“Lord Stanton, ma’am,” the butler repeated. “He asked if you would receive him. He said as he would not come in till I asked would you receive him, ma’am. I said you was at home, and not engaged—but he said—— ”
“Lord Stanton!” The name seemed to hurt her, and a kind of dull fear rose in Mary’s mind. She knew, of course, who it was! the young successor of the man who, with intention or not, her brother had brought to his death. She knew well enough about Geoff. It had not been possible to hear the name at any time without interest, and in this way Mary had learned as much as strangers knew of the young lord. But what could he want here? A subdued panic seized her. She did not know what he could do, or if he could do anything; but that he should come merely as a friend did not seem probable. And how then had he come? She made a tremendous pause before she said, “Let him come in, Eastwood.” Eastwood thought Miss Musgrave was very properly impressed by the name of the young lord.
Geoff, for his part, waited outside, anxious as to how he was to be received, and very desirous in his boyish generosity to make a good impression. He had driven to Penninghame, a long way, and his horses, drawn up at the door, made a great show, when the children passed, stealing round the corner like little intruders, but so much attracted by this sight, that they almost forgot their orders never to approach the hall door. Geoff himself was standing at some distance from his phaeton, waiting for his answer; but even Lilias was old enough to know that to address commendatory remarks and friendly overtures to a horse or a dog is more easy and natural than to address a man. She said, “Oh, look, Nello, what lovely horses!” but only ventured to look up shyly into the friendly face of their owner, though she was not without an impression that he, too, was nice, and that he might give his friends a drive perhaps, with the lovely horses, a service which was not in the power of the animals themselves.
Geoff went up to them, holding out his hand. “You are the little Musgraves, I suppose?” he said.
The boy hung back, as usual, hanging by Martuccia’s skirts. “Yes,” said Lilias, looking at him intently, as she always did; and she added at once, “This is Nello,” and did her best to put her small brother in the foreground, though he resisted, holding back and close to his protector.
“Is he shy, or is he frightened? He need not be frightened of me,” said Geoff, unconsciously conscious of the facts between them which might have caused the child’s timidity had he been old enough to know. “Nello is an odd name for a boy.”
“Because you do not know where he came from,” said Lilias quickly. “Nello is born in Florence. Here you will call him John. It is not so pretty. And me, I am born in France,” she continued; “but we are English children. That does not make any difference.”
“Don’t you think so?” said simple Geoff. The little woman of twelve who thus fixed him with her great beautiful eyes, made him feel a boy in comparison with her mature childhood. She never relaxed in her watchful look. This was a habit Lilias had got, a habit born of helplessness, and of the sense of responsibility for her brother which was so strong in her mind. That intent, half-suspicious vigilance, as of one fully aware that he might mean harm, and quick to note the approach of danger, disconcerted Geoff, who meant nothing but good. “I know two little girls,” he said, trying to be conciliatory, “who would like very much to know you.”
“Ah!” said Lilias, melting a little, but shaking her head. “I have to take care of Nello; but if they would come here, and would not mind Nello,” she added, “perhaps I might play with them. I could ask—Mary—— ”
“Who is—Mary?”