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A Rogue's Life-Part6_WILKIE COLLINS (1824-1899)_English Literature(文学名著)-第2页

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my ecstasies. Let me only say that she evidently recognized me.

Will you believe it?--I felt myself coloring as I bowed to her. I



never blushed before in my life. What a very curious sensation it

is!



The horrid boy claimed her attention with a grin.

"Master's engaged," he said. "Please to wait here."



"I don't wish to disturb Mr. Pickup," she answered.

What a voice! No! I am drifting back into ecstasies: her voice



was worthy of her--I say no more.

"If you will be so kind as to show him this," she proceeded; "he



knows what it is. And please say, my father is very ill and very

anxious. It will be quite enough if Mr. Pickup will only send me



word by you--Yes or No."

She gave the boy an oblong slip of stamped paper. Evidently a



promissory note. An angel on earth, sent by an inhuman father, to

ask a Jew for discount! Monstrous!



The boy disappeared with the message.

I seized my opportunity of speaking to her. Don't ask me what I



said! Never before (or since) have I talked such utter nonsense,

with such intenseearnestness of purpose and such immeasurable



depth of feeling. Do pray remember what you said yourself, the

first time you had the chance of opening your heart to _your_



young lady. The boy returned before I had half done, and gave her

back the odious document.



"Mr. Pickup's very sorry, miss. The answer is, No."

She lost all her lovely color, and sighed, and turned away. As



she pulled down her veil, I saw the tears in her eyes. Did that

piteous spectaclepartiallydeprive me of my senses? I actually



entreated her to let me be of some use--as if I had been an old

friend, with money enough in my pocket to discount the note



myself. She brought me back to my senses with the utmost

gentleness.



"I am afraid you forget, sir, that we are strangers.

Good-morning."



I followed her to the door. I asked leave to call on her father,

and satisfy him about myself and my family connections. She only



answered that her father was too ill to see visitors. I went out

with her on to the landing. She turned on me sharply for the



first time.

"You can see for yourself, sir, that I am in great distress. I



appeal to you, as a gentleman, to spare me."

If you still doubt whether I was really in love, let the facts



speak for themselves. I hung my head, and let her go.

When I returned alone to the picture-gallery--when I remembered



that I had not even had the wit to improve my opportunity by

discovering her name and address--I did really and seriously ask



myself if these were the first symptoms of softening of the

brain. I got up, and sat down again. I, the most audacious man of



my age in London, had behaved like a bashful boy! Once more I had

lost her--and this time, also, I had nobody but myself to blame



for it.

These melancholy meditations were interrupted by the appearance



of my friend, the artist, in the picture-gallery. He approached

me confidentially, and spoke in a mysteriouswhisper.



"Pickup is suspicious," he said; "and I have had all the

difficulty in the world to pave your way smoothly for you at the



outset. However, if you can contrive to make a small Rembrandt,

as a specimen, you may consider yourself employed here until



further notice. I am obliged to particularize Rembrandt, because

he is the only Old Master disengaged at present. The professional



gentleman who used to do him died the other day in the Fleet--he

had a turn for Rembrandts, and can't be easily replaced. Do you



think you could step into his shoes? It's a peculiar gift, like

an ear for music, or a turn for mathematics. Of course you will



be put up to the simple elementary rules, and will have the

professional gentleman's last Rembrandt as a guide; the rest



depends, my dear friend, on your powers of imitation. Don't be




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