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.