CHAPTER XXXIII

THE HORROR OF LONELINESS

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ORE than once, as a pastime of his loneliness, Ashgrave had pictured Barnaby to himself a wanderer into the wilderness to the north and east, and even as dying there of exposure and want. The mention of the supposed wild man ran naturally with this picture, even if Ashgrave had not been startled by Blanket's use of Barnaby's name. Just what that mention implied, Ashgrave was at a loss to understand, and between the alternates of a mere accident and of a suspicion that sought confirmation, he was inclined to the latter.

In any event, the incident was excuse for a trip to Belmont, where news might be had and where at the tavern he could at least see a Milbank paper. So after early chores, he put the horse into the old open buggy and drove over. As usual, Bill Holden and Si Patterson, with their cronies, were found in the tavern office. Their loud talk and rough banter fed his hunger for companionship and, with frequent visits to certain remote parts of the premises, made him forget the errand on which he had come. He was already growing glum with the thought of the long drive and the dull dark house that awaited him, when from behind the desk, Bartlett, the proprietor, called out:

"By gum, Ashgrave, ef I hev n't ben a thinkin' you 'd done up that feller Barnaby that was missin' over your way, an' here he turns up in Milbank, by gosh!"

Ashgrave gave a start and felt something clutch at

his heart, which for an instant seemed to stop beating. To carry off the matter, he tried to answer indifferently. "Was he that wild man?"

"I didn't say nothin' erbout a wild man," answered Bartlett, looking at him a little curiously. “It's him, but how did you know?"

"I did n't," replied Ashgrave. "Only Blanket told me about one over there, and I sorter connected the two when you said Barnaby had turned up."

Ashgrave reached out his hand and took the paper, while the others gathered around and read over his shoulder. The most had been made of meagre facts. A wild man had been reported as living in the woods, where he had frightened several parties of boys and girls. He had been at some farms in search of food, and always appeared harmless and even friendly. At last a posse was raised and had found him living in an old hut some four miles from the village, to which he had been brought and there lodged at the poor farm. Physicians who examined him gave the opinion that he had been brought up in at least comparative affluence. They found him suffering from an injury to the head, with pressure of the skull on the brain, resulting in a partial paralysis of certain muscles and also in loss of memory. They were of opinion that a comparatively simple operation would remove the pressure and completely restore the man to his normal condition. The name of "Barnaby" on a portion of the clothing had given a clue to identity, which was followed up by a detective who had been employed in the search for Francis Barnaby, who disappeared some months before from Padanaram. He had placed himself in touch with young Barnaby's father, with the result of the complete identification of the wild man as the missing man.

At the very end of the long-winded article was a single sentence which Ashgrave read and re-read before he laid down the paper.

The physicians who have examined young Barnaby, and they include all of our most distinguished members of the medical fraternity as well as some noted names from down the river, who have been attracted by the unusual and highly interesting features of a most notable case, are of the opinion that not only can the young man be wholly restored but also that when he has recovered his normal condition his faculty of memory will be restored and he will be able to recall and state all the circumstances up to the moment of his injury which preceded his disappearance, and identify any one who may have been instrumental in inflicting it, if it was not a pure accident as, we may say in passing, Mr. Fry, the local detective, does not think it was.

This sentence, clumsy and involved, brought sharply home to Ashgrave his danger through Barnaby's restoration, danger theretofore lost sight of when he thought of such restoration as possible, in the greater interest of the anticipated revenge of his actual marriage with Amanda.

"Gosh!" exclaimed Bill Holden, "the cuss 's goin' tu get well! Now we 'll know what darned trick Joe played on him.”

It was that subtle, intangible and non-resistible danger, which is the spirit of the law, of which Ashgrave felt the unseen menace. Here was the sharp dividing line, which separated conduct into the moral and immoral, according as it did or did not render one amenable to the law. An arrest in itself, not in the essence of the act that caused it, would have for him disgrace; and the act which, because forbidden by law, was wrong, would have lost its wrongful character with the repeal of the legislation which prescribed the penalty. To this band of cronies, he would have felt no compunction

in telling exactly what had passed between him and Barnaby. He resented Holden's insinuation only because behind towered the shadow of the constable.

"Hi, Joe, your sins be a findin' you out, beant they?" cackled Si Patterson.

"Shut up your old bean-trap!" shouted Ashgrave, sharp with the fear of an unknown danger.

'Bein' as you did n't kill him, what 'n thunder did you do to him, Joe?" asked Bartlett.

"I've told all I know about it more 'n a hundred times," said he doggedly, the instinct of denial reasserting its force.

"I hain't sayin' you 're lyin', Joe," said the landlord, "but I be sayin' you 're doin' jest what I do when I lie."

Ashgrave buttoned his coat, drew on his mittens, and going to the horse-shed, unfastened his horse and started homeward without a word. Dread and perplexity were too heavy upon him for idle anger, and these companions were not of those who could help him. As he drove through the clear night, the wish for Amanda strove for place in his mind with the fear of Barnaby's restoration. Her clearmindedness, her calm, unflinching fidelity, her womanly spirit of self-sacrifice, these were the qualities that had made her for him preëminent among women, and if mere passion had played its part, it had come as the incident of opportunity, and not as the dominant force, as it had been with other women. He turned to her now with the thought that she was his, and he had the right to command.

But had he? He had made his own terms and she had accepted them. Was he in position to call them off and ask that in their relationship which he had expressly excluded? Moreover, his danger came through Barnaby,

and it was Barnaby who had stood between them and first revealed to her the gulf that was fixed between them. With a countryman's suspicion, he had no faith in a fidelity that ran counter to desire, unless there was the prospect of material gain, which did not exist in this case. His claim, emasculated by his own act, held no promise for him when it was set against Barnaby.

The aid, which he asserted to himself he had the right to command, was to him of all men impossible.

The house stood dark, a blackness against the midnight heavens. He put the horse in stall and gave him generous bedding. In so simple an act, he was doing something for a living creature, and it gave him comfort. He passed the oxen lying in the straw and chewing their cud, and slapped them on the haunches, as he would give them greeting. Then he looked into the cow-shed, and stood listening to the soft breathing of the cows and yearlings.

He was not afraid of the darkness of the house; the shadows that lurked in corners and waited for him at the opening of a door had no terrors for him. The terrible thing was the absence of a living, breathing thing in the vacant rooms. Their emptiness stared at him from the windows; the silence spoke of it, the very echo of his steps was companionless.

In the stall next the horse that was munching the extra oats he had given it, he scattered a double allowance of clean yellow straw. Then rolling a blanket for a pillow, he wrapped another about him and lay down on the rude bed. At least, if he awoke in the night, he would hear the movements of the horse, the rhythmic sound of cudchewing, the soft breathing of oxen, the rattle of chains, the occasional twittering of swallows in the high roof. Every sound would tell of something living close at