CHAPTER VII.

rs,wheretheylayshuddering.Butthestrangeexpressionthathehadnoticedinthefaceoftheportraitseemedtolingerthere,tobemoreintensifiedeven.Thequiveringardentsunlightshowedhimthelinesofcrueltyroundthemouthasclearlyasifhehadbeenlookingintoamirrorafterhehaddonesomedreadfulthing. Hewincedand,takingupfromthetableanovalglassframedinivoryCupids,oneofLordHenry’smanypresentstohim,glancedhurriedlyintoitspolisheddepths.Nolinelikethatwarpedhisredlips.Whatdiditmean? Herubbedhiseyes,andcameclosetothepicture,andexamineditagain.Therewerenosignsofanychangewhenhelookedintotheactualpainting,andyettherewasnodoubtthatthewholeexpressionhadaltered.Itwasnotamerefancyofhisown.Thethingwashorriblyapparent. Hethrewhimselfintoachairandbegantothink.SuddenlythereflashedacrosshismindwhathehadsaidinBasilHallward’sstudiothedaythepicturehadbeenfinished.Yes,heremembereditperfectly.Hehadutteredamadwishthathehimselfmightremainyoung,andtheportraitgrowoldthathisownbeautymightbeuntarnished,andthefaceonthecanvasbeartheburdenofhispassionsandhissinsthatthepaintedimagemightbesearedwiththelinesofsufferingandthought,andthathemightkeepallthedelicatebloomandlovelinessofhisthenjustconsciousboyhood.Surelyhiswishhadnotbeenfulfilled?Suchthingswereimpossible.Itseemedmonstrouseventothinkofthem.And,yet,therewasthepicturebeforehim,withthetouchofcrueltyinthemouth. Cruelty!Hadhebeencruel?Itwasthegirl’sfault,nothis.Hehaddreamedofherasagreatartist,hadgivenhislovetoherbecausehehadthoughthergreat.Thenshehaddisappointedhim.Shehadbeenshallowandunworthy.And,yet,afeelingofinfiniteregretcameoverhim,ashethoughtofherlyingathisfeetsobbinglikealittlechild.Herememberedwithwhatcallousnesshehadwatchedher.Whyhadhebeenmadelikethat?Whyhadsuchasoulbeengiventohim?Buthehadsufferedalso.Duringthethreeterriblehoursthattheplayhadlasted,hehadlivedcenturiesofpain,aeonuponaeonoftorture.Hislifewaswellworthhers.Shehadmarredhimforamoment,ifhehadwoundedherforanage.Besides,womenwerebettersuitedtobearsorrowthanmen.Theylivedontheiremotions.Theyonlythoughtoftheiremotions.Whentheytooklovers,itwasmerelytohavesomeonewithwhomtheycouldhavescenes.LordHenryhadtoldhimthat,andLordHenryknewwhatwomenwere.WhyshouldhetroubleaboutSibylVane?Shewasnothingtohimnow. Butthepicture?Whatwashetosayofthat?Itheldthesecretofhislife,andtoldhisstory.Ithadtaughthimtolovehisownbeauty.Woulditteachhimtoloathehisownsoul?Wouldheeverlookatitagain? Noitwasmerelyanillusionwroughtonthetroubledsenses.Thehorriblenightthathehadpassedhadleftphantomsbehindit.Suddenlytherehadfallenuponhisbrainthattinyscarletspeckthatmakesmenmad.Thepicturehadnotchanged.Itwasfollytothinkso. Yetitwaswatchinghim,withitsbeautifulmarredfaceanditscruelsmile.Itsbrighthairgleamedintheearlysunlight.Itsblueeyesmethisown.Asenseofinfinitepity,notforhimself,butforthepaintedimageofhimself,cameoverhim.Ithadalteredalready,andwouldaltermore.Itsgoldwouldwitherintogrey.Itsredandwhiteroseswoulddie.Foreverysinthathecommitted,astainwouldfleckandwreckitsfairness.Buthewouldnotsin.Thepicture,changedorunchanged,wouldbetohimthevisibleemblemofconscience.Hewouldresisttemptation.HewouldnotseeLordHenryanymore—wouldnot,atanyrate,listentothosesubtlepoisonoustheoriesthatinBasilHallward’sgardenhadfirststirredwithinhimthepassionforimpossiblethings.HewouldgobacktoSibylVane,makeheramends,marryher,trytoloveheragain.Yes,itwashisdutytodoso.Shemusthavesufferedmorethanhehad.Poorchild!Hehadbeenselfishandcrueltoher.Thefascinationthatshehadexercisedoverhimwouldreturn.Theywouldbehappytogether.Hislifewithherwouldbebeautifulandpure. Hegotupfromhischairanddrewalargescreenrightinfrontoftheportrait,shudderingasheglancedatit.“Howhorrible!”hemurmuredtohimself,andhewalkedacrosstothewindowandopenedit.Whenhesteppedoutontothegrass,hedrewadeepbreath.Thefreshmorningairseemedtodriveawayallhissombrepassions.HethoughtonlyofSibyl.Afaintechoofhislovecamebacktohim.Herepeatedhernameoverandoveragain.Thebirdsthatweresinginginthedew-drenchedgardenseemedtobetellingtheflowersabouther.