Bertram was not quite himself that night. Billy admitted them. She had plainly been watching and waiting. Arkwright never forgot the look on her face as her eyes met his. There was a curious mixture of terror, hurt pride, relief, and shame, overtopped by a fierce loyalty which almost seemed to say aloud the words: ``Don't you dare to blame him!''
Arkwright's heart ached with sympathy and admiration at the proudly courageous way in which Billy carried off the next few painful minutes. Even when he bade her good night a little later, only her eyes said ``thank you.'' Her lips were dumb.
Arkwright often went home with Bertram after that. Not that it was always necessary--far from it. Some time, indeed, elapsed before he had quite the same excuse again for his presence.
But he had found that occasionally he could get Bertram home earlier by adroit suggestions of one kind or another; and more and more frequently he was succeeding in getting him home for a game of chess.
Bertram liked chess, and was a fine player.
Since breaking his arm he had turned to games with the feverish eagerness of one who looks for something absorbing to fill an unrestful mind.
It was Seaver's skill in chess that had at first attracted Bertram to the man long ago; but Bertram could beat him easily--too easily for much pleasure in it now. So they did not play chess often these days. Bertram had found that, in spite of his injury, he could still take part in other games, and some of them, if not so intricate as chess, were at least more apt to take his mind off himself, especially if there were a bit of money up to add zest and interest.
As it happened, however, Bertram learned one day that Arkwright could play chess--and play well, too, as he discovered after their first game together. This fact contributed not a little to such success as Arkwright was having in his efforts to wean Bertram from his undesirable companions; for Bertram soon found out that Arkwright was more than a match for himself, and the occasional games he did succeed in winning only whetted his appetite for more.
Many an evening now, therefore, was spent by the two men in Bertram's den, with Billy anxiously hovering near, her eyes longingly watching either her husband's absorbed face or the pretty little red and white ivory figures, which seemed to possess so wonderful a power to hold his attention. In spite of her joy at the chessmen's efficacy in keeping Bertram at home, however, she was almost jealous of them.
``Mr. Arkwright, couldn't you show _me_ how to play, sometime?'' she said wistfully, one evening, when the momentary absence of Bertram had left the two alone together. ``I used to watch Bertram and Marie play years ago; but I never knew how to play myself. Not that Ican see where the fun is in just sitting staring at a chessboard for half an hour at a time, though!
But Bertram likes it, and so I--I want to learn to stare with him. Will you teach me?''
``I should be glad to,'' smiled Arkwright.
``Then will you come, maybe, sometimes when Bertram is at the doctor's? He goes every Tuesday and Friday at three o'clock for treatment.
I'd rather you came then for two reasons:
first, because I don't want Bertram to know I'm learning, till I can play _some_; and, secondly, because--because I don't want to take you away--from him.''
The last words were spoken very low, and were accompanied by a painful blush. It was the first time Billy had ever hinted to Arkwright, in words, that she understood what he was trying to do.
``I'll come next Tuesday,'' promised Arkwright, with a cheerfully unobservant air. Then Bertram came in, bringing the book of Chess Problems, for which he had gone up-stairs.
