“Your lover?”
“Yes.”
“But I can give you nothing except myself.”
“Love is enough;” and finding his arms about her, his face, warm and wistful, close to hers, Gladys bent to give and take the first kiss, which was all they had to bestow upon each other.
Singularly unimpassioned was the embrace in which they stood for a brief instant. Canaris held her with a clasp more jealous than fond; Gladys clung to him, yet trembled, as if some fear subdued her joy; and both vaguely felt the incompleteness of a moment which should be perfect.
“You do love me, then?” she whispered, wondering at his silence.
“Should I ask you to be my wife if I did not?” and the stern look melted into an expression of what seemed, to her, reproach.
“No; ah, no! I fancied that I might have deceived myself. I am so young, you are so kind. I never had a—friend before;” and Gladys smiled shyly, as the word which meant “lover” dropped from her lips.
“I am not kind: I am selfish, cruel, perhaps, to let you love me so. You will never reproach me for it, Gladys? I mean to save you from ills you know nothing of; to cherish and protect you—if I can.”
Verily in earnest now; for the touch of those innocent lips reminded him of all his promise meant, recalled his own unfitness to guide or guard another, when so wayward and unwise himself. Gladys could not understand the true cause of his beseeching look, his urgency of tone; but saw in them only the generous desire to keep safe the creature dearest to him, and loved him the more for it.