RUMOUR, HYDRA-HEADED.
Ebenezer Brown lived a lonely life in an old house on the outskirts of
the town, the large garden surrounded by a high stone wall. There was
always a feeling of gloom about the house, no sound of voices, for
Ebenezer Brown was a bachelor, with no relations to care for him, and
only one elderly female to provide for his comfort. A venturesome
relation had on one occasion taken advantage of the old man's sickness
to attempt to secure a footing in his house; but no sooner was the old
man out of his bed than the relative was to be seen driving to the
station with her luggage. Warned by her fate, no other relation, male or
female, dared to enter the house.
It was seldom that lights were seen to gleam from the windows of the
house. Still more uncommon was it to find visitors assembled there. The
old man had a place of business in the town, and anyone wishing to see
him might find him there. He discouraged visitors, for visitors
suggested hospitality, and hospitality represented the expenditure of
money, the one and only thing that the old man valued.
Lights were, however, twinkling from Ebenezer Brown's dining room out
into the night a few evenings subsequently to Desmond O'Connor's visit
to Grey Town. A meagre attempt at hospitality had been made for the
visitors, a scanty supply of water biscuits, a few apples of an antique
appearance, with a bottle of limejuice and water. But not one of the
guests was sufficiently hungry or thirsty to taste of the good things
provided for them.
They sat around the large, bare table, Ebenezer Brown and his three
guests, Garnett, Gifford and Gerard--the three G's, as Denis Quirk had
nicknamed them. Ebenezer Brown half leaned on the table, his face
peculiarly white and eyes very bright in the light of an incandescent
gas burner.
"Every man has a past, if you can unearth it. The greater the saint, the
worse his past. Eh, Garnett?" he asked.
It was noticeable that Garnett refrained from any direct answer;
possibly even he had had a past.
"That play," continued Ebenezer. "What did you call it?" he asked
Gerard.
"Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde."
Ebenezer Brown's hearing was exceptionally acute to-night.
"That's the one!" he cried; "and it's true to nature. There's good in a
few and bad in all. Eh, Gifford?"
"Unhappily there is," sighed Gifford.
"This man, Quirk," cried the old man, vindictively, "has a past, if we
can discover it. We must rid ourselves of him; he's a public nuisance, a
dangerous, meddlesome fellow. Always poking his nose into something;
always making things unpleasant. Quirk must go!"
"Quirk," said Garnett, in the slow and sententious manner he adopted,
"is a radical and a demagogue, a positive scourge to the town. As you
say, Quirk must go!"
Ebenezer Brown turned to Gerard this time and asked him:
"Are you prepared to make the necessary enquiries for us?"
"Certainly, if you are prepared to pay the necessary expenses," replied
Gerard, carelessly.
Ebenezer Brown winced at this, but his hatred of Denis Quirk was an
absorbing passion now.
"Garnett and I will share the expenses."
Garnett protested feebly, but the old man overbore him triumphantly.
"Garnett and I will pay," he said.
"Let me have it in writing," said Gerard, producing a typewritten paper
from his pocket.
Ebenezer Brown read it through carefully; then, after one or two
protests as to the amount, he prepared to sign it, but he paused,
saying:
"No evidence; no pay?"
Gerard looked the old man full in the face, and answered:
"You can add that. I promise you full and convincing evidence."
The deed was signed and witnessed to by Gifford and the old housekeeper,
aroused from her sleep for the purpose. A few minutes later the three
G's were leaving the house. As they emerged from the gate the bright
head lights of a motor picked them out distinctly, before the car swept
by, leaving a blacker darkness behind it.
"Did you see those three, Cairns?" asked Denis Quirk, who was racing
towards "The Mercury" office in company with his editor. "There's
mischief on foot when you see insects like those together."
"Ebenezer Brown has been having a card party," laughed Cairns. "Cards
and wine."
"And light talk? It's a pity there is no law for the destruction of
vermin of the human sort!"
"Did you see who was in the car?" Garnett asked Gerard.
"I think it was Quirk himself and Cairns," replied Gerard. "Probably
they have been writing an article about you; something hot and strong.
Quirk knows where to strike, and he hits hard."
Garnett's comment was hurled into the surrounding darkness; but his
companions heard it and laughed.
"I expect to return in six months' time," said Gerard; "possibly sooner.
Another six weeks later, and 'The Mercury' will probably need a new
proprietor. Why not buy it yourself and make me the editor, with Gifford
under me? You might do worse."
Outside the first hotel he suggested a drink. Gifford refused to enter
the bar, and went on towards his home; the others walked into the
private bar and called for whisky and soda.
"Did you ever see such a miser as Ebenezer Brown?" Gerard asked. "Dry
biscuits, dry apples, and that sour stuff! It makes me sick to see a
man like him, with all his money. He won't enjoy it here--nor hereafter,
if there is a hereafter," he added.
Garnett, a strict Calvinist, winced at the remark, but passed it over.
Gerard was too useful a man to quarrel with.
And so these two worthies walked home, laughing together, while Denis
Quirk and Cairns were preparing fresh powder and shot for the campaign
against reaction. When Councillor Garnett read the leading article in
"The Mercury" on "Ways and Means," after the first irritation he smiled
grimly.
"This can't go on for ever. We shall wear them out," he remarked to his
wife.
There was yet another question in the town, about which the feeling ran
high and bitterly. The council was desirous of building a more imposing
town hall, and the land they desired belonged to Ebenezer Brown.
Naturally, he asked twice the just value for it, and, as was now the
commonly accepted course of events, Councillor Garnett supported him.
Denis Quirk and the councillors, who now followed him, set resolutely to
work to prevent this spoliation. Had Denis not been there, the public
would have grumblingly accepted the purchase of the land. As it was, he
roused them to such a pitch of resentment that the price was slowly
reduced until it finally remained at one and a quarter times the
rightful value of the block. At this price the council purchased it.
During the conflict party feeling ran high, and personalities were
indulged in. It was at this time that the scandal was first whispered.
Who originated it, no one knew, but it flew from mouth to mouth, and it
was not the less grim for the constant repetition. Denis Quirk had a
past--an evil past--so evil indeed that his wife had divorced him in the
States. At this time the story had no substance; it was merely an ugly
rumour. Strange to say, it did not reach Denis Quirk's ears, because his
enemies repeated it among themselves, while his friends refused to
insult him by mentioning the story.
Father Healy, on hearing it, lost for once his accustomed kindliness.
"Would you be bringing such tales to me, a priest?" he asked. "Denis
Quirk is a man who goes to his duties; not by any means a saint, but a
good, honest Catholic. Tell the next man or woman who speaks about it
that scandal and detraction are steps in the ladder down to the devil's
kingdom. There are more souls lost that way than you can count."
The narrator, a well-meaning gossip, left the presbytery in
consternation, and forbore from further repetition of what was to her a
"bonne bouche." But not even Father Healy could keep the tale from
growing in magnitude and increased offensiveness.
The story came to Kathleen O'Connor's ears, and, curiously enough, she
strongly discredited it. Not that she cared for Denis Quirk, but she had
a strong sense of justice and of probability. She could not believe that
Denis Quirk, whom she regarded as an honourable man, could be guilty of
that of which he was accused. He was a hard man, rugged and deficient
in manners, but, seeing him constantly, she recognised that he was not
the sort of man to commit the crimes of which he was accused.
For this reason she was kinder to him than ever she had previously been.
Denis Quirk, although he appreciated the fact, never attributed it to
any absurd reason, such as a younger and more conceited man might have
done. In the matter of women he was absolutely humble and wanting in
vanity, for he regarded himself as hopelessly ugly and deficient in the
qualities that charm the female sex.
But poor old Mrs. Quirk had a romantic idea in her mind that the two
persons she loved best, after her husband, should make her happy by
marriage. She noted the kindlier feeling between them, and one evening
she spoke to Kathleen, most diplomatically as she believed.
"You are beginning to understand Denis, honey. The more you know him the
better you will like him."
It was an autumn evening, and the air was beginning to turn chilly. Mrs.
Quirk, who felt the cold, sat near a wood fire. Kathleen was beside the
window. Presently she would slip out to say a few words to Gerard, for
thus far had their intimacy gone that he frequently came and talked to
her in the avenue near the house. And these meetings were unknown to
Mrs. Quirk, who dozed in her chair, or to Samuel Quirk, smoking in his
den. There was nothing in their têtes-a-têtes, no word spoken, no action
done, that was wrong; but there was danger to the girl because of her
very innocence. She was this night working and watching. Outside a
bright moonlight lay on the trees and gardens, making the shadows darker
by the contrast. Gerard, who lurked in the shadow, would presently call
her from one of these.
"Mr. Denis Quirk is an honourable man, and I respect him," she said.
"It is near my heart----," Mrs. Quirk began. Then she paused.
"Yes?" asked Kathleen.
"Never mind, honey. If it is God's will, He will work it. It is
difficult to arrange things for Providence."
A low whistle from a deep shadow, like the note of a bird. Mrs. Quirk
fancied it was a bird, but Kathleen rose and slipped out.
"I shall be gone only a few minutes," she said.