Vera, forgotten and in the background, had listened to this conversation with the closest interest and attention. She too recalled the good-looking young man she had seen in church and at the Meet; she had been struck by his masterly control of the frantic chestnut, and the delightful ease with which he kept his temper, and his seat.
The “automobile,” as Lady Donnelly grandiloquently called it, held four comfortably, but no more, and, at present, such was its novelty and fascination, that its owners went out in it daily and in all weathers, partly perhaps to exhibit their acquisition, and to excite the envy of their friends.
Mrs. de Lisle enjoyed motoring; the soft moist air was, she believed, good for her cure and complexion, and therefore Vera, like the little pig of our childhood, was left at home. However, as it happened, Vera preferred rambling about the garden, the demesne, the adjacent bog, and making friends with the country-folk. Hobbs, her mother’s maid, was supposed to be her escort, but Miss Hobbs, of London, disliked country walks, and frequently excused herself on the plea of a headache, or a corn; and Vera, with the two red setters, was suffered to depart alone, Hobbs assuring herself that with the best wish in the world, her young lady—a dear simple child—could not get into any mischief.
But Hobbs was too sanguine. As she sat in the housekeeper’s room with her feet on the fender, and a strong cup of “Ann Lynch’s” best in her hand, imparting society episodes to a gaping audience, her charge was setting her pretty face in the direction of an adventure.
The bog she was so fond of was not the traditional dark tract, diversified by deep black holes and turf clamps, but a wide expanse of short grass, studded with furze bushes, and populated by goats, geese, and rabbits. The air was delicious, the sensation of unattended freedom intoxicating, the dogs were happy, and so was Vera. She had a secret and sincere love of Nature, and enjoyed her wild, unusual surroundings, and the odd sights and sounds—such as the flight of a V-shaped wedge of wild geese, the sudden rise of a jack snipe; and felt completely independent, and at home, as she walked briskly over the springy turf. A line of dark woods beckoned her thoughts to Heganstown, and the tragic fate of young Hegan, caught in a quagmire of circumstance, and compelled to lead a wasted life, with none to help him. Surely Sir Domnick might hold out a hand; but he wouldn’t—no, he was a selfish old pig—yes, he was; he seized on all the new papers—even on the Queen; he took more than his share of cream and oysters, helped himself to the fowl’s liver, and most of the motor rug—Vera had made it her business to watch him! No, he would only exert himself to the extent of his personal comforts, and young Hegan might hang himself for all he cared!
Sir Domnick’s delinquencies, and the question of assisting Dermot Hegan, occupied her mind to the exclusion of everything else. She was wondering if she could forward him anonymously a five-pound note, her godfather’s tip, when she suddenly became aware of the rapid descent of a dense white mist, and could hardly see six yards ahead. For a moment she stood quite still, enveloped in a cloud of damp, impenetrable mist; then she started to retrace her steps, and after groping about for what seemed a long time, realised that she was lost! In some inexplicable manner she found herself upon an island apparently surrounded on all sides by trenches of unfathomable black water. This much she could discern. What she could not see, was any means of departure. Where was the wobbly stick that usually bridged such chasms? The fog now turned from white to grey, and she realised that her safest attitude was complete inactivity, and sat down on a mound all alone—having been basely abandoned by the two setters.
After a little reflection, she decided to call, to scream for help; her voice was a fine robust soprano, and carried fairly far.
Dermot Hegan, who had been shooting rabbits for the larder, and was, so to speak, feeling his way home, heard an unusual cry and halted. No, it was not a curlew or a trapped rabbit, or even an owl. There it was again, it came from a human throat, and said “Help! Help! Help!” Dermot knew every inch of the bog; the cry came from a part known as “the Puzzle,” and it was not long before he had crossed the ditch, and called out, “All right.” Then a shrill treble voice from the gloom announced, “I’ve lost my way; I don’t know where I am!”
The young man struck a match, held it aloft, and discovered a girl, who had risen to her feet, and by the faint illumination they gravely inspected one another. He beheld a pretty face, and a pair of startled dark eyes; and she was confronted by the object of her meditations—no less a person than Dermot Hegan. Then the match, after the manner of its kind, went out.
“You are the girl who is staying at Clonallon, are you not?”