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.