CHAPTER X.

melybulky,andnowandthen,inspiteoftheobsequiousprotestsofMr.Hubbard,whohadthetruetradesman’sspiriteddislikeofseeingagentlemandoinganythinguseful,Dorianputhishandtoitsoastohelpthem. “Somethingofaloadtocarry,sir,”gaspedthelittlemanwhentheyreachedthetoplanding.Andhewipedhisshinyforehead. “Iamafraiditisratherheavy,”murmuredDorianasheunlockedthedoorthatopenedintotheroomthatwastokeepforhimthecurioussecretofhislifeandhidehissoulfromtheeyesofmen. Hehadnotenteredtheplaceformorethanfouryears—not,indeed,sincehehaduseditfirstasaplay-roomwhenhewasachild,andthenasastudywhenhegrewsomewhatolder.Itwasalarge,well-proportionedroom,whichhadbeenspeciallybuiltbythelastLordKelsofortheuseofthelittlegrandsonwhom,forhisstrangelikenesstohismother,andalsoforotherreasons,hehadalwayshatedanddesiredtokeepatadistance.ItappearedtoDoriantohavebutlittlechanged.TherewasthehugeItaliancassone,withitsfantasticallypaintedpanelsanditstarnishedgiltmouldings,inwhichhehadsooftenhiddenhimselfasaboy.Therethesatinwoodbook-casefilledwithhisdog-earedschoolbooks.OnthewallbehinditwashangingthesameraggedFlemishtapestrywhereafadedkingandqueenwereplayingchessinagarden,whileacompanyofhawkersrodeby,carryinghoodedbirdsontheirgauntletedwrists.Howwellheremembereditall!Everymomentofhislonelychildhoodcamebacktohimashelookedround.Herecalledthestainlesspurityofhisboyishlife,anditseemedhorribletohimthatitwasherethefatalportraitwastobehiddenaway.Howlittlehehadthought,inthosedeaddays,ofallthatwasinstoreforhim! Buttherewasnootherplaceinthehousesosecurefrompryingeyesasthis.Hehadthekey,andnooneelsecouldenterit.Beneathitspurplepall,thefacepaintedonthecanvascouldgrowbestial,sodden,andunclean.Whatdiditmatter?Noonecouldseeit.Hehimselfwouldnotseeit.Whyshouldhewatchthehideouscorruptionofhissoul?Hekepthisyouth—thatwasenough.And,besides,mightnothisnaturegrowfiner,afterall?Therewasnoreasonthatthefutureshouldbesofullofshame.Somelovemightcomeacrosshislife,andpurifyhim,andshieldhimfromthosesinsthatseemedtobealreadystirringinspiritandinflesh—thosecuriousunpicturedsinswhoseverymysterylentthemtheirsubtletyandtheircharm.Perhaps,someday,thecruellookwouldhavepassedawayfromthescarletsensitivemouth,andhemightshowtotheworldBasilHallward’smasterpiece. Nothatwasimpossible.Hourbyhour,andweekbyweek,thethinguponthecanvaswasgrowingold.Itmightescapethehideousnessofsin,butthehideousnessofagewasinstoreforit.Thecheekswouldbecomeholloworflaccid.Yellowcrow’sfeetwouldcreeproundthefadingeyesandmakethemhorrible.Thehairwouldloseitsbrightness,themouthwouldgapeordroop,wouldbefoolishorgross,asthemouthsofoldmenare.Therewouldbethewrinkledthroat,thecold,blue-veinedhands,thetwistedbody,thatherememberedinthegrandfatherwhohadbeensosterntohiminhisboyhood.Thepicturehadtobeconcealed.Therewasnohelpforit. “Bringitin,Mr.Hubbard,please,”hesaid,wearily,turninground.“IamsorryIkeptyousolong.Iwasthinkingofsomethingelse.” “Alwaysgladtohavearest,Mr.