CHAPTER X.

Whenhisservantentered,helookedathimsteadfastlyandwonderedifhehadthoughtofpeeringbehindthescreen.Themanwasquiteimpassiveandwaitedforhisorders.Dorianlitacigaretteandwalkedovertotheglassandglancedintoit.HecouldseethereflectionofVictor’sfaceperfectly.Itwaslikeaplacidmaskofservility.Therewasnothingtobeafraidof,there.Yethethoughtitbesttobeonhisguard. Speakingveryslowly,hetoldhimtotellthehouse-keeperthathewantedtoseeher,andthentogototheframe-makerandaskhimtosendtwoofhismenroundatonce.Itseemedtohimthatasthemanlefttheroomhiseyeswanderedinthedirectionofthescreen.Orwasthatmerelyhisownfancy? Afterafewmoments,inherblacksilkdress,withold-fashionedthreadmittensonherwrinkledhands,Mrs.Leafbustledintothelibrary.Heaskedherforthekeyoftheschoolroom. “Theoldschoolroom,Mr.Dorian?”sheexclaimed.“Why,itisfullofdust.Imustgetitarrangedandputstraightbeforeyougointoit.Itisnotfitforyoutosee,sir.Itisnot,indeed.” “Idon’twantitputstraight,Leaf.Ionlywantthekey.” “Well,sir,you’llbecoveredwithcobwebsifyougointoit.Why,ithasn’tbeenopenedfornearlyfiveyears—notsincehislordshipdied.” Hewincedatthementionofhisgrandfather.Hehadhatefulmemoriesofhim.“Thatdoesnotmatter,”heanswered.“Isimplywanttoseetheplace—thatisall.Givemethekey.” “Andhereisthekey,sir,”saidtheoldlady,goingoverthecontentsofherbunchwithtremulouslyuncertainhands.“Hereisthekey.I’llhaveitoffthebunchinamoment.Butyoudon’tthinkoflivingupthere,sir,andyousocomfortablehere?” “No,no,”hecriedpetulantly.“Thankyou,Leaf.Thatwilldo.” Shelingeredforafewmoments,andwasgarrulousoversomedetailofthehousehold.Hesighedandtoldhertomanagethingsasshethoughtbest.Shelefttheroom,wreathedinsmiles. Asthedoorclosed,Dorianputthekeyinhispocketandlookedroundtheroom.Hiseyefellonalarge,purplesatincoverletheavilyembroideredwithgold,asplendidpieceoflateseventeenth-centuryVenetianworkthathisgrandfatherhadfoundinaconventnearBologna.Yes,thatwouldservetowrapthedreadfulthingin.Ithadperhapsservedoftenasapallforthedead.Nowitwastohidesomethingthathadacorruptionofitsown,worsethanthecorruptionofdeathitself—somethingthatwouldbreedhorrorsandyetwouldneverdie.Whatthewormwastothecorpse,hissinswouldbetothepaintedimageonthecanvas.Theywouldmaritsbeautyandeatawayitsgrace.Theywoulddefileitandmakeitshameful.Andyetthethingwouldstillliveon.Itwouldbealwaysalive. Heshuddered,andforamomentheregrettedthathehadnottoldBasilthetruereasonwhyhehadwishedtohidethepictureaway.BasilwouldhavehelpedhimtoresistLordHenry’sinfluence,andthestillmorepoisonousinfluencesthatcamefromhisowntemperament.Thelovethatheborehim—foritwasreallylove—hadnothinginitthatwasnotnobleandintellectual.Itwasnotthatmerephysicaladmirationofbeautythatisbornofthesensesandthatdieswhenthesensestire.ItwassuchloveasMichelangelohadknown,andMontaigne,andWinckelmann,andShakespearehimself.Yes,Basilcouldhavesavedhim.Butitwastoolatenow.Thepastcouldalwaysbeannihilated.Regret,denial,orforgetfulnesscoulddothat.Butthef