CHAPTER VIII.

Itwaslongpastnoonwhenheawoke.Hisvalethadcreptseveraltimesontiptoeintotheroomtoseeifhewasstirring,andhadwonderedwhatmadehisyoungmastersleepsolate.Finallyhisbellsounded,andVictorcameinsoftlywithacupoftea,andapileofletters,onasmalltrayofoldSevreschina,anddrewbacktheolive-satincurtains,withtheirshimmeringbluelining,thathunginfrontofthethreetallwindows. “Monsieurhaswellsleptthismorning,”hesaid,smiling. “Whato’clockisit,Victor?”askedDorianGraydrowsily. “Onehourandaquarter,Monsieur.” Howlateitwas!Hesatup,andhavingsippedsometea,turnedoverhisletters.OneofthemwasfromLordHenry,andhadbeenbroughtbyhandthatmorning.Hehesitatedforamoment,andthenputitaside.Theothersheopenedlistlessly.Theycontainedtheusualcollectionofcards,invitationstodinner,ticketsforprivateviews,programmesofcharityconcerts,andthelikethatareshoweredonfashionableyoungmeneverymorningduringtheseason.TherewasaratherheavybillforachasedsilverLouis-Quinzetoilet-setthathehadnotyethadthecouragetosendontohisguardians,whowereextremelyold-fashionedpeopleanddidnotrealizethatweliveinanagewhenunnecessarythingsareouronlynecessitiesandtherewereseveralverycourteouslywordedcommunicationsfromJermynStreetmoney-lendersofferingtoadvanceanysumofmoneyatamoment’snoticeandatthemostreasonableratesofinterest. Afterabouttenminuteshegotup,andthrowingonanelaboratedressing-gownofsilk-embroideredcashmerewool,passedintotheonyx-pavedbathroom.Thecoolwaterrefreshedhimafterhislongsleep.Heseemedtohaveforgottenallthathehadgonethrough.Adimsenseofhavingtakenpartinsomestrangetragedycametohimonceortwice,buttherewastheunrealityofadreamaboutit. Assoonashewasdressed,hewentintothelibraryandsatdowntoalightFrenchbreakfastthathadbeenlaidoutforhimonasmallroundtableclosetotheopenwindow.Itwasanexquisiteday.Thewarmairseemedladenwithspices.Abeeflewinandbuzzedroundtheblue-dragonbowlthat,filledwithsulphur-yellowroses,stoodbeforehim.Hefeltperfectlyhappy. Suddenlyhiseyefellonthescreenthathehadplacedinfrontoftheportrait,andhestarted. “ToocoldforMonsieur?”askedhisvalet,puttinganomeletteonthetable.“Ishutthewindow?” Dorianshookhishead.“Iamnotcold,”hemurmured. Wasitalltrue?Hadtheportraitreallychanged?Orhaditbeensimplyhisownimaginationthathadmadehimseealookofevilwheretherehadbeenalookofjoy?Surelyapaintedcanvascouldnotalter?Thethingwasabsurd.ItwouldserveasataletotellBasilsomeday.Itwouldmakehimsmile. And,yet,howvividwashisrecollectionofthewholething!Firstinthedimtwilight,andtheninthebrightdawn,hehadseenthetouchofcrueltyroundthewarpedlips.Healmostdreadedhisvaletleavingtheroom.Heknewthatwhenhewasalonehewouldhavetoexaminetheportrait.Hewasafraidofcertainty.Whenthecoffeeandcigaretteshadbeenbroughtandthemanturnedtogo,hefeltawilddesiretotellhimtoremain.Asthedoorwasclosingbehindhim,hecalledhimback.Themanstoodwaitingforhisorders.Dorianlookedathimforamoment.“Iamnotathometoanyone,Victor,”hesaidwithasigh.Themanbowedandretired. Thenherosefromthetable,litacigarette,andflunghimselfdownonaluxuriouslycushionedcouchthatstoodfacingthescreen.Thescreenwasanoldone,ofgiltSpanishleather,stampedandwroughtwitharatherfloridLouis-Quatorzepattern.Hescanneditcuriously,wonderingifeverbeforeithadconcealedthesecretofaman’slife. Shouldhemoveitaside,afterall?Whynotletitstaythere?Whatwastheuseofknowing?Ifthethingwastrue,itwasterrible.Ifitwasnottrue,whytroubleaboutit?Butwhatif,bysomefateordeadlierchance,eyesotherthanhisspiedbehindandsawthehorriblechange?WhatshouldhedoifBasilHallwardcameandaskedtolookathisownpicture?Basilwouldbesuretodothat.Nothethinghadtobeexamined,andatonce.Anythingwouldbebetterthanthisdreadfulstateofdoubt. Hegotupandlockedbothdoors.Atleasthewouldbealonewhenhelookeduponthemaskofhisshame.Thenhedrewthescreenasideandsawhimselffacetoface.Itwasperfectlytrue.Theportraithadaltered. Asheoftenrememberedafterwards,andalwayswithnosmallwonder,hefoundhimselfatfirstgazingattheportraitwithafeelingofalmostscientificinterest.Thatsuchachangeshouldhavetakenplacewasincredibletohim.Andyetitwasafact.Wastheresomesubtleaffinitybetweenthechemicalatomsthatshapedthemselvesintoformandcolouronthecanvasandthesoulthatwaswithinhim?Coulditbethatwhatthatsoulthought,theyrealized?—thatwhatitdreamed,theymadetrue?Orwastheresomeother,moreterriblereason?Heshuddered,andfeltafraid,and,goingbacktothecouch,laythere,gazingatthepictureinsickenedhorror. Onething,however,hefeltthatithaddoneforhim.Ithadmadehimconscioushowunjust,howcruel,hehadbeentoSibylVane.Itwasnottoolatetomakereparationforthat.Shecouldstillbehiswife.Hisunrealandselfishlovewouldyieldtosomehigherinfluence,wouldbetransformedintosomenoblerpassion,andtheportraitthatBasilHallwardhadpaintedofhimwouldbeaguidetohimthroughlife,wouldbetohimwhatholinessistosome,an