THE SPREAD OF FIRE
The doctor kept his word. His hand was the first that touched Jane's
when she came down the gangplank, Martha beside him, holding out her
arms for the child, cuddling it to her bosom, wrapping her shawl about
it as if to protect it from the gaze of the inquisitive.
"O doctor! it was so good of you!" were Jane's first words. It hurt her
to call him thus, but she wanted to establish the new relation clearly.
She had shouldered her cross and must bear its weight alone and in her
own way. "You don't know what it is to see a face from home! I am so
glad to get here. But you should not have left your people; I wrote
Martha and told her so. All I wanted you to do was to have her meet me
here. Thank you, dear friend, for coming."
She had not let go his hand, clinging to him as a timid woman in
crossing a narrow bridge spanning an abyss clings to the strong arm of
a man.
He helped her to the dock as tenderly as if she had been a child;
asking her if the voyage had been a rough one, whether she had been ill
in her berth, and whether she had taken care of the baby herself, and
why she had brought no nurse with her. She saw his meaning, but she did
not explain her weakness or offer any explanation of the cause of her
appearance or of the absence of a nurse. In a moment she changed the
subject, asking after his mother and his own work, and seemed
interested in what he told her about the neighbors.
When the joy of hearing her voice and of looking into her dear face
once more had passed, his skilled eyes probed the deeper. He noted with
a sinking at the heart the dark circles under the drooping lids, the
drawn, pallid skin and telltale furrows that had cut their way deep
into her cheeks. Her eyes, too, had lost their lustre, and her step
lacked the spring and vigor of her old self. The diagnosis alarmed him.
Even the mould of her face, so distinguished, and to him so beautiful,
had undergone a change; whether through illness, or because of some
mental anguish, he could not decide.
When he pressed his inquiries about Lucy she answered with a
half-stifled sigh that Lucy had decided to remain abroad for a year
longer; adding that it had been a great relief to her, and that at
first she had thought of remaining with her, but that their affairs, as
he knew, had become so involved at home that she feared their means of
living might be jeopardized if she did not return at once. The child,
however, would be a comfort to both Martha and herself until Lucy came.
Then she added in a constrained voice:
"Its mother would not, or could not care for it, and so I brought it
with me."
Once at home and the little waif safely tucked away in the crib that
had sheltered Lucy in the old days, the neighbors began to flock in;
Uncle Ephraim among the first.
"My, but I'm glad you're back!" he burst out. "Martha's been lonelier
than a cat in a garret, and down at our house we ain't much better. And
so that Bunch of Roses is going to stay over there, is she, and set
those Frenchies crazy?"
Pastor Dellenbaugh took both of Jane's hands into his own and looking
into her face, said:
"Ah, but we've missed you! There has been no standard, my dear Miss
Jane, since you've been gone. I have felt it, and so has everyone in
the church. It is good to have you once more with us."
Mrs. Cavendish could hardly conceal her satisfaction, although she was
careful what she said to her son. Her hope was that the care of the
child would so absorb Jane that John would regain his freedom and be no
longer subservient to Miss Cobden's whims.
"And so Lucy is to stay in Paris?" she said, with one of her sweetest
smiles. "She is so charming and innocent, that sweet sister of yours,
my dear Miss Jane, and so sympathetic. I quite lost my heart to her.
And to study music, too? A most noble accomplishment, my dear. My
grandmother, who was an Erskine, you know, played divinely on the harp,
and many of my ancestors, especially the Dagworthys, were accomplished
musicians. Your sister will look lovely bending over a harp. My
grandmother had her portrait painted that way by Peale, and it still
hangs in the old house in Trenton. And they tell me you have brought a
little angel with you to bring up and share your loneliness? How
pathetic, and how good of you!"
The village women--they came in groups--asked dozens of questions
before Jane had had even time to shake each one by the hand. Was Lucy
so in love with the life abroad that she would never come back? was she
just as pretty as ever? what kind of bonnets were being worn? etc., etc.
The child in Martha's arms was, of course, the object of special
attention. They all agreed that it was a healthy, hearty, and most
beautiful baby; just the kind of a child one would want to adopt if one
had any such extraordinary desires.
This talk continued until they had gained the highway, when they also
agreed--and this without a single dissenting voice--that in all the
village Jane Cobden was the only woman conscientious enough to want to
bring up somebody else's child, and a foreigner at that, when there
were any quantity of babies up and down the shore that could be had for
the asking. The little creature was, no doubt, helpless, and appealed
to Miss Jane's sympathies, but why bring it home at all? Were there not
places enough in France where it could be brought up? etc., etc. This
sort of gossip went on for days after Jane's return, each dropper-in at
tea-table or village gathering having some view of her own to express,
the women doing most of the talking.
The discussion thus begun by friends was soon taken up by the sewing
societies and church gatherings, one member in good standing remarking
loud enough to be heard by everybody:
"As for me, I ain't never surprised at nothin' Jane Cobden does. She's
queerer than Dick's hat-band, and allus was, and I've knowed her ever
since she used to toddle up to my house and I baked cookies for her.
I've seen her many a time feed the dog with what I give her, just
because she said he looked hungry, which there warn't a mite o' truth
in, for there ain't nothin' goes hungry round my place, and never was.
She's queer, I tell ye."
"Quite true, dear Mrs. Pokeberry," remarked Pastor Dellenbaugh in his
gentlest tone--he had heard the discussion as he was passing through
the room and had stopped to listen--"especially when mercy and kindness
is to be shown. Some poor little outcast, no doubt, with no one to take
care of it, and so this grand woman brings it home to nurse and
educate. I wish there were more Jane Cobdens in my parish. Many of you
talk good deeds, and justice, and Christian spirit; here is a woman who
puts them into practice."
This statement having been made during the dispersal of a Wednesday
night meeting, and in the hearing of half the congregation, furnished
the key to the mystery, and so for a time the child and its new-found
mother ceased to be an active subject of discussion.
Ann Gossaway, however, was not satisfied. The more she thought of the
pastor's explanation the more she resented it as an affront to her
intelligence.
"If folks wants to pick up stray babies," she shouted to her old mother
on her return home one night, "and bring 'em home to nuss, they oughter
label 'em with some sort o' pedigree, and not keep the village
a-guessin' as to who they is and where they come from. I don't believe
a word of this outcast yarn. Guess Miss Lucy is all right, and she
knows enough to stay away when all this tomfoolery's goin' on. She
doesn't want to come back to a child's nussery." To all of which her
mother nodded her head, keeping it going like a toy mandarin long after
the subject of discussion had been changed.
Little by little the scandal spread: by innuendoes; by the wise
shakings of empty heads; by nods and winks; by the piecing out of
incomplete tattle. For the spread of gossip is like the spread of fire:
First a smouldering heat--some friction of ill-feeling, perhaps, over a
secret sin that cannot be smothered, try as we may; next a hot,
blistering tongue of flame creeping stealthily; then a burst of
scorching candor and the roar that ends in ruin. Sometimes the victim
is saved by a dash of honest water--the outspoken word of some brave
friend. More often those who should stamp out the burning brand stand
idly by until the final collapse and then warm themselves at the blaze.
Here in Warehold it began with some whispered talk: Bart Holt had
disappeared; there was a woman in the case somewhere; Bart's exile had
not been entirely caused by his love of cards and drink. Reference was
also made to the fact that Jane had gone abroad but a short time AFTER
Bart's disappearance, and that knowing how fond she was of him, and how
she had tried to reform him, the probability was that she had met him
in Paris. Doubts having been expressed that no woman of Jane Cobden's
position would go to any such lengths to oblige so young a fellow as
Bart Holt, the details of their intimacy were passed from mouth to
mouth, and when this was again scouted, reference was made to Miss
Gossaway, who was supposed to know more than she was willing to tell.
The dressmaker denied all responsibility for the story, but admitted
that she had once seen them on the beach "settin' as close together as
they could git, with the red cloak she had made for Miss Jane wound
about 'em.
"'Twarn't none o' my business, and I told Martha so, and 'tain't none
o' my business now, but I'd rather die than tell a lie or scandalize
anybody, and so if ye ask me if I saw 'em I'll have to tell ye I did. I
don't believe, howsomever, that Miss Jane went away to oblige that
good-for-nothin' or that she's ever laid eyes on him since. Lucy is
what took her. She's one o' them flyaways. I see that when she was
home, and there warn't no peace up to the Cobdens' house till they'd
taken her somewheres where she could git all the runnin' round she
wanted. As for the baby, there ain't nobody knows where Miss Jane
picked that up, but there ain't no doubt but what she loves it same's
if it was her own child. She's named it Archie, after her grandfather,
anyhow. That's what Martha and she calls it. So they're not ashamed of
it."
When the fire had spent itself, only one spot remained unscorched: this
was the parentage of little Archie. That mystery still remained
unsolved. Those of her own class who knew Jane intimately admired her
kindness of heart and respected her silence; those who did not soon
forgot the boy's existence.
The tavern loungers, however, some of whom only knew the Cobden girls
by reputation, had theories of their own; theories which were
communicated to other loungers around other tavern stoves, most of whom
would not have known either of the ladies on the street. The fact that
both women belonged to a social stratum far above them gave additional
license to their tongues; they could never be called in question by
anybody who overheard, and were therefore safe to discuss the situation
at their will. Condensed into illogical shape, the story was that Jane
had met a foreigner who had deserted her, leaving her to care for the
child alone; that Lucy had refused to come back to Warehold, had taken
what money was coming to her, and, like a sensible woman, had stayed
away. That there was not the slightest foundation for this slander did
not lessen its acceptance by a certain class; many claimed that it
offered the only plausible solution to the mystery, and must,
therefore, be true.
It was not long before the echoes of these scandals reached Martha's
ears. The gossips dare not affront Miss Jane with their suspicions, but
Martha was different. If they could irritate her by speaking lightly of
her mistress, she might give out some information which would solve the
mystery.
One night a servant of one of the neighbors stopped Martha on the road
and sent her flying home; not angry, but terrified.
"They're beginnin' to talk," she broke out savagely, as she entered
Jane's room, her breath almost gone from her run to the house. "I
laughed at it and said they dare not one of 'em say it to your face or
mine, but they're beginnin' to talk."
"Is it about Barton Holt? have they heard anything from him?" asked
Jane. The fear of his return had always haunted her.
"No, and they won't. He'll never come back here ag'in. The captain
would kill him."
"It isn't about Lucy, then, is it?" cried Jane, her color going.
Martha shook her head in answer to save her breath.
"Who, then?" cried Jane, nervously. "Not Archie?"
"Yes, Archie and you."
"What do they say?" asked Jane, her voice fallen to a whisper.
"They say it's your child, and that ye're afraid to tell who the father
is."
Jane caught at the chair for support and then sank slowly into her seat.
"Who says so?" she gasped.
"Nobody that you or I know; some of the beach-combers and
hide-by-nights, I think, started it. Pokeberry's girl told me; her
brother works in the shipyard."
Jane sat looking at Martha with staring eyes.
"How dare they--"
"They dare do anything, and we can't answer back. That's what's goin'
to make it hard. It's nobody's business, but that don't satisfy 'em.
I've been through it meself; I know how mean they can be."
"They shall never know--not while I have life left in me," Jane
exclaimed firmly.
"Yes, but that won't keep 'em from lyin'."
The two sat still for some minutes, Martha gazing into vacancy, Jane
lying back in her chair, her eyes closed. One emotion after another
coursed through her with lightning rapidity--indignation at the charge,
horror at the thought that any of her friends might believe it,
followed by a shivering fear that her father's good name, for all her
care and suffering, might be smirched at last.
Suddenly there arose the tall image of Doctor John, with his frank,
tender face. What would he think of it, and how, if he questioned her,
could she answer him? Then there came to her that day of parting in
Paris. She remembered Lucy's willingness to give up the child forever,
and so cover up all traces of her sin, and her own immediate
determination to risk everything for her sister's sake. As this last
thought welled up in her mind and she recalled her father's dying
command, her brow relaxed. Come what might, she was doing her duty.
This was her solace and her strength.
"Cruel, cruel people!" she said to Martha, relaxing her hands. "How can
they be so wicked? But I am glad it is I who must take the brunt of it
all. If they would treat me so, who am innocent, what would they do to
my poor Lucy?"