Chapter 18

The next day Dorian did not leave the house, and, indeed, spent most of the time in his own room, sick with a wild terror of dying. He felt ill and he was frightened. He was frightened if he heard a noise or saw a door open. When he closed his eyes, he saw again the sailor’s face, and horror laid its hand upon his heart.

He remembered Sibyl Vane. He remembered the murder of Basil. He remembered the face at the window. Dorian lay in bed, but he did not sleep. During the day, Lord Henry went into Dorian’s room and found Dorian crying.

For two days, Dorian stayed inside. He did not know if he had really seen James Vane. Maybe it was his imagination. Maybe his guilt over the murder of Basil was making him see things that weren’t really there.

After two days Dorian was not so frightened. James Vane could not know where he was. James Vane must be in London. He had imagined James Vane’s face at the window.

On the third day Dorian was feeling better. It was a cold day and the sun was shining. Dorian felt happy as he walked through the woods. Lord Henry and Lady Monmouth walked beside him.

The smell of the pine trees and the cold winter air made him feel like being outside with the other hunters. Dorian rode his horse through the forest to a small lake where he saw the Duchess’s brother, Sir Geoffrey Clouston, emptying his gun. Dorian walked with Geoffrey. Some of his guests were going out to shoot birds and Dorian decided to go too.

A small hare ran in front of them, and Sir Geoffrey raised his gun to shoot it. Dorian saw the beauty in the way the hare moved, and he cried out, “Don’t shoot it. Let it live.”

But Sir Geoffrey would not listen. There were two cries heard, the cry of a hare in pain, which is dreadful, the cry of a man in agony, which is worse. Sir Geoffrey had shot one of the men who helped the hunters. He was hidden by the bush.

People shouted and ran towards the noise. Soon they pulled the body of a man out of the trees. Dorian watched in horror.

Lord Henry touched Dorian’s arm. “I think we’d better stop shooting today,” he said.

Dorian looked at Lord Henry and said, with a heavy sigh, “It is a bad omen, Harry, a very bad omen. I feel like something terrible is going to happen.”

“What is?” asked Lord Henry. “Oh! this accident, I suppose. My dear fellow, it was the man’s own fault. Why did he get in front of the guns? Besides, it is nothing to us. There is no use talking about the matter. It was an accident. It wasn’t a murder. There’s no such thing as bad omens. Besides, what horrible thing could happen to you? Every man in the world wants to be like you.”

“Oh, don’t laugh like that. I have no terror of death. It is the coming of death that terrifies me. Good heavens! don’t you see a man moving behind the trees there, watching me, waiting for me?”

Lord Henry looked in the direction in which the trembling hand was pointing. “Yes,” he said, smiling, “I see the gardener waiting for you. I suppose he wants to ask you what flowers you wish to have on the table tonight. How absurdly nervous you are, my dear fellow! You must come and see my doctor, when we get back to town.”

Henry was never serious for long. “I would like to meet a person who has done a real murder,” he went on, laughing.

Lady Monmouth laughed too, but Dorian suddenly felt ill. His face became very pale.

Dorian smiled politely. “I’m feeling tired. I must go to my room. Excuse me.”

In his room, Dorian lay down on his bed. His body shook with terror. Fear and death were everywhere in this house. He did not want to spend another night here. Dorian wanted to leave Selby Royal. He could feel death all around it. He told his servant he was going to take the night train to London. He was about to write a letter to Lord Henry, telling him he was going to see a doctor, when there was a knock at his door. It was the man in charge of the farm workers and Dorian thought it was about the man who had been killed.

At five o’clock Dorian told his servant that he wanted to take the night train to London. The servant went to pack Dorian’s suitcases, but he soon returned.

“Excuse me, sir,” he said to Dorian, “there is a problem with the dead man, the man who was shot.”

“Yes, what is it?” said Dorian. “Do you need some money to give to the man’s family?”

“No, sir. We don’t know who he is, sir.”

“Don’t know who he is?” said Dorian. “What do you mean? Wasn’t he one of your men?”

“No, sir. Never saw him before. Seems like a sailor, sir.”

Dorian’s face turned white, the pen dropped from Dorian Gray’s hand. “A sailor?” he cried out. “Did you say a sailor?”

“Yes, sir. He had tattooes on his arms and he was wearing sailor’s clothes.”

“Was there anything found on him?” said Dorian. “Anything that would tell his name?”

“Some money, sir – not much, and a gun.”

Dorian ran to the door. “Where is the body?” he exclaimed. “Quick! I must see it at once.”

The body had been taken to a farm. It lay on the floor in one of the buildings. A handkerchief covered the dead man’s face.

“Take that thing off the face. I wish to see it,” said Dorian.

A farm-worker took away the handkerchief. Then Dorian looked down at the face and gave a cry of joy. He stood there for some minutes looking at the dead body. The man who had been shot was James Vane.

Dorian went home with his eyes full of tears. They were tears of joy because he was safe. James Vane could not kill him now.

Chapter 19

One night, Dorian Gray had dinner at Lord Henry’s. The two men were alone after dinner was over, and Dorian wanted to tell Lord Henry how he had decided to change his life and be good.

“I met a girl in the country. She reminded me of Sybil Vane. We spent a month together, and I really felt I loved her. But I did not want to destroy her innocence, so I told her I could not see her anymore.”

“So you broke her heart. What good is there in that?”

“Her heart was not broken. She was sad, but she can live an honourable life. I did nothing to blacken her name.”

“I think you did it for yourself. It makes you feel good to think that you haven’t hurt her when in reality you have. She’ll never forget someone of your beauty. She’ll make you more wonderful in her own imagination and she’ll never be satisfied with another man”.

“I am going to be good,” said Dorian Gray.

“Don’t tell me that you are going to be good,” cried Lord Henry. “You’re quite perfect. Don’t change.”

Dorian Gray shook his head, “No, Harry, I have done too many dreadful things in my life. I am not going to do any more. Can’t we please talk about something else? Tell me, what is happening here in London? I have been out of the country for more than a month.”

“We could talk about Basil. Everyone is talking of his disappearance. Or we could talk about Alan Campbell’s suicide. Did you know he shot himself in his laboratory?”

Dorian did not answer. He was deep in thought.

“People are still discussing poor Basil’s disappearance.”

“Are they not bored with that yet?” said Dorian, pouring out some wine and frowning.

“My dear boy, they have only been talking about it for six weeks. The British only need one subject of conversation every three months. They have been very lucky recently though. First there was the scandal of my wife leaving me, and then Alan Campbell killed himself. Now there is the mysterious disappearance of an artist. The British police are saying that Basil did take the midnight train on the ninth of November, but the French police are sure that he never arrived in Paris at all.”

“What do you think has happened to Basil?” asked Dorian.

“I have not the slightest idea. If Basil chooses to hide himself, it is no business of mine. If he is dead, I don’t want to think about him. Death is the only thing that ever terrifies me. I hate it.”

“Why?” said the younger man, in a tired voice.

“Because,” said Lord Henry, “it is the only thing that is final. Let us have our coffee in the music room, Dorian. You must play Chopin to me. The man who ran away with my wife played Chopin beautifully. Poor Victoria! I was very fond of her. The house is quite lonely without her.”

Dorian said nothing, but went into the next room and sat at the piano. After the coffee had been brought in, he stopped playing.

“Harry,” he said, looking over at Lord Henry. “Do you think Basil was murdered?”

Lord Henry yawned. “Everyone liked Basil. Who would want to murder him? He was not clever enough to have enemies. Of course he was a wonderful painter. But a man can paint like Velasquez and yet still be rather boring. Basil was really rather boring. The only thing that interested me about him was that he worshipped you.”

“I was very fond of Basil,” said Dorian sadly. “But don’t people say he was murdered?”

“Oh, some newspapers do. But I don’t think it is likely. I know there are awful places in Paris, but Basil was not the sort of man to go to them.”

“What would you say, Harry, if I told you that I had murdered Basil?” said the younger man. He watched him carefully after he had spoken.

“I would not believe you. Dorian, you would not murder anyone. It is ordinary people who murder. It is their way of finding the extraordinary pleasure that art gives us.”

“A way of finding the extraordinary pleasure? Do you think that a man who has murdered could do it again? Don’t tell me that.”

“Oh! Anything becomes a pleasure if you do it too often,” cried Lord Henry, laughing. “That is one of the most important secrets of life. I believe, though, that murder is always a mistake. One should never do anything one cannot talk about after dinner. But let us pass from poor Basil. I wish I could believe that he has died some romantic death, but I can’t. He probably fell into the Seine off a bus. I can see him now lying on his back in the dirty green water. During the last ten years he had not been painting well.”

Lord Henry walked across the room and touched the head of a strange grey bird that he kept in the music room. Then he turned to face Dorian.

“Yes,” he continued, taking his handkerchief out of his pocket, “his painting seemed to me to have lost something. When you and he stopped being great friends, he stopped being a great artist. What was it that separated you? I suppose he bored you. If so, he never forgave you. By the way, what happened to that wonderful portrait he did of you? I don’t think I have ever seen it since he finished it.”

“I told you years ago that it was stolen.”

“Oh! I remember. You never got it back? What a shame! It really was wonderful. I remember I wanted to buy it. I wish I had it now.”

“I never really liked it,” said Dorian. “I am sorry I sat for it. The memory of the thing is hateful to me. Why do you talk of it?”

“How sad you look! Don’t be so serious. Play me some music, Dorian. And, as you play, tell me in a low voice why you still look so young. I am only ten years older than you are, and I have grey hair and yellow skin. You are really wonderful, Dorian.”

“Harry, please —”

“You have never looked more charming than you do tonight. You remind me of the day I first saw you. You were very shy, and absolutely extraordinary. You have changed, of course, but not in appearance. You are still the same.”

“I am not the same, Harry.”

“Yes, you are the same, I wish I could change places with you, Dorian. The world has cried out against us both, but it has always worshipped you. It always will worship you. Life has been your art.”

Dorian got up from the piano, and passed his hand through his hair. “Yes, life has been beautiful,” he said, quietly, “but I am not going to have the same life, Harry. And you must not say these things to me. You don’t know everything about me. I think that if you did, even you would turn away from me. You laugh. Don’t laugh.”

“Why have you stopped playing, Dorian? Let us go to the club. It has been a charming evening, and we must end it charmingly. There is someone I want to introduce to you – young Lord Poole. He has already copied your ties and he very much wants to meet you. He is quite charming and he reminds me of you.”

“I hope not,” said Dorian, with a sad look in his eyes. “But I am tired tonight, Harry. I won’t go to the club. It is nearly eleven, and I want to go to bed early.”

“Please stay. You have never played so well as tonight.”

“It is because I am going to be good,” he answered, smiling. “I am a little changed already.”

“You cannot change to me, Dorian,” said Lord Henry. “You and I will always be friends.”

“Yet you poisoned me with a book once. I should not forgive that. Harry, promise me that you will never lend that book to any one. It does harm.”

“Come round tomorrow. We shall go to lunch.”

“Do you really want me to come, Harry?”

“Certainly. The park is quite lovely now. I don’t think there have been such flowers since the year I met you.”

“Very well. I shall be here at eleven,” said Dorian. “Good night, Harry.” As he reached the door, he hesitated for a moment, as if he had something more to say. Then he sighed and went out.