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Ardie went down to Maine to visit Irene during every spring vacation for the next three years.
They grew closer as her bitterness receded.
She even seemed to relent in her harsh feelings toward Bart, agreeing to attend the boys' graduation exercises at Harvard in early June of 1879.
Then, on the eve of Irene's departure from Squirrel Island, her great-aunt was killed in a freak accident.
A hearty and typically independent down-easter of seventy-five, the lady insisted upon taking her habitual morning constitutional despite nearly impenetrable fog. Losing her way, she slipped on damp moss carpeting a pine-studded cliff above the shore and plummeted to her death in a rocky tidal pool.
Devastated by the loss of this last surviving relative, Irene took to her bed after dispatching a fisherman to Boothbay Harbor to notify Ardie by telegram. She had the grace to beg him not to come until after his graduation, but the thought of her being alone in the old house under such circumstances was more than he could bear.
"Bart, you can collect my diploma for me," he instructed his brother, "in case I don't get back in time."
Nothing could dissuade him, nor did Bart, Annie, or Philo try very hard to do so. They could see that he was sick with love for Irene.
Although none of them liked the girl, they realized wisely that obstructing him would only create a conflict they could not win.
"She's an actress, Cap'n," Bart remarked after Ardie had left. "She's set her cap for him, and she'll have him, too. Although this accident truly is a sad affair, she'll play it for all it's worth, and weep and wail and wring her hands to give Ardie a performance worthy of Lady Macbeth, just as she did when she drove her father to suicide."
"I suspect you're right, son," Philo added. "I shall never forget the day she received me in the study to forfeit all claim to her father's estate. She overwhelmed me. I knew a brilliant actress intimately in Paris, one of the greatest of the century, I was told. She trod the boards of the National Theater of France. I heard her recite selections from the works of Racine, Corneille and Molière at private readings. I must say in all seriousness that Irene runs her a close second with her ability to convince. The clothes, the hair, the posture! Why, now that I look back on it, I realize that Irene is a consummate actress!"
Annie shuddered. "God forgive me, but if she's like her mother, she has no heart! Oh, I pray Ardie doesn't make a terrible mistake....."Her prayer was to no avail.
Without consulting his family, Ardie took Irene to a justice of the peace in Boothbay Harbor and married her. He telegraphed the news to Philo. They spent their honeymoon at the house on Squirrel Island. He brought her back to Boston the third week of June.
At breakfast the first morning, Irene appeared to be the picture of cordiality. No one could have been more solicitous of everyone's welfare and health.
Even when Bridget served up a silver basket of slightly charred toast, Irene took it in stride and buttered a piece for each of them, including herself, then added a sprinkling of cinnamon sugar.
"These things happen," she beamed as she gave the prepared slices back to Bridget to pass around. "Actually, I read recently in Godey's Lady's Book that a bit of charcoal is excellent for the digestion."
Irrepressible Bart snickered, "In that case, we can all give up toast and dine out of the fireplace!"
Only then did Irene offer a hint of what might be lurking beneath the scintillating surface of her plastic smile. In a poisonous glance meant for Bart alone, her eyes figuratively spat venom as deadly as a viper's.
That night in the tiny shed on the roof, Bart lay with his arms wrapped tenderly around Bridget's naked form.
Longtime lovers without the pledge of love, their relationship had mellowed from passion to affection. Often of late, Bart slipped upstairs, after everyone else went to bed, simply to lie with her in the nude and exchange innocent caresses. They found in this intimacy sweet relief from the cares of the world.
"Irene's a vixen," Bridget mused, "and the day will come when even Ardie will wake up to it. Did you see the look about she gave today when first she came down the stairs? Ah, the grand lady o' the manor she was! 'Twere a look that said: Mine...all o' this is mine...I gave it away once and now I've got it back. Yes, that's what the look said!"
She snuggled closer. "I've somethin' else to tell you tonight, Master Barton Creel."
"And what would that be?" he murmured distractedly, still preoccupied with concern for Ardie in his marriage to Irene.
Bridget sat up, yanking the sheet to cover her breasts.
"You'll be payin' attention to me, if you please," she said impishly. "No more thinkin' about that madwoman's daughter from Maine!"
He smiled indulgently, marveling at the soft glow of her flesh in the moonlight. "I'll lend an ear, my dear."
Her face took on a serious expression. "Bart, I'm goin' to marry Michael Foley, the coachman."
He started up from the bed, a cough of surprise issuing from his throat.
She pushed him back.
"It shouldn't come as a shock, me boy," she went on. "There's naught fer thee an' me in the future but goin' our separate ways. The maid doesn't marry the young man o' the house. That's society's way."
"If it's marriage you want, Bridget....." he began.
She placed two fingers on his lips. "Be quiet, man! I know you too well. You're about to say you'll marry me, but, I'm tellin' you, that won't do! You've a fine career ahead. 'Tis a great doctor you'll be someday. An' you're off to Edinburgh at the end o' the summer. Medical school isn't easy, they say, so you'd have no time to be lookin' after the likes o' me! No, I have me place in this world, an' a coachman's wife is a proper goal fer me. Besides, Michael knows about us, Bart, an' it doesn't matter to him. He loves me, you see...an' you don't."
He tried to speak again, but her fingers stayed firm against his lips.
"That's a fact," she said, "an' we'll not be changin' it. Whether you know it or not, you're in love with someone else. That's been so fer years."
She pulled her fingers away. They looked at each other long and hard in the moonlight.
"'Tis the girl on the cycle," she ventured at last. "She still pedals through your dreams. Sometimes, when you drowse off after bein' satisfied by me, 'tis her name you speak aloud. 'Beth' I hear you say. I could hate you for that, but I accepted it long ago after makin' up me mind I'd never be able to call you my own." With a tip of the sheet, she gently wiped away the tears that had begun to flow from his eyes.
"Don't be cryin' because we must say goodbye," she whispered. "That would be too sad. Cry fer joy because this is graduation day from Bridget's school of life. I've taught you a great lesson, which is simply that true love is lovin' someone more than yerself. You know it's so when you want only what's best fer them, even though it's not so good fer you."
Early the following morning as the household gathered in the dining room for breakfast, a cablegram arrived.
He set down his coffee cup, opened the envelope, and read the contents in silence. His face fell.
"My dear ones," he said, folding the paper and placing it in the breast pocket of his suit, "I must leave at once for England. I have received tragic news from Benjamin Disraeli. He advises me that the son of...a mutual friend...has been...killed...in South Africa."
His voice broke. He wiped his eyes with a table napkin.
"You are not due for classes at the medical college for several weeks, Bart," he continued, "so I would like for you to come now with me. There is something you can do in England. I'll see that you reach Edinburgh in time."
Bart nodded. "Of course, sir, anything you want, but how am I to be of service to you?"
"I prefer to say no more," Philo concluded. "All will be revealed in time."
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