The Tides of Barnegat

by Francis Hopkinson Smith

  CHAPTER IX

  THE SPREAD OF FIRE

  The doctor kept his word. His hand was the first that touched Jane'swhen she came down the gangplank, Martha beside him, holding out herarms for the child, cuddling it to her bosom, wrapping her shawl aboutit 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 herto 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 herown way. "You don't know what it is to see a face from home! I am soglad to get here. But you should not have left your people; I wroteMartha and told her so. All I wanted you to do was to have her meet mehere. Thank you, dear friend, for coming."

  She had not let go his hand, clinging to him as a timid woman incrossing a narrow bridge spanning an abyss clings to the strong arm ofa 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 illin her berth, and whether she had taken care of the baby herself, andwhy she had brought no nurse with her. She saw his meaning, but she didnot explain her weakness or offer any explanation of the cause of herappearance or of the absence of a nurse. In a moment she changed thesubject, asking after his mother and his own work, and seemedinterested in what he told her about the neighbors.

  When the joy of hearing her voice and of looking into her dear faceonce more had passed, his skilled eyes probed the deeper. He noted witha sinking at the heart the dark circles under the drooping lids, thedrawn, pallid skin and telltale furrows that had cut their way deepinto her cheeks. Her eyes, too, had lost their lustre, and her steplacked 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 somemental anguish, he could not decide.

  When he pressed his inquiries about Lucy she answered with ahalf-stifled sigh that Lucy had decided to remain abroad for a yearlonger; adding that it had been a great relief to her, and that atfirst she had thought of remaining with her, but that their affairs, ashe knew, had become so involved at home that she feared their means ofliving 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 itwith me."

  Once at home and the little waif safely tucked away in the crib thathad 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 lonelierthan a cat in a garret, and down at our house we ain't much better. Andso that Bunch of Roses is going to stay over there, is she, and setthose Frenchies crazy?"

  Pastor Dellenbaugh took both of Jane's hands into his own and lookinginto her face, said:

  "Ah, but we've missed you! There has been no standard, my dear MissJane, since you've been gone. I have felt it, and so has everyone inthe church. It is good to have you once more with us."

  Mrs. Cavendish could hardly conceal her satisfaction, although she wascareful what she said to her son. Her hope was that the care of thechild would so absorb Jane that John would regain his freedom and be nolonger subservient to Miss Cobden's whims.

  "And so Lucy is to stay in Paris?" she said, with one of her sweetestsmiles. "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. Mygrandmother, who was an Erskine, you know, played divinely on the harp,and many of my ancestors, especially the Dagworthys, were accomplishedmusicians. Your sister will look lovely bending over a harp. Mygrandmother had her portrait painted that way by Peale, and it stillhangs in the old house in Trenton. And they tell me you have brought alittle angel with you to bring up and share your loneliness? Howpathetic, and how good of you!"

  The village women--they came in groups--asked dozens of questionsbefore Jane had had even time to shake each one by the hand. Was Lucyso in love with the life abroad that she would never come back? was shejust 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 specialattention. They all agreed that it was a healthy, hearty, and mostbeautiful baby; just the kind of a child one would want to adopt if onehad any such extraordinary desires.

  This talk continued until they had gained the highway, when they alsoagreed--and this without a single dissenting voice--that in all thevillage Jane Cobden was the only woman conscientious enough to want tobring up somebody else's child, and a foreigner at that, when therewere any quantity of babies up and down the shore that could be had forthe asking. The little creature was, no doubt, helpless, and appealedto Miss Jane's sympathies, but why bring it home at all? Were there notplaces enough in France where it could be brought up? etc., etc. Thissort of gossip went on for days after Jane's return, each dropper-in attea-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 sewingsocieties and church gatherings, one member in good standing remarkingloud enough to be heard by everybody:

  "As for me, I ain't never surprised at nothin' Jane Cobden does. She'squeerer than Dick's hat-band, and allus was, and I've knowed her eversince 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, justbecause she said he looked hungry, which there warn't a mite o' truthin, 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 hisgentlest tone--he had heard the discussion as he was passing throughthe room and had stopped to listen--"especially when mercy and kindnessis to be shown. Some poor little outcast, no doubt, with no one to takecare of it, and so this grand woman brings it home to nurse andeducate. I wish there were more Jane Cobdens in my parish. Many of youtalk good deeds, and justice, and Christian spirit; here is a woman whoputs them into practice."

  This statement having been made during the dispersal of a Wednesdaynight meeting, and in the hearing of half the congregation, furnishedthe key to the mystery, and so for a time the child and its new-foundmother ceased to be an active subject of discussion.

  Ann Gossaway, however, was not satisfied. The more she thought of thepastor's explanation the more she resented it as an affront to herintelligence.

  "If folks wants to pick up stray babies," she shouted to her old motheron her return home one night, "and bring 'em home to nuss, they oughterlabel 'em with some sort o' pedigree, and not keep the villagea-guessin' as to who they is and where they come from. I don't believea word of this outcast yarn. Guess Miss Lucy is all right, and sheknows enough to stay away when all this tomfoolery's goin' on. Shedoesn't want to come back to a child's nussery." To all of which hermother nodded her head, keeping it going like a toy mandarin long afterthe subject of discussion had been changed.

  Little by little the scandal spread: by innuendoes; by the wiseshakings of empty heads; by nods and winks; by the piecing out ofincomplete tattle. For the spread of gossip is like the spread of fire:First a smouldering heat--some friction of ill-feeling, perhaps, over asecret sin that cannot be smothered, try as we may; next a hot,blistering tongue of flame creeping stealthily; then a burst ofscorching candor and the roar that ends in ruin. Sometimes the victimis saved by a dash of honest water--the outspoken word of some bravefriend. More often those who should stamp out the burning brand standidly by until the final collapse and then warm themselves at the blaze.

  Here in Warehold it began with some whispered talk: Bart Holt haddisappeared; there was a woman in the case somewhere; Bart's exile hadnot been entirely caused by his love of cards and drink. Reference wasalso made to the fact that Ja
ne had gone abroad but a short time AFTERBart's disappearance, and that knowing how fond she was of him, and howshe had tried to reform him, the probability was that she had met himin Paris. Doubts having been expressed that no woman of Jane Cobden'sposition would go to any such lengths to oblige so young a fellow asBart Holt, the details of their intimacy were passed from mouth tomouth, and when this was again scouted, reference was made to MissGossaway, who was supposed to know more than she was willing to tell.The dressmaker denied all responsibility for the story, but admittedthat she had once seen them on the beach "settin' as close together asthey could git, with the red cloak she had made for Miss Jane woundabout 'em.

  "'Twarn't none o' my business, and I told Martha so, and 'tain't noneo' my business now, but I'd rather die than tell a lie or scandalizeanybody, and so if ye ask me if I saw 'em I'll have to tell ye I did. Idon't believe, howsomever, that Miss Jane went away to oblige thatgood-for-nothin' or that she's ever laid eyes on him since. Lucy iswhat took her. She's one o' them flyaways. I see that when she washome, and there warn't no peace up to the Cobdens' house till they'dtaken her somewheres where she could git all the runnin' round shewanted. As for the baby, there ain't nobody knows where Miss Janepicked that up, but there ain't no doubt but what she loves it same'sif 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 ofit."

  When the fire had spent itself, only one spot remained unscorched: thiswas the parentage of little Archie. That mystery still remainedunsolved. Those of her own class who knew Jane intimately admired herkindness of heart and respected her silence; those who did not soonforgot the boy's existence.

  The tavern loungers, however, some of whom only knew the Cobden girlsby reputation, had theories of their own; theories which werecommunicated to other loungers around other tavern stoves, most of whomwould not have known either of the ladies on the street. The fact thatboth women belonged to a social stratum far above them gave additionallicense to their tongues; they could never be called in question byanybody who overheard, and were therefore safe to discuss the situationat their will. Condensed into illogical shape, the story was that Janehad met a foreigner who had deserted her, leaving her to care for thechild alone; that Lucy had refused to come back to Warehold, had takenwhat money was coming to her, and, like a sensible woman, had stayedaway. That there was not the slightest foundation for this slander didnot lessen its acceptance by a certain class; many claimed that itoffered the only plausible solution to the mystery, and must,therefore, be true.

  It was not long before the echoes of these scandals reached Martha'sears. The gossips dare not affront Miss Jane with their suspicions, butMartha was different. If they could irritate her by speaking lightly ofher mistress, she might give out some information which would solve themystery.

  One night a servant of one of the neighbors stopped Martha on the roadand sent her flying home; not angry, but terrified.

  "They're beginnin' to talk," she broke out savagely, as she enteredJane's room, her breath almost gone from her run to the house. "Ilaughed at it and said they dare not one of 'em say it to your face ormine, but they're beginnin' to talk."

  "Is it about Barton Holt? have they heard anything from him?" askedJane. The fear of his return had always haunted her.

  "No, and they won't. He'll never come back here ag'in. The captainwould 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 fatheris."

  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 andhide-by-nights, I think, started it. Pokeberry's girl told me; herbrother 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," Janeexclaimed firmly.

  "Yes, but that won't keep 'em from lyin'."

  The two sat still for some minutes, Martha gazing into vacancy, Janelying back in her chair, her eyes closed. One emotion after anothercoursed 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 hercare 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 inParis. She remembered Lucy's willingness to give up the child forever,and so cover up all traces of her sin, and her own immediatedetermination to risk everything for her sister's sake. As this lastthought welled up in her mind and she recalled her father's dyingcommand, 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 canthey be so wicked? But I am glad it is I who must take the brunt of itall. If they would treat me so, who am innocent, what would they do tomy poor Lucy?"