Beside himself with humiliation, remorse, and wrath, Canaris flung himself down before her, as if only by clinging to that frail spar could he ride out the storm in which he was lost without compass or rudder.
Then Gladys showed him that such love as hers could not fail, but, like an altar-fire, glowed the stronger for every costly sacrifice thrown therein. Lifting up the discrowned head, she laid it on her bosom with a sweet motherliness which comforted more than her tender words.
“My poor Felix! you have suffered enough for this deceit; I forgive it, and keep my reproaches for the false friend who led you astray.”
“It was so paltry, weak, and selfish. You must despise me,” he said, wistfully, still thinking more of his own pain than hers.
“I do despise the sin, not the dear sinner who repents and is an honest man again.”
“But a beggar.”
“We have each other. Hush! stand up; some one is coming.”
Canaris had barely time to spring to his feet, when Stern came in, and was about to pass on in silence, though much amazed to see Gladys there at that hour, when the expression of the young man’s face made him forget decorum and stop short, exclaiming, anxiously,—
“Mr. Felix, what’s the matter? Is master worse?”
“Safe and asleep. Mrs. Canaris came to see what I was about.”