitated. No wonder that for a time her heart balanced between duty and love—between parent and lover!
“Dear, dear child!” pursued her father, in a tone of appealing tenderness, “promise you will never know him more—without my permission.”
Was it the agonised accents that moved her? Was it some vague hope, drawn from the condition with which the appeal was concluded?
Whether or no, she gave the promise, though to pronounce it was like splitting her heart in twain.