CHAPTER VIII.
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dconsciencetoothers,andthefearofGodtousall.Therewereopiatesforremorse,drugsthatcouldlullthemoralsensetosleep.Butherewasavisiblesymbolofthedegradationofsin.Herewasanever-presentsignoftheruinmenbroughtupontheirsouls.
Threeo’clockstruck,andfour,andthehalf-hourrangitsdoublechime,butDorianGraydidnotstir.Hewastryingtogatherupthescarletthreadsoflifeandtoweavethemintoapatterntofindhiswaythroughthesanguinelabyrinthofpassionthroughwhichhewaswandering.Hedidnotknowwhattodo,orwhattothink.Finally,hewentovertothetableandwroteapassionatelettertothegirlhehadloved,imploringherforgivenessandaccusinghimselfofmadness.Hecoveredpageafterpagewithwildwordsofsorrowandwilderwordsofpain.Thereisaluxuryinself-reproach.Whenweblameourselves,wefeelthatnooneelsehasarighttoblameus.Itistheconfession,notthepriest,thatgivesusabsolution.WhenDorianhadfinishedtheletter,hefeltthathehadbeenforgiven.
Suddenlytherecameaknocktothedoor,andheheardLordHenry’svoiceoutside.“Mydearboy,Imustseeyou.Letmeinatonce.Ican’tbearyourshuttingyourselfuplikethis.”
Hemadenoansweratfirst,butremainedquitestill.Theknockingstillcontinuedandgrewlouder.Yes,itwasbettertoletLordHenryin,andtoexplaintohimthenewlifehewasgoingtolead,toquarrelwithhimifitbecamenecessarytoquarrel,topartifpartingwasinevitable.Hejumpedup,drewthescreenhastilyacrossthepicture,andunlockedthedoor.
“Iamsosorryforitall,Dorian,”saidLordHenryasheentered.“Butyoumustnotthinktoomuchaboutit.”
“DoyoumeanaboutSibylVane?”askedthelad.
“Yes,ofcourse,”answeredLordHenry,sinkingintoachairandslowlypullingoffhisyellowgloves.“Itisdreadful,fromonepointofview,butitwasnotyourfault.Tellme,didyougobehindandseeher,aftertheplaywasover?”
“Yes.”
“Ifeltsureyouhad.Didyoumakeascenewithher?”
“Iwasbrutal,Harry—perfectlybrutal.Butitisallrightnow.Iamnotsorryforanythingthathashappened.Ithastaughtmetoknowmyselfbetter.”
“Ah,Dorian,Iamsogladyoutakeitinthatway!IwasafraidIwouldfindyouplungedinremorseandtearingthatnicecurlyhairofyours.”
“Ihavegotthroughallthat,”saidDorian,shakinghisheadandsmiling.“Iamperfectlyhappynow.Iknowwhatconscienceis,tobeginwith.Itisnotwhatyoutoldmeitwas.Itisthedivinestthinginus.Don’tsneeratit,Harry,anymore—atleastnotbeforeme.Iwanttobegood.Ican’tbeartheideaofmysoulbeinghideous.”
“Averycharmingartisticbasisforethics,Dorian!Icongratulateyouonit.Buthowareyougoingtobegin?”
“BymarryingSibylVane.”
“MarryingSibylVane!”criedLordHenry,standingupandlookingathiminperplexedamazement.“But,mydearDorian—”
“Yes,Harry,Iknowwhatyouaregoingtosay.Somethingdreadfulaboutmarriage.Don’tsayit.Don’teversaythingsofthatkindtomeagain.TwodaysagoIaskedSibyltomarryme.Iamnotgoingtobreakmywordtoher.Sheistobemywife.”
“Yourwife!Dorian!...Didn’tyougetmyletter?Iwrotetoyouthismorning,andsentthenotedownbymyownman.”
“Yourletter?Oh,yes,Iremember.Ihavenotreadityet,Harry.IwasafraidtheremightbesomethinginitthatIwouldn’tlike.Youcutlifetopieceswithyourepigrams.”
“Youknownothingthen?”
“Whatdoyoumean?”
LordHenrywalkedacrosstheroom,andsittingdownbyDorianGray,tookbothhishandsinhisownandheldthemtightly.“Dorian,”hesaid,“myletter—don’tbefrightened—wastotellyouthatSibylVaneisdead.”
Acryofpainbrokefromthelad’slips,andheleapedtohisfeet,tearinghishandsawayfromLordHenry’sgrasp.“Dead!Sibyldead!Itisnottrue!Itisahorriblelie!Howdareyousayit?”
“Itisquitetrue,Dorian,”saidLordHenry,gravely.“Itisinallthemorningpapers.IwrotedowntoyoutoaskyounottoseeanyonetillIcame.Therewillhavetobeaninquest,ofcourse,andyoumustnotbemixedupinit.ThingslikethatmakeamanfashionableinParis.ButinLondonpeoplearesoprejudiced.Here,oneshouldnevermakeone’sdébutwithascandal.Oneshouldreservethattogiveaninteresttoone’soldage.Isupposetheydon’tknowyournameatthetheatre?Iftheydon’t,itisallright.Didanyoneseeyougoingroundtoherroom?Thatisanimportantpoint.”
Doriandidnotanswerforafewmoments.Hewasdazedwithhorror.Finallyhestammered,inastifledvoice,“Harry,didyousayaninquest?Whatdidyoumeanbythat?DidSibyl—?Oh,Harry,Ican’tbearit!Butbequick.Tellmeeverythingatonce.”
“Ihavenodoubtitwasnotanaccident,Dorian,thoughitmustbeputinthatwaytothepublic.Itseemsthatasshewasleavingthetheatrewithhermother,abouthalf-pasttwelveorso,shesaidshehadforgottensomethingupstairs.Theywaitedsometimeforher,butshedidnotcomedownagain.Theyultimatelyfoundherlyingdeadonthefloorofherdressing-room.Shehadswallowedsomethingbymistake,somedreadfulthingtheyuseattheatres.Idon’tknowwhatitwas,butithadeitherprussicacidorwhiteleadinit.Ishouldfancyitwasprussicacid,assheseemstohavediedinstantaneously.”
“Harry,Harry,itisterrible!”criedthelad.
“Yesitisverytragic,ofcourse,butyoumustnotgetyourselfmixedupinit.IseebyTheStandardthatshewasseventeen.Ishouldhavethoughtshewasalmostyoung
