CHAPTER XXV "COUSINS!"

Like the shock from a galvanic battery did that sound breathe life into my frozen limbs. Holding a chair before my face I literally burst through the high French windows, crashing the glass and splintering the framework into a thousand pieces. With the cry of a wild beast I dashed across the lawn and leaped over the privet hedge. Maud, my Maud, was scarcely a dozen yards from me, struggling in the grasp of the man who had come to rob me of his confession, with his great hand pressed against her wild, beautiful face to stop her cries.

They heard me coming, and he half released her, and with his other hand pointed a revolver at me. But passion must have lent me wings, for before he could pull the trigger I had dashed it into the air, where it exploded harmlessly, and with my clenched fist I struck him such a blow as I had never struck before or since. He was a powerful man, with a thick, bullet-shaped head, but he went down like a log, and well-nigh never rose again. His companion, without a word, turned and ran across the park like a hare, and I let him go.

Maud was in my arms, sobbing hysterically, Maud with the moon shining down on her blanched but exquisite face, and her white arms thrown around my neck. If she were the daughter of a prince of hell she was still the woman I loved; and I stooped and covered her cold face and lips with passionate kisses. Then I caught her up in my arms, for she was shivering, and ran with her to the house.

Every one had been roused by the sound of my exit, and the report of the revolver. Marian, with her dressing-gown loosely wrapped around her, was standing trembling at the head of the stairs, and behind her were the servants more frightened even than she. When she saw me cross the hall with Maud's lifeless form (for her faint seemed almost the faint of death) in my arms, she gave vent to one cry of blank amazement and horror, and then hurried down to us.

"Hugh, Hugh," she whispered, clinging to me as I laid my burden down on the sofa, and fell on my knees by its side. "Maud here! Maud out in the park at this time of night! What has happened, Hugh? What does it all mean?"

"Can't you see?" I muttered hoarsely, never withdrawing my eyes from the white, cold face. "She has had a fright, and has fainted!"

"But what on earth has brought her here—out at this time of night? And in her slippers, too!"

I was on the point of saying that I knew no more than she, but suddenly the truth flashed into my mind. Maud had walked out in her sleep! I had heard her say that for a long time she had been obliged to have her maid in her room at night, and sleep with locked doors; and that when Sir Francis lay dangerously ill not many years ago, nearly every night when she had gone to bed thinking of him, she had risen in her sleep and tried to make her way to his room. Then she must have been thinking of me! A sudden thrill of joy passed through me at the thought, and Marian looked at me in stupefied bewilderment to see the smile which for a moment parted my lips.

"She must have come out in her sleep, Marian," I whispered. "There were some men hanging about outside—poachers I suppose—and they have frightened her. Get some brandy, quick! and tell one of the girls to light a fire. We must have some hot water."

She hurried away, and the door had scarcely closed when Maud changed her position slightly, and her lips moved. I bent my ear close over her, and this is what I heard:

"Hugh! Hugh!"

My heart throbbed with a great joy. Suddenly I stooped down and kissed her half-open lips passionately. Then I drew back and stood upright, for I saw that she was fast recovering consciousness.

First her breathing became deeper and less fitful. Then, with a little sigh, she opened her eyes and raised herself a little on her elbow.

She looked around in blank bewilderment. Then her eyes fell upon me, and the hot colour rushed into her cheeks.

"Mr. Arbuthnot! Why, where am I? How did I come here? and those men," she added, with a shudder, "those fearful men; was it all a dream?" She raised her hand to her forehead and looked at me appealingly. I hardened my voice as much as possible, and avoided meeting her eyes.

"I think I can explain to you what has happened," I said. "You must have got up in your sleep, and walked down through the copse. There were some men outside; I believe they were going to try and break in here, and one of them must have caught hold of you, for when I heard your scream and ran out, you were struggling in his grasp. I knocked him down, and the other one ran away. Then I carried you here, and here you are. Marian has just gone out to fetch some brandy."

Womanlike, her first thought was of her appearance, and she sat up and looked at herself eagerly. Evidently she had fallen asleep before preparing to retire, for the only change in her dress since the evening was that she had exchanged her dinner-gown for a long white dressing-robe, and let down her hair. Nevertheless, she blushed as she sat up, and looked at me, pushing back the waves of hair from her face.

"I remember falling asleep in the easy chair," she said, slowly, "and after that everything seems like a horrid dream. Those men's fearful faces, and you—oh, how fierce you looked! But it all seems very indistinct."

Then Marian came in, and she turned to her smiling.

"Miss Arbuthnot, I'm afraid you'll think this a very unceremonious morning call. You didn't know I was a sleep-walker, did you?"

Marian put down the decanter she was carrying with a little cry of relief.

"Oh, dear, I'm so glad to see you all right again. What an awful adventure you've had!"

Maud smiled placidly. She was her old self again, stately and composed.

"It might have been a great deal worse but for your brother," she acknowledged; "I wonder if they've found out at the Court. They'll be getting a little anxious if they have."

"Unless I'm very much mistaken they've found out," I answered. "Listen."

I went out and threw open the hall door. Clearly enough we could hear the alarm bell at the Court clanging out with shrill, quick strokes, and the whole of the park seemed dotted with men carrying lanterns, looking like will-o'-the-wisps, and making the soft night air echo with their hoarse shouts. Two figures were rapidly approaching the cottage, and I hailed them.

"Have you seen anything of Miss Devereux?" called out Groves, the head butler. "She's out in the park somewhere a-walking in her sleep."

"She is here," I answered, and then I went in and told Maud that they had come for her.

Marian left us to find a warmer cloak and thicker shoes, and for a moment we were together. She turned to me at once with a sweet, sad smile on her lips, and a look of regret shining out of the azure depths of her dim eyes.

"Mr. Arbuthnot, I had quite forgotten, in all this excitement, what happened in the picture gallery. We are cousins, are we not?"

I shook my head.

"It is not a relationship which I shall claim," I answered, slowly. "If I should see you again before I go, Miss Devereux, it will be as Mr. Arbuthnot."

Her eyes were speaking to me—speaking words which her lips could not utter, but I avoided them.

Eager voices were hurrying through the garden, and Maud held out her hand with a hurried gesture.

"At any rate, you will let me thank you for your timely aid this evening. But for you I don't know what might not have happened."

I took her hand and raised it to my lips. Then I let it drop, and moved towards the door.

"I think I ought to thank you rather," I answered, with a pretence at a laugh, "for giving me the alarm. If those fellows had got into the house and taken me by surprise, things might have been worse for me, at any rate."

I opened the door and admitted Groves and several of the other servants. Francis Devereux was there, too, but he stood on the pathway outside, without offering to enter, neither did I invite him. Maud went out to him at once, and then I explained to the gaping little crowd what had happened.

"What became of the one you knocked over, sir?" asked Groves, after the little chorus of wondering exclamations had subsided.

"There now, most likely," I answered, with a start. "I'd forgotten all about him."

We all trooped over to the spot, and there he lay, doubled up in the underwood, his face drawn with pain, and still unconscious. To say that I was sorry for him would have been a lie; nay, if Rupert Devereux had lain by his side I should have been only the better pleased. But he lay so still and motionless that I stooped over him anxiously, and felt his heart. It was beating, though faintly, and I felt distinctly relieved when I looked up again.

"He's alive," I declared, "but only just. Better get him some brandy."

They brought him some from the house, and I poured it between his lips. He revived at once.

"We'd a best take him up to the Court, sir," remarked Groves. "You won't want him down here with only yourself in the house."

So they took him away, and as the long streaks of red light in the east slowly deepened until the autumn sun rose up from behind the pine-trees like a ball of glowing fire, I threw myself down on the couch and slept.