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Baxter was so thoroughly ruffled that she was prepared to attack even the sacrosanct Adelaide. But she was not given the chance. "Well, how did Marty treat you?" said Adelaide. Mrs. Baxter sniffed. "We had not very much in common," she returned. "No; Marty's a very real person." There was a pause. "What became of him? Did he go?"
There's a bunch of fellers from Middletown way comin' over to-night with their girls to hold a dance. I heard about it. Hopewell's goin' to play the fiddle for them to dance by. Tell you, the Inn's gettin' to be a gay place." "It's disgustin whatever it is!" cried Mrs. Scattergood, rather taken aback by Marty's information, yet still clinging to her own opinion. It was not Mrs.
"Then you'll come another day," Jerry proposed, "and Marty and I can go along too; I'm sure Grandfather will be willing." Another happy hour slipped by, and then the Merediths knew their time was really up. "I just wish you could all live here," Marty's eyes were beginning to look cloudy. "We'll come soon again, and of course you and Jerry are to be guests at the party, whenever it comes off."
This letter contained, in fact, Marty's declaration that she was the original owner of Mrs. Charmond's supplementary locks, and enclosed a sample from the native stock, which had grown considerably by this time. It was her long contemplated apple of discord, and much her hand trembled as she handed the document up to him.
Yet a short two months earlier Marty's father, aged fifty-five years, though something of a fidgety, anxious being, would have been looked on as a man whose existence was so far removed from hazardous as any in the parish, and as bidding fair to be prolonged for another quarter of a century. Winterborne walked up and down his garden next day thinking of the contingency.
"Marty," Grace interrupted. "I want you to walk home with me will you? Come along." And without lingering longer she took hold of Marty's arm and led her away.
For an instant the tall head stooped to the level of the struggling animal, and a strange, expressive look passed between the great equine eyes and the misty ones of the man. Then Marty's hand went swiftly around to his pocket, there was the click of a weapon, a flash and report, and Comanche moved no more.
They had come to the cross roads at which one way led down to the village and to Father Marty's house, and the other to the spot on the beach where the boat would be waiting. "I can't very well go on to Liscannor," said Neville. "Give me your word before we part that you will keep your promise to Miss O'Hara," said the priest.
O'Hara's letter to Father Marty's power of composition, and the postscript to the unaided effort of the lady herself. Take it as he might as coming from Mrs. O'Hara or from the priest, he found the letter to be a great burden to him. He had not as yet answered the one received from Kate, as to the genuineness of which he had entertained no doubt. How should he answer such letters?
Set the pace, my dear, laugh and flirt and play with fire and have a good time. A short life and a merry one." And then she joined the Hosacks, drank deep of the wine of adulation, and when, at odd times, the sound of Marty's voice echoed in her memory, she forced it out and laughed it away. "Who Cares?" was his motto too, red lips and white face and hair that came out of a bottle!
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