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A Rogue's Life-Part7_WILKIE COLLINS (1824-1899)_English Literature(文学名著)-第2页

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remain on the Rembrandt until eight o'clock in the evening--had



called for the softest linen cloth in the whole house--and had

then, with his own venerable hands, carefully wiped off the



compound, and with it the whole surface of the picture! The

brown, the black, the Burgomaster, the breakfast, and the ray of



yellow light, all came clean off together in considerably less

than a minute of time. If the picture, was brought into court



now, the evidence it could give against us was limited to a bit

of plain panel, and a mass of black pulp rolled up in a duster.



Our line of defense was, of course, that the compound had been

improperly used. For the rest, we relied with well-placed



confidence on the want of evidence against us. Mr. Pickup wisely

closed his shop for a while, and went off to the Continent to



ransack the foreign galleries. I received my five and twenty

pounds, rubbed out the beginning of my second Rembrandt, closed



the back door of the workshop behind me, and there was another

scene of my life at an end. I had but one circumstance to



regret--and I did regret it bitterly. I was still as ignorant as

ever of the young lady's name and address.



My first visit was to the studio of my excellent artist-friend,

whom I have already presented to the reader under the sympathetic



name of "Dick." He greeted me with a letter in his hand. It was

addressed to me--it had been left at the studio a few days since;



and (marvel of all marvels!) the writing" target="_blank" title="n.笔迹；书法">handwriting was Mr.

Batterbury's. Had this philanthropic man not done befriending me



even yet? Were there any present or prospective advantages to be

got out of him still? Read his letter, and judge.



"SIR--Although you have forfeited by your ungentlemanly conduct

toward myself, and your heartlessly mischievousreception of my



dear wife, all claim upon the forbearance of the most forbearing

of your relatives, I am disposed, from motives of regard for the



tranquillity of Mrs. Batterbury's family, and of sheer

good-nature so far as I am myself concerned, to afford you one



more chance of retrieving your position by leading a respectable

life. The situation I am enabled to offer you is that of



secretary to a new Literary and Scientific Institution, about to

be opened in the town of Duskydale, near which neighborhood I



possess, as you must be aware, some landed property. The office

has been placed at my disposal, as vice-president of the new



Institution. The salary is fifty pounds a year, with apartments

on the attic-floor of the building. The duties are various, and



will be explained to you by the local committee, if you choose to

present yourself to them with the inclosed letter of



introduction. After the unscrupulous manner in which you have

imposed on my liberality by deceiving me into giving you fifty



pounds for a n audacious caricature of myself, which it is

impossible to hang up in any room of the house, I think this



instance of my forgiving disposition still to befriend you, after

all that has happened, ought to appeal to any better feelings



that you may still have left, and revive the long dormant

emotions of repentance and self-reproach, when you think on your



obedient servant,

"DANIEL BATTERBURY."



Bless me! What A long-winded style, and what a fuss about fifty

pounds a year, and a bed in an attic! These were naturally the



first emotions which Mr. Batterbury's letter produced in me. What

was his real motive for writing it? I hope nobody will do me so



great an injustice as to suppose that I hesitated for one instant

about the way of finding _that_ out. Of course I started off



directly to inquire if Lady Malkinshaw had had another narrow

escape of dying before me.



"Much better, sir," answered my grandmother's venerable butler,

wiping his lips carefully before he spoke; "her ladyship's health



has been much improved since her accident."

"Accident!" I exclaimed. "What, another? Lately? Stairs again?"



"No, sir; the drawing-room window this time," answered the

butler, with semi-tipsy gravity. "Her ladyship's sight having






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