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1He had not entered the place for more than four years--not, indeed, since he had used it first as a play-room when he
2was a child, and then as a study when he grew somewhat older. It was a large, well-proportioned room, which had been
3specially built by the last Lord Kelso for the use of the little grandson whom, for his strange likeness to his mother,
4and also for other reasons, he had always hated and desired to keep at a distance. It appeared to Dorian to have but
5little changed. There was the huge Italian cassone, with its fantastically painted panels and its tarnished gilt
6mouldings, in which he had so often hidden himself as a boy. There the satinwood book-case filled with his dog-eared
7schoolbooks. On the wall behind it was hanging the same ragged Flemish tapestry where a faded king and queen were
8playing chess in a garden, while a company of hawkers rode by, carrying hooded birds on their gauntleted wrists. How
9well he remembered it all! Every moment of his lonely childhood came back to him as he looked round. He recalled the
10stainless purity of his boyish life, and it seemed horrible to him that it was here the fatal portrait was to be hidden
11away. How little he had thought, in those dead days, of all that was in store for him! But there was no other place in
12the house so secure from prying eyes as this. He had the key, and no one else could enter it. Beneath its purple pall,
13the face painted on the canvas could grow bestial, sodden, and unclean. What did it matter? No one could see it. He
14himself would not see it. Why should he watch the hideous corruption of his soul? He kept his youth--that was enough.
15And, besides, might not his nature grow finer, after all? There was no reason that the future should be so full of
16shame. Some love might come across his life, and purify him, and shield him from those sins that seemed to be already
17stirring in spirit and in flesh--those curious unpictured sins whose very mystery lent them their subtlety and their
18charm. Perhaps, some day, the cruel look would have passed away from the scarlet sensitive mouth, and he might show to
19the world Basil Hallward's masterpiece. No; that was impossible. Hour by hour, and week by week, the thing upon the
20canvas was growing old. It might escape the hideousness of sin, but the hideousness of age was in store for it. The
21cheeks would become hollow or flaccid. Yellow crow's feet would creep round the fading eyes and make them horrible. The
22hair would lose its brightness, the mouth would gape or droop, would be foolish or gross, as the mouths of old men are.
23There would be the wrinkled throat, the cold, blue-veined hands, the twisted body, that he remembered in the grandfather
24who had been so stern to him in his boyhood. The picture had to be concealed. There was no help for it. "Bring it in,
25Mr. Hubbard, please," he said, wearily, turning round. "I am sorry I kept you so long. I was thinking of something
26else." "Always glad to have a rest, Mr. Gray," answered the frame-maker, who was still gasping for breath. "Where shall
27we put it, sir?" "Oh, anywhere. Here: this will do. I don't want to have it hung up. Just lean it against the wall.
28Thanks." "Might one look at the work of art, sir?" Dorian started. "It would not interest you, Mr. Hubbard," he said,
29keeping his eye on the man. He felt ready to leap upon him and fling him to the ground if he dared to lift the gorgeous
30hanging that concealed the secret of his life. "I shan't trouble you any more now. I am much obliged for your kindness
31in coming round." "Not at all, not at all, Mr. Gray. Ever ready to do anything for you, sir." And Mr. Hubbard tramped
32downstairs, followed by the assistant, who glanced back at Dorian with a look of shy wonder in his rough uncomely face.
33He had never seen any one so marvellous. When the sound of their footsteps had died away, Dorian locked the door and put
34the key in his pocket. He felt safe now. No one would ever look upon the horrible thing. No eye but his would ever see
35his shame. On reaching the library, he found that it was just after five o'clock and that the tea had been already
36brought up. On a little table of dark perfumed wood thickly incrusted with nacre, a present from Lady Radley, his
37guardian's wife, a pretty professional invalid, who had spent the preceding winter in Cairo, was lying a note from Lord
38Henry, and beside it was a book bound in yellow paper, the cover slightly torn and the edges soiled. A copy of the third
39edition of The St. James's Gazette had been placed on the tea-tray. It was evident that Victor had returned. He wondered
40if he had met the men in the hall as they were leaving the house and had wormed out of them what they had been doing. He
41would be sure to miss the picture--had no doubt missed it already, while he had been laying the tea-things. The screen
42had not been set back, and a blank space was visible on the wall. Perhaps some night he might find him creeping upstairs
43and trying to force the door of the room. It was a horrible thing to have a spy in one's house. He had heard of rich men
44who had been blackmailed all their lives by some servant who had read a letter, or overheard a conversation, or picked
45up a card with an address, or found beneath a pillow a withered flower or a shred of crumpled lace. He sighed, and
46having poured himself out some tea, opened Lord Henry's note. It was simply to say that he sent him round the evening
47paper, and a book that might interest him, and that he would be at the club at eight-fifteen. He opened The St. James's
48languidly, and looked through it. A red pencil-mark on the fifth page caught his eye. It drew attention to the following
49paragraph: INQUEST ON AN ACTRESS.--An inquest was held this morning at the Bell Tavern, Hoxton Road, by Mr. Danby, the
50District Coroner, on the body of Sibyl Vane, a young actress recently engaged at the Royal Theatre, Holborn. A verdict
51of death by misadventure was returned. Considerable sympathy was expressed for the mother of the deceased, who was
52greatly affected during the giving of her own evidence, and that of Dr. Birrell, who had made the post-mortem
53examination of the deceased. He frowned, and tearing the paper in two, went across the room and flung the pieces away.
54How ugly it all was! And how horribly real ugliness made things! He felt a little annoyed with Lord Henry for having
55sent him the report. And it was certainly stupid of him to have marked it with red pencil. Victor might have read it.
56The man knew more than enough English for that. Perhaps he had read it and had begun to suspect something. And, yet,
57what did it matter? What had Dorian Gray to do with Sibyl Vane's death? There was nothing to fear. Dorian Gray had not
58killed her. His eye fell on the yellow book that Lord Henry had sent him. What was it, he wondered. He went towards the
59little, pearl-coloured octagonal stand that had always looked to him like the work of some strange Egyptian bees that
60wrought in silver, and taking up the volume, flung himself into an arm-chair and began to turn over the leaves. After a
61few minutes he became absorbed. It was the strangest book that he had ever read. It seemed to him that in exquisite
62raiment, and to the delicate sound of flutes, the sins of the world were passing in dumb show before him. Things that he
63had dimly dreamed of were suddenly made real to him. Things of which he had never dreamed were gradually revealed.
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