She entered the forest by the long straight avenue; and Surefoot, delighted to feel his feet on the smooth, velvety sward, trotted along gayly.

"Now I am free!" said the girl. "How delightful it is to ride all by myself. I will go a long, long way this beautiful evening."

It was a perfect summer's evening, and Rachel was riding through scenery of exquisite beauty. Birds sang blithely to her as she flew lightly over the ground; squirrels looked down at her from among the branches of the forest oaks; many wild flowers smiled up at her, and all nature seemed to sympathize with her gay youth and beauty.

She was a romantic, impulsive child, and lived more or less in a world of her own imaginings.

The forest was the happiest home in the world to Rachel; Avonsyde was well enough, but no place was like the forest itself. She had a strong impression that it was still peopled by fairies. She devoured all the legends that Mrs. Newbolt, her aunt's maid, and John Eyre, one of the agisters of the forest, could impart to her. Both these good people had a lurking belief in ghosts and fairies. Eyre swore that he had many and many a time seen the treacherous little Jack-o'-lanterns. He told horrible stories of strangers who were lured into bogs by these deceitful little sprites. But Mrs. Newbolt had a far more wonderful and exciting tale to tell than this; for she spoke of a lady who, all in green, flitted through the forest--a lady with a form of almost spiritual etherealness, and with such a lovely face that those who were fortunate enough to see her ever after retained on their own countenances a faint reflection of her rare beauty. Rachel had heard of this forest lady almost from the first moment of her residence at Avonsyde. She built many brilliant castles in the air about her, and she and Kitty most earnestly desired to see her. Of course they had never yet done so, but their belief in her was not a whit diminished, and they never went into the forest without having a dim kind of hope that they might behold the lady.

Newbolt said that she appeared to very few, but she admitted that on one or two occasions of great and special moment she had revealed herself to some fair dames of the house of Lovel. She never appeared to two people together, and in consequence Rachel always longed to go into the forest alone. She felt excited to-night, and she said to herself more than once, "I wonder if I shall see her. She comes on great occasions; surely this must be a great occasion if the long-looked-for heir has come to Avonsyde. I do wonder if that little boy is the heir!"

Rachel rode on, quite forgetful of time; the rapid motion and the lovely evening raised her always versatile spirits. Her cheeks glowed; her dark eyes shone; she tossed back her rebellious curly locks and laughed aloud once or twice out of pure happiness.

She intended to go a long way, to penetrate further into the shades of the wonderful forest than she had ever done yet; but even she was unconscious how very far she was riding.

It is easy to lose one's way in the New Forest, and Rachel, accustomed as she was to all that part which immediately surrounded Avonsyde, presently found herself in a new country. She had left Rufus' Stone far behind and was now riding down a gentle descent, when something induced the adventurous little lady to consult her watch. The hour pointed to six o'clock. It would be light for a long time yet, for it was quite the middle of summer, and Rachel reflected that as tea-time was past, and as she would certainly be well scolded when she returned, she might as well stay out a little longer.

"'In for a penny, in for a pound!'" she said. "The aunties will be so angry with me, but I don't care; I mean to enjoy myself to-night. Oh, what a tempting green bank, and what a carpet of bluebells just there to the right! I must get some. Surefoot shall have a rest and a nibble at some of the gra.s.s, and I'll pick the flowers and sit on the bank for a little time."

Surefoot was very well pleased with this arrangement. He instantly, with unerring instinct, selected the juiciest and most succulent herbage which the place afforded, and was happy after his fashion. Rachel picked bluebells until she had her hands full; then seating herself, she began to arrange them. She had found a small clearing in the forest, and her seat was on the twisted and gnarled roots of a giant oak tree. Her feet were resting on a thick carpet of moss; immediately before her lay broken and undulating ground, clothed with the greenest gra.s.s, with the most perfect fronds of moss, and bestrewn with tiny silvery stems and bits of branches from the neighboring trees. A little further off was a great foreground of bracken, which completely clothed a very gentle ascent, and then the whole horizon was bounded by a semicircle of magnificent birch, oak, and beech. Some cows were feeding in the distance--they wore bells, which tinkled merrily; the doves cooed and the birds sang; the softest of zephyrs played among the trees; the evening sun flickered slant-wise through the branches and lay in brightness on the greensward; and Rachel, who was intensely sensitive to nature, clasped her hands in ecstasy.

"Oh, it is good of G.o.d to make such a beautiful world!" she said, speaking aloud in her enthusiasm; but just then something riveted Rachel's attention. She sprang to her feet, forgot her bluebells, which fell in a shower around her, and in this fresh interest became utterly oblivious to the loveliness of the scene. A lady in a plain dark dress was walking slowly, very slowly, between the trees. She was coming toward Rachel, but evidently had not seen her, for her eyes were fixed on the pages of an open book, and as she read her lips moved, as though she were learning something to repeat aloud. This part of the forest was so remote and solitary for it was miles away from any gentleman's seat, that Rachel for a moment was startled.

"Who can she be?" was her first exclamation; her second was a delighted--

"Oh, perhaps she is the lady of the forest!"

Then she exclaimed with vexation:

"No, no, she cannot be. The lady always wears green and is almost transparent, and her face is so lovely. This lady is in dark clothes and she is reading and murmuring words to herself. She looks exactly as if she were learning a stupid lesson to say aloud. Oh, I am disappointed! I had such a hope she might be the lady of the forest. I wonder where she can live; there's no house near this. Oh, dear! oh, dear! she is coming this way; she will pa.s.s me. Shall I speak to her? I almost think I will.

She seems to have a nice face, although she is not very young and she is not very beautiful."

The lady walked slowly on, her eyes still bent on her book, and so it happened that she never saw the radiant figure of pretty little Rachel until she was opposite to her. Her quiet, darkly fringed gray eyes were lifted then and surveyed the child first with astonishment; then with curiosity; then with very palpable agitation, wonder, and distress.

Rachel came a step nearer and was about to open her lips, when the lady abruptly closed her book, as abruptly turned on her heel, and walked rapidly, very rapidly, in the opposite direction away from the child.

"Oh, stop!" cried Rachel. "I want to speak to you. Who are you? It's very interesting meeting you here in the very midst of the forest!

Please don't walk away so fast! Do tell me who you are! There, you are almost running, and I can't keep up with you! What a rude forest lady you are! Well, I never knew any one so rude before!"

The lady had indeed quickened her steps, and before Rachel could reach her she had disappeared through a small green-covered porch into a tiny house, so clothed with innumerable creepers that at a distance it could scarcely be distinguished from the forest itself. Rachel stood panting and indignant outside the door. She had forgotten Surefoot; she had forgotten everything in the world but this rude lady who would not speak to her.

Rachel was a very pa.s.sionate child, and in her first indignation she felt inclined to pull the bell and insist upon seeing and conversing with the strange, silent lady. Before she could carry this idea into execution the door was opened and a neatly dressed elderly servant came out.

"Well, little miss, and what is your pleasure?" she said.

"I want to see the lady," said Rachel; "she is a very rude lady. I asked her some civil questions and she would not answer."

The old servant laid her hand on Rachel's arm and drew her a few steps away from the bowerlike house.

"What is your name, little miss?" she said.

"My name? Rachel Lovel, of course. Don't you know? Everybody knows me in the forest. I'm Rachel Lovel of Avonsyde, and my pony's name is Surefoot, and I have a sister called Kitty."

"Well, missy," continued the old woman, "I have no reason at all to mis...o...b.. your tale, but the forest is a big place, and even the grandest little ladies are not known when they stray too far from home. I have no doubt, missy, that you are Miss Lovel, and I have no doubt also that you have a kind heart, although you have a hasty tongue. Now, you know, it was very rude of you to run after my lady when she didn't want to speak to you. My lady was much upset by your following her, and you have done great mischief by just being such a curious little body."

"Mischief, have I?" said Rachel; then she laughed. "But that is quite impossible," she added, "for I never even touched the rude lady."

"You may do mischief, Miss Lovel, by many means, and curiosity is one of the most spiteful of the vices. It's my opinion that more mischief can be laid to curiosity's door than to any other door. From Eve down it was curiosity did the sin. Now, missy, my lady is lonely and unhappy, and she don't want no one to know--no one in all the wide world--that she lives in this little wild forest house; and if you tell, if you ever tell that you have seen her, or that you know where she lives, why, you will break the heart of the sweetest and gentlest lady that ever lived."

"I don't want to break any one's heart," said Rachel, turning pale.

"What very queer things you say. I don't want to break any one's heart.

I think I'll go home now."

"Not until you have promised me first, Miss Lovel--not until you have promised me true and faithful."

"Oh, I'll only tell Kitty and my aunties. I never care to talk to strangers about things. There's a new little boy come to Avonsyde--a new little boy and his mother. Of course I won't say anything to either of them, but I never keep secrets from Kitty--never!"

"Very well, miss; then my lady will have to go away. She is very tired and not strong, and she has just settled down in this little house, where she wants to rest and to be near--to be in the forest; and if you tell those aunts of yours and your little sister--if you tell anybody in all the wide world--she will have to go away again. We must pack up to night and we will be off in the morning. We'll have to wander once more, and she'll be sad and ill and lonely; but of course you won't care."

"What a cruel old woman you are!" said Rachel. "Of course I don't want anybody to be sad and lonely. I don't want to injure the forest lady, although I cannot make out why she should have to live so secret here.

Is she a wicked lady and has she committed a crime?"

"Wicked?" said the old woman, her eyes flashing. "Ah, missy, that such words should drop from your lips, and about her! Are the angels in heaven wicked? Oh, my dear, good, brave lady! No, missy. She has to keep her secret, but it is because of a cruel sin and injustice done to her, not because of any wrong done by her. Well, good-night, miss. I'll say no more. We must be off, we two, in the morning."

"No, don't go!" called out Rachel. "Of course I won't tell. If she's such a dear, good lady, I'll respect her and love her and keep her secret; only I should like to see her and to know her name."

"All in good time, my dear little missy. Thank G.o.d, you will be faithful to this good and wronged lady."

"Yes, I'll be very faithful," said Rachel. "Not even to Kitty will I breathe one word. And now I must really go home."

"G.o.d bless you, dear little miss--eh, but you're a bonny child. And is the one you call Kitty as fair to look at?"

"As fair to look at?" laughed Rachel. "Why, I'm as brown as a nut and Kitty is dazzling. Kitty is pink and white, and if you only saw her hair! It's like threads of gold."

"And the little gentleman, dear?--you spoke of a little gentleman as well. Is he your brother, love?"

"My brother?" laughed Rachel. "I have no one but Kitty. I have a mother living somewhere--she's lost, my mother is, and I'm going all round the world to look for her when I'm old enough; but I have no brother--I wish I had. Philip Lovel is a little new, strange boy who is going to be heir of Avonsyde. He came to-day with his mother. I don't much like his mother. Now good-night, old woman. I'll keep the good lady's secret most faithfully."

Rachel blew a kiss to the anxious-looking old servant, then ran gayly back to where she had left Surefoot. In the excitement of the last half-hour she had quite forgotten her withered bluebells. Mounting her pony, she galloped as fast as she could in the direction of Avonsyde. It was very late when she got back, but, strange to say, the old aunts were so much interested in Mrs. Lovel and in Mrs. Lovel's boy that they forgot to scold her or to remark her absence. She longed intensely to tell Kitty all about the thrilling and romantic adventure she had just gone through, but she was a loyal child, and having once pa.s.sed her word, nothing would induce her to break it. Kitty, too, was taken up with Philip Lovel, and Rachel, finding she was not wanted, ran up to her bedroom and lost herself in the charms of a fairy tale.

CHAPTER VI.--THE TOWER BEDROOM.

Avonsyde was a very old property. The fair lands had been bestowed by William Rufus on a certain Rupert Lovel who was fortunate enough to earn the grat.i.tude of this most tyrannical and capricious of monarchs. Rupert Lovel had laid the first stone of the present house and had lived there until his death. He was succeeded by many wild and lawless descendants.

As time went on they added to the old house, and gained, whether wrongly or rightly no one could say, more of the forest lands as their own.

Avonsyde was a large property in the olden days, and the old squires ruled those under them by what was considered at that period the only safe and wholesome rule--that of terror. They were a proud, self-confident, headstrong race, very sure of one thing--that whatever happened Avonsyde would never cease to be theirs. An old prophecy was handed down from father to son to this effect. It had been put into a couplet by a rhymer as great in his way as Thomas of border celebrity: