She would have kissed his own in the abasement and gratitude of the moment. But he restrained her.
“No more, your ladyship,” said he, and by thus giving her once more the title she had worn, he seemed to reinstate her in the station from which in self-defence he had pulled her down. “Promise that you'll bear no witness against me should so much be needed, and I'll cry quits with you. Without your testimony, they cannot hurt me, even though they were disposed to do so, which is scarcely likely.”
“Sir—sir—” she faltered brokenly. “Could you—could you suppose—”
“Indeed, no. So no more, ma'am. You do but harass yourself. Fare you well, my lady. If I may trespass for a few moments longer upon the hospitality of Stretton House, I'll be your debtor.”
“The house—and all—is yours, sir,” she reminded him.
“There's but one thing in it that I'll carry off with me,” said he. He held the door for her.
She looked into his face a moment. “God keep you!” said she, with a surprising fervor in one not over-fluent at her prayers. “God reward you for showing this mercy to an old woman—who does not deserve so much.”
“Fare you well, madam,” he said again, bowing gravely. “And fare you well, Lord Ostermore,” he added to her son.
His brother looked at him a moment; seemed on the point of speaking, and then—taking his cue, no doubt, from his mother's attitude—he held out his hand.
Mr. Caryll took it, shook it, and let it go. After all, he bethought him, the man was his brother. And if his bearing was not altogether cordial, it was, at least, a clement imitation of cordiality.