THE BARN LOFT.
Was Darius Darke really burned to death in the old barn assigned him as
a resting-place?
So Squire Simpson thought, but he was mistaken.
When John Simpson went back to the house the tramp climbed up on the
loft and lay down on the hay.
It was a comfortable place, far more comfortable than many in which he
had been compelled to lodge, but it did not please him.
“Why,” he asked himself, “should John Simpson pass by his comfortable
stable and put me in this out-of-the-way barn? I have fallen pretty
low, it is true, but I still think a stable is not too good a place for
me. What! what is that?”
He started as he felt something cold on his face, and quickly rose to a
sitting posture.
“It is a rat!” he exclaimed, in disgust. “I felt his cold paws on my
face. I never can sleep here!”
Then the thought occurred to him that the stable was near by, and he
could probably get in easily. He groped his way down from the loft,
opened the door through which he had entered, and retraced his steps
along the path leading to the house, deviating at last and seeking the
stable.
He could not open the large door, but there was a small side door
through which he entered. Leaving it open for a minute till he could
get his bearings, he caught a glimpse of a ladder, by which he easily
ascended to the loft, which was about half filled with hay.
He stretched himself out on his humble bed with a sigh of satisfaction.
“There won’t be any rats here,” he said to himself. “The building is
new and they haven’t found a lodgment here yet. I must wake up early in
the morning and vacate the premises, and John Simpson will never know
that I changed my sleeping-room.”
Darius Darke ensconced himself in the hay, and congratulated himself on
his change of quarters. He expected to sink to sleep, but the stable
seemed close! He had always been accustomed to plenty of air, but
especially of late, when his bed had often been by the side of a fence,
or at the foot of a hay-stack, under the canopy of heaven.
“I wonder whether there isn’t a window here?” thought he.
He rose from his couch and began to explore. He was successful.
In the side of the barn was, not a window, but a small door, which was
fastened by a latch on the inside.
It was easy, of course, to open it, and admit the free air just behind
where he lay.
“That is better,” he soliloquized, in a satisfied tone, and, resuming
his place on the hay, he was soon fast asleep.
Generally he was a good sleeper. His walking during the day was enough
to insure that. To-night, however, was an exception.
Soon after midnight he awoke, and found the pale moon shining upon him
through the small door.
He rose, and drawing near the window, looked out. Mechanically, for he
had no object in so doing, he directed his glance toward the old barn,
where he had been assigned a bed. He saw something that startled him.
Beside the barn was the stooping figure of a man. He seemed to have
with him a basket, from which he drew out shavings, which he carefully
placed just at the corner of the barn, at a place where the timbers
were dry and broken.
“Good Heavens!” exclaimed Darius Darke, “he is going to set the barn on
fire!”
“Who was the incendiary? What could be his object?”
These were questions which naturally addressed themselves instantly to
the mind of the eager watcher. Was it possible----
A terrible suspicion formed itself in his mind. To resolve it, it was
necessary to identify the incendiary. Here the moonlight, which had
probably awakened him, did him a further service.
As the figure rose from its crouching posture, after applying a match
to the heap of shavings, it swiftly turned and fled, as if pursued, in
the direction of the house. In so doing, it necessarily came nearer the
watchful eye of the lodger in the stable.
“It is John Simpson!” exclaimed Darius Darke, a cold perspiration
gathering on his face. “It is clear enough now what he meant to do. He
intended to burn me up in the barn as I slept, and thus rid himself
forever of the man who was acquainted with his secret. This is the
reason why he passed by the stable and assigned me the old barn as a
resting-place. His plans are defeated. If I were a better man, I should
believe it to be by a special interposition of Providence. At any rate,
I am grateful for my escape.”
Even as he spoke the fire was making headway. The old dry timbers
formed admirable food for the flames. Besides, there was a considerable
amount of hay on the loft, and this, too, was of a highly combustible
character.
“The barn will be a heap of ashes in half an hour,” thought the tramp.
“It will, of course, attract attention, and soon there will be a crowd
here. I must close this door. No one must know that I am not actually
in the barn, the victim of the flames.”
He closed the door, but through a crevice watched the flames, and soon
heard the murmur of many voices, and the noise created by the arrival
of the fire-engine. He could not hear the explanation which was given
by John Simpson of the origin of the fire, but he guessed correctly
what he would say.
“I should like to hear the hypocrite speak,” he thought. “How shocked
these simple neighbors of his would be if they could know that the man
who holds so prominent a place among them had this very night sought to
commit a most atrocious murder!”
An hour later--less even--the barn was a smouldering mass of cinders,
and the yard was deserted.
“I mustn’t stay here any longer,” thought Darius Darke. “I am sorry to
lose my night’s sleep, but I must be up and away while the village lies
buried in sleep. For the present John Simpson must suppose me dead, but
the time will come when the man he thinks murdered will rise from the
grave to disturb his peace.”
He descended to the floor, slipped out of the door by which he had
entered, and ere the morning dawned was ten miles away from Wilton.