“Good Lord!” said Rollinson, when he faced his emotional condition, “for the heart there is no afterwards!”
But, happily, Bertha did not think so ill of his chances for happiness as did he himself, and he ventured to hope, although he was terrified by her calmness and her ability to see from all sides the subject he could only see from one.
Bertha respected his learning and revered his wisdom—which is learning hitched to life—and envied his experiences, and exulted in his grasp of people and things, and in his breadth of vision. She thought such a grip upon life as he possessed could only come with years. And compared to these things the disadvantages which also come with years seemed trifling. Obesity, baldness, and a touch of ancestral gout were the penalties he had to pay for being what he was. On the whole, the price did not seem too high. She felt quite sure that she would ultimately accept him, and that they would marry and live happily ever after.
This impression was still strong in her mind when, some days after the conversation recorded, she went with her aunt to a little lunch-party which he gave in his bachelor apartments.
Although he modestly spoke of them as being very simple, Rollinson’s rooms were really a liberal education. He had been about the world a great deal and had carried with him fastidious taste and a purse only moderately filled. As he said once, he had never had so much money that he could afford to buy trash. The result was very happy. Pictures, rugs, draperies, brasses, ceramics, all were satisfactory.
“Your things are so delightfully intelligent!” said Bertha, with a gratified sigh. He found himself by her side as she was inspecting a bit of antique silver on a cabinet with obvious approval. “It makes me feel as I have never felt before, what a wonderful thing is taste!”
He smiled. “I am more than repaid if they have pleased you,” he said. “Will you step this way an instant? I want to show you the thing I am vain enough to value most of all.”
In the corner which he indicated, hung a picture she had not noticed, the portrait of a young man about twenty-five. The girl stared at it with fascinated eyes. “You! Can it be you?” she questioned, with an accent that was almost a reproach. Ah, how splendid he was, the painted youth in his hunter’s costume who stood there fixed forever in all the beautiful insolence of his young manhood! What a mass of dark hair tossed back from his fine forehead, and what soldierly erectness in his bearing! How the eyes flashed—those eyes that only twinkled now! He was radiant, courageous, strong. What a hold he had on life—one read it in the lines of his mouth, in his eyes, his brow. What zest, what eagerness of spirit! He was more than all that she most admired in her lover, and he was young—young!
The girl gave a strange look at Rollinson and then turned back to the picture again. All fulfilment is pitiful compared with its prophecy, and in that moment she realized this.
“It was painted by my friend Van Anden, who died too early to achieve the fame he should have had,” said Rollinson. “All that toggery I am wearing, which paints so effectively, was part of my outfit when I went to Africa with my cousin.”