Mr. Baring raised his eyebrows; he did not trouble to inquire to whom she had alluded. After a brief pause he said quietly:
“There is no reason whatever for you to despair. At this present moment my father and I are absolutely aware of two claimants for the Avonsyde heirship—only one can inherit the place and both may prove unsuitable. You know that the ladies will not bequeath their property to any one who cannot prove direct descent from the elder branch; also the heir must be strong and vigorous. Up to the present neither my father nor I have seen any conclusive proof of direct succession. We are quite aware that a little boy of the name of Lovel is at present on a visit at Avonsyde, but we also know that the Misses Lovel will take no definite steps in the matter without our sanction. I would not fret beforehand, Mrs. Lovel. It seems tame and old-fashioned advice, but I should recommend you for your own sake to hope for the best.”
“I will do so,” said Mrs. Lovel, rising to her feet. “I will do so, even though I can no longer buoy myself up with false dreams. I feel absolutely convinced that before Rachel’s birthday an heir will be found for the old place. Let it be so—I shall not struggle. It may be best for my children to come back to me; it will certainly be best for me to have them with me again. I won’t take up any more of your time this morning, Mr. Baring.”
“Well, come again to-morrow morning. I have got some more work for you and of quite a profitable kind. By the way, the new claimants—they have just come from Australia and I am to see them in a moment—are in a desperate taking about an old tankard which seems to have been a family heirloom and would go far to prove their descent. The tankard is lost; also a packet of valuable letters. You see, my dear madam, their claim, as it stands at present, is anything but complete.”
Mrs. Lovel said a few more words to Mr. Baring, and then promising to call on the morrow, left him. To effect her exit from the house she had to pass through the room where the Australians were waiting. Her interview had excited her; her pale face was slightly flushed; her veil was up. Perhaps the slight color on those usually pale cheeks had brought back some of the old and long-forgotten girlish bloom. The winter’s day was sunshiny, and as she walked through the waiting-room the intense light throwing her features into strong relief, so strongly and so vividly did that slight and rather worn figure stand out that a man who had been sitting quietly by started forward with an exclamation:
“Surely I am addressing Rachel Cunningdale?”
The lady raised her eyes to the great, strong, bearded face.
“You are Rupert Lovel,” she answered quietly.
“I am, and this is my boy. Here, Rupert, lad, this lady was once your mother’s greatest friend. Why, Rachel, it is twenty years since we met. You were scarcely grown up and such a bright bit of a girl, and now——”
“And now,” answered Mrs. Lovel, “I have been a wife and a mother. I am now a widow and, I may say it, childless; and, Rupert, the strangest part of all, my name too is Lovel.”