CHAPTER XVIII.

ed-grownlake. Atthecornerofthepine-woodhecaughtsightofSirGeoffreyClouston,theduchess’sbrother,jerkingtwospentcartridgesoutofhisgun.Hejumpedfromthecart,andhavingtoldthegroomtotakethemarehome,madehiswaytowardshisguestthroughthewitheredbrackenandroughundergrowth. “Haveyouhadgoodsport,Geoffrey?”heasked. “Notverygood,Dorian.Ithinkmostofthebirdshavegonetotheopen.Idaresayitwillbebetterafterlunch,whenwegettonewground.” Dorianstrolledalongbyhisside.Thekeenaromaticair,thebrownandredlightsthatglimmeredinthewood,thehoarsecriesofthebeatersringingoutfromtimetotime,andthesharpsnapsofthegunsthatfollowed,fascinatedhimandfilledhimwithasenseofdelightfulfreedom.Hewasdominatedbythecarelessnessofhappiness,bythehighindifferenceofjoy. Suddenlyfromalumpytussockofoldgrasssometwentyyardsinfrontofthem,withblack-tippedearserectandlonghinderlimbsthrowingitforward,startedahare.Itboltedforathicketofalders.SirGeoffreyputhisguntohisshoulder,buttherewassomethingintheanimal’sgraceofmovementthatstrangelycharmedDorianGray,andhecriedoutatonce,“Don’tshootit,Geoffrey.Letitlive.” “Whatnonsense,Dorian!”laughedhiscompanion,andasthehareboundedintothethicket,hefired.Thereweretwocriesheard,thecryofahareinpain,whichisdreadful,thecryofamaninagony,whichisworse. “Goodheavens!Ihavehitabeater!”exclaimedSirGeoffrey.“Whatanassthemanwastogetinfrontoftheguns!Stopshootingthere!”hecalledoutatthetopofhisvoice.“Amanishurt.” Thehead-keepercamerunningupwithastickinhishand. “Where,sir?Whereishe?”heshouted.Atthesametime,thefiringceasedalongtheline. “Here,”answeredSirGeoffreyangrily,hurryingtowardsthethicket.“Whyonearthdon’tyoukeepyourmenback?Spoiledmyshootingfortheday.” Dorianwatchedthemastheyplungedintothealder-clump,brushingthelitheswingingbranchesaside.Inafewmomentstheyemerged,draggingabodyafterthemintothesunlight.Heturnedawayinhorror.Itseemedtohimthatmisfortunefollowedwhereverhewent.HeheardSirGeoffreyaskifthemanwasreallydead,andtheaffirmativeanswerofthekeeper.Thewoodseemedtohimtohavebecomesuddenlyalivewithfaces.Therewasthetramplingofmyriadfeetandthelowbuzzofvoices.Agreatcopper-breastedpheasantcamebeatingthroughtheboughsoverhead. Afterafewmoments—thatweretohim,inhisperturbedstate,likeendlesshoursofpain—hefeltahandlaidonhisshoulder.Hestartedandlookedround. “Dorian,”saidLordHenry,“Ihadbettertellthemthattheshootingisstoppedforto-day.Itwouldnotlookwelltogoon.” “Iwishitwerestoppedforever,Harry,”heansweredbitterly.“Thewholethingishideousandcruel.Istheman...?” Hecouldnotfinishthesentence. “Iamafraidso,”rejoinedLordHenry.“Hegotthewholechargeofshotinhischest.Hemusthavediedalmostinstantaneously.Comeletusgohome.” Theywalkedsidebysideinthedirectionoftheavenuefornearlyfiftyyardswithoutspeaking.ThenDorianlookedatLordHenryandsaid,withaheavysigh,“Itisabadomen,Harry,averybadomen.” “Whatis?”askedLordHenry.“Oh!thisaccident,Isuppose.Mydearfellow,itcan’tbehelped.Itwastheman’sownfault.Whydidhegetinfrontoftheguns?Besides,