From the very first it had been music that Bertram had feared. He could not forget that Billy herself had once told him that never would she love any man better than she loved her music; that she was not going to marry. All this had been at the first—the very first. He had boldly scorned the idea then, and had said:
“So it's music—a cold, senseless thing of spidery marks on clean white paper—that is my only rival!”
He had said, too, that he was going to win. And he had won—but not until after long weeks of fearing, hoping, striving, and despairing—this last when Kate's blundering had nearly made her William's wife. Then, on that memorable day in September, Billy had walked straight into his arms; and he knew that he had, indeed, won. That is, he had supposed that he knew—until Arkwright came.
Very sharply now, as he listened to Billy's singing, Bertram told himself to be reasonable, to be sensible; that Billy did, indeed, love him. Was she not, according to her own dear assertion, singing that song to him? But it was Arkwright's song. He remembered that, too—and grew faint at the thought. True, he had won when his rival, music, had been a “cold, senseless thing of spidery marks” on paper; but would that winning stand when “music” had become a thing of flesh and blood—a man of undeniable charm, good looks, and winsomeness; a man whose thoughts, aims, and words were the personification of the thing Billy, in the long ago, had declared she loved best of all—music?
Bertram shivered as with a sudden chill; then Billy rose from the piano.
“There!” she breathed, her face shyly radiant with the glory of the song. “Did you—like it?”
Bertram did his best; but, in his state of mind, the very radiance of her face was only an added torture, and his tongue stumbled over the words of praise and appreciation that he tried to say. He saw, then, the happy light in Billy's eyes change to troubled questioning and grieved disappointment; and he hated himself for a jealous brute. More earnestly than ever, now, he tried to force the ring of sincerity into his voice; but he knew that he had miserably failed when he heard her falter:
“Of course, dear, I—I haven't got it nearly perfected yet. It'll be much better, later.”
“But it s{sic} fine, now, sweetheart—indeed it is,” protested Bertram, hurriedly.
“Well, of course I'm glad—if you like it,” murmured Billy; but the glow did not come back to her face.