CHAPTER VII.

gain,mylove.Don’tgoawayfromme.Icouldn’tbearit.Oh!don’tgoawayfromme.Mybrother...Nonevermind.Hedidn’tmeanit.Hewasinjest....Butyou,oh!can’tyouforgivemeforto-night?Iwillworksohardandtrytoimprove.Don’tbecrueltome,becauseIloveyoubetterthananythingintheworld.Afterall,itisonlyoncethatIhavenotpleasedyou.Butyouarequiteright,Dorian.Ishouldhaveshownmyselfmoreofanartist.Itwasfoolishofme,andyetIcouldn’thelpit.Oh,don’tleaveme,don’tleaveme.”Afitofpassionatesobbingchokedher.Shecrouchedonthefloorlikeawoundedthing,andDorianGray,withhisbeautifuleyes,lookeddownather,andhischiselledlipscurledinexquisitedisdain.Thereisalwayssomethingridiculousabouttheemotionsofpeoplewhomonehasceasedtolove.SibylVaneseemedtohimtobeabsurdlymelodramatic.Hertearsandsobsannoyedhim. “Iamgoing,”hesaidatlastinhiscalmclearvoice.“Idon’twishtobeunkind,butIcan’tseeyouagain.Youhavedisappointedme.” Sheweptsilently,andmadenoanswer,butcreptnearer.Herlittlehandsstretchedblindlyout,andappearedtobeseekingforhim.Heturnedonhisheelandlefttheroom.Inafewmomentshewasoutofthetheatre. Wherehewenttohehardlyknew.Herememberedwanderingthroughdimlylitstreets,pastgaunt,black-shadowedarchwaysandevil-lookinghouses.Womenwithhoarsevoicesandharshlaughterhadcalledafterhim.Drunkardshadreeledby,cursingandchatteringtothemselveslikemonstrousapes.Hehadseengrotesquechildrenhuddledupondoor-steps,andheardshrieksandoathsfromgloomycourts. Asthedawnwasjustbreaking,hefoundhimselfclosetoCoventGarden.Thedarknesslifted,and,flushedwithfaintfires,theskyholloweditselfintoaperfectpearl.Hugecartsfilledwithnoddingliliesrumbledslowlydownthepolishedemptystreet.Theairwasheavywiththeperfumeoftheflowers,andtheirbeautyseemedtobringhimananodyneforhispain.Hefollowedintothemarketandwatchedthemenunloadingtheirwaggons.Awhite-smockedcarterofferedhimsomecherries.Hethankedhim,wonderedwhyherefusedtoacceptanymoneyforthem,andbegantoeatthemlistlessly.Theyhadbeenpluckedatmidnight,andthecoldnessofthemoonhadenteredintothem.Alonglineofboyscarryingcratesofstripedtulips,andofyellowandredroses,defiledinfrontofhim,threadingtheirwaythroughthehuge,jade-greenpilesofvegetables.Undertheportico,withitsgrey,sun-bleachedpillars,loiteredatroopofdraggledbareheadedgirls,waitingfortheauctiontobeover.Otherscrowdedroundtheswingingdoorsofthecoffee-houseinthepiazza.Theheavycart-horsesslippedandstampedupontheroughstones,shakingtheirbellsandtrappings.Someofthedriverswerelyingasleeponapileofsacks.Iris-neckedandpink-footed,thepigeonsranaboutpickingupseeds. Afteralittlewhile,hehailedahansomanddrovehome.Forafewmomentsheloitereduponthedoorstep,lookingroundatthesilentsquare,withitsblank,close-shutteredwindowsanditsstaringblinds.Theskywaspureopalnow,andtheroofsofthehousesglistenedlikesilveragainstit.Fromsomechimneyoppositeathinwreathofsmokewasrising.Itcurled,avioletriband,throughthenacre-colouredair. InthehugegiltVenetianlantern,spoilofsomeDoge’sbarge,thathungfromtheceilingofthegreat,oak-panelledhallofentrance,lightswerestillburningfromthreeflickeringjets:thinbluepetalsofflametheyseemed,rimmedwithwhitefire.Heturnedthemoutand,havingthrownhishatandcapeonthetable,passedthroughthelibrarytowardsthedoorofhisbedroom,alargeoctagonalchamberonthegroundfloorthat,inhisnew-bornfeelingforluxury,hehadjusthaddecoratedforhimselfandhungwithsomecuriousRenaissancetapestriesthathadbeendiscoveredstoredinadisusedatticatSelbyRoyal.Ashewasturningthehandleofthedoor,hiseyefellupontheportraitBasilHallwardhadpaintedofhim.Hestartedbackasifinsurprise.Thenhewentonintohisownroom,lookingsomewhatpuzzled.Afterhehadtakenthebutton-holeoutofhiscoat,heseemedtohesitate.Finally,hecameback,wentovertothepicture,andexaminedit.Inthedimarrestedlightthatstruggledthroughthecream-colouredsilkblinds,thefaceappearedtohimtobealittlechanged.Theexpressionlookeddifferent.Onewouldhavesaidthattherewasatouchofcrueltyinthemouth.Itwascertainlystrange. Heturnedroundand,walkingtothewindow,drewuptheblind.Thebrightdawnfloodedtheroomandsweptthefantasticshadowsintoduskycorne