Chapter 20

  Chapter20

  Itwasalovelynight,sowarmthathethrewhiscoatoverhisarmanddidnotevenputhissilkscarfroundhisthroat.Ashestrolledhome,smokinghiscigarette,twoyoungmenineveningdresspassedhim.Heheardohemwhispertotheother,"ThatisDray."Herememberedhowpleasedheusedtobewhenheoi,orstaredat,ortalkedabout.Hewastiredofhearinghisownnamenow.Halfthecharmofthelittlevillagewherehehadbeensooftenlatelywasthatnooneknewwhohewas.Hehadoftentoldthegirlwhomhehadluredtolovehimthatheoor,andshehadbelievedhim.Hehadtoldherohewaswicked,andshehadlaughedathimandahatwickedpeoplewerealwaysveryoldandveryugly.Whatalaughshehad!--justlikeathrushsinging.Andhowprettyshehadbeetondressesandherlargehats!Shekhing,butshehadeverythingthathehadlost.

  Whenhereachedhome,hefoundhisservantwaitingupforhim.Hesenthimtobed,andthrewhimselfdownonthesofainthelibrary,aothinkoversomeofthethingsthatLordHenryhadsaidtohim.

  Wasitreallytruethatonecouldneverge?Hefeltawildlongingfortheunstainedpurityofhisboyhood--hisrose-whiteboyhood,asLordHenryhadoncecalledit.Hekhathehadtarnishedhimself,filledhismindwithcorruptionandgivenhorrortohisfancy;thathehadbeenanevilioothers,andhadexperieerriblejoyinbeingso;andthatofthelivesthathadcrossedhisown,ithadbeenthefairestafullofpromisethathehadbroughttoshame.Butwasitallirretrievable?Wastherenohopeforhim?

  Ah!inwhatamonstrousmomentofprideandpassionhehadprayedthattheportraitshouldbeartheburdenofhisdays,andhekeeptheunsulliedsplendourofeternalyouth!Allhisfailurehadbeehat.Betterforhimthateaofhislifehadbroughtitssureswiftpenaltyalongwithit.Thereurificationinpunishment.Not"Fiveusoursins"but"Smiteusforouriniquities"shouldbetheprayerofmantoamostjustGod.

  ThecuriouslycarvedmirrorthatLordHenryhadgiventohim,somanyyearsagonow,wasstandingoable,ae-limbedCupidslaughedrounditasofold.Hetookitup,ashehaddohatnightofhorrorwhenbehadfirsthegeialpicture,andwithwild,tear-dimmedeyeslookedintoitspolishedshield.Oneonewhohadterriblylovedhimhadwrittentohimamadletter,endingwiththeseidolatrouswords:"Theworldisgedbecauseyouaremadeofivoryandgold.Thecurvesofyourlipsrewritehistory."Thephrasescamebaemory,andherepeatedthemoveraohimself.Thehedhisowy,andflingingthemirroronthefloor,crusheditintosilversplintersbehhisheel.Itwashisbeautythathadruinedhim,hisbeautyahthathehadprayedfor.Butforthosetwothings,hislifemighthavebeenfreefromstain.Hisbeautyhadbeentohimbutamask,hisyouthbutamockery.Whatwasyouthatbest?Agreen,anuime,atimeofshallowmoods,andsicklythoughts.Whyhadhewornitslivery?Youthhadspoiledhim.

  Itwasbetternottothinkofthepast.Nothingcouldalterthat.Itwasofhimself,andofhisownfuture,thathehadtothink.JamesVanewashiddeninanamelessgraveinSelbychurchyard.AlanCampbellhadshothimselfonenightinhislaboratory,buthadnotrevealedthesecretthathehadbeenforcedtoknow.Theexcitement,suchasitwas,overBasilHallwardsdisappearancewouldsoonpassaway.Itwasalreadywaning.Heerfectlysafethere.Nor,indeed,wasitthedeathofBasilHallwardthatweighedmostuponhismind.Itwasthelivihofhisownsoulthattroubledhim.Basilhadpaiheportraitthathadmarredhislife.Hecouldnivehimthat.Itwastheportraitthathaddohing.Basilhadsaidthingstohimthatwereunbearable,andthathehadyetborhpatiehemurderhadbeensimplythemadnessofamoment.AsforAlanCampbell,hissuicidehadbeenhisownact.Hehadchosentodoit.Itwasnothingtohim.

  Anewlife!Thatwaswhathewahatwaswhathewaswaitingfor.Surelyhehadbegunitalready.Hehadsparedoneihing,atanyrate.Hewouldneveragaiinnoce.Hewouldbegood.

  AshethoughtofHettyMerton,hebegantowoheportraitinthelockedroomhadged.Surelyitwasnotstillsohorribleasithadbeen?Perhapsifhislifebecamepure,hewouldbeabletoexpeleverysignofevilpassionfromtheface.Perhapsthesignsofevilhadalreadygoneaway.Hewouldgoandlook.

  Hetookthelampfromthetableaupstairs.Asheunbarredthedoor,asmileofjoyflittedacrosshisstrangelyyoung-lookingfadlingeredforamomentabouthislips.Yes,hewouldbegood,andthehideousthingthathehadhiddenawaywouldnolongerbeaterrortohim.Hefeltasiftheloadhadbeenliftedfromhimalready.

  Hewentily,logthedoorbehindhim,aswashis,anddraggedthepurplehangingfromtheportrait.Acryofpainandindignationbrokefromhim.Hecouldseenoge,savethatiherewasalookofingandihthecurvedwrihehypocrite.Thethingwasstillloathsome--moreloathsome,ifpossible,thanbefore--andthescarletdeottedthehandseemedbrighter,andmorelikebloodnewlyspilled.Therembled.Haditbeenmerelyvanitythathadmadehimdohisonegooddeed?Orthedesireforaion,asLordHenryhadhinted,withhismoglaugh?Orthatpassiontoactapartthatsometimesmakesusdothingsfihanweareourselves?Or,perhaps,allthese?Andwhywastheredstainlargerthanithadbeen?Itseemedtohavecreptlikeahorriblediseaseoverthewrinkledfiherewasbloodonthepaintedfeet,asthoughthethinghaddripped--bloodevenonthehandthathadheknife.fess?Diditmeanthathewastofess?Togivehimselfupaodeath?Helaughed.Hefeltthattheideawasmonstrous.Besides,evenifhedidfess,whowouldbelievehim?Therewasnotraceofthemurderedmananywhere.Everythingbelongingtohimhadbeeroyed.Hehimselfhadburnedwhathadbeenbelow-stairs.Theworldwouldsimplysaythathewasmad.Theywouldshuthimupifhepersistedinhisstory....Yetitwashisdutytofess,tosufferpublicshame,andtomakepublient.TherewasaGodwhocalledupoelltheirsihaswellastoheaven.Nothingthathecoulddowouldsehimtillhehadtoldhisownsin.Hissin?Heshruggedhisshoulders.ThedeathofBasilHallwardseemedverylittletohim.HewasthinkingofHettyMerton.Foritwasanunjustmirror,thismirrorofhissoulthathewaslookingat.Vanity?Curiosity?Hypocrisy?Hadtherebeennothingmoreinhisrenunciationthanthat?Therehadbeehingmore.Atleasthethoughtso.Butwhocouldtell?...No.Therehadbeennothingmore.Throughvanityhehadsparedher.Inhypocrisyhehadwornthemaskofgoodness.Forcuriosityssakehehadtriedthedenialofself.Hereizedthatnow.

  Butthismurder--wasittodoghimallhislife?Washealwaystobeburdenedbyhispast?Washereallytofess?herewasonlyoofevideagainsthim.Thepictureitself--thatwasevidence.Hewoulddestroyit.Whyhadhekeptitsolong?Ohadgivenhimpleasuretowatchitgingandgrowingold.Oflatehehadfeltnosuchpleasure.Ithadkepthimawakeatnight.Whenhehadbeenaway,hehadbeenfilledwithterrorlestothereyesshouldlookuponit.Ithadbroughtmelancholyacrosshispassions.Itsmerememoryhadmarredmanymomentsofjoy.Ithadbeenlikes.Yes,ithadbeensce.Hewoulddestroyit.

  HelookedroundandsawthekhadstabbedBasilHallward.Hehadeditmanytimes,tilltherewasnostaiuponit.Itwasbright,andglistened.Asithadkilledthepainter,soitwouldkillthepainterswork,andallthatthatmeant.Itwouldkillthepast,ahatwasdead,hewouldbefree.Itwouldkillthismonstroussoul-life,andwithoutitshideouswarnings,hewouldbeatpeace.Heseizedthething,andstabbedthepicturewithit.

  Therewasacryheard,andacrash.Thecrywassohorribleinitsagonythatthefrightenedservantswokeaoutoftheirrooms.Twogentlemen,whowerepassinginthesquarebelow,stoppedandlookedupatthegreathouse.Theywalkedontilltheymetapoliandbroughthimback.Themanrangthebellseveraltimes,buttherewasnoanswer.Exceptfhtihetopwindows,thehousewasalldark.Afteratime,hewentawayandstoodinanadjoiningportidwatched.

  "Whosehouseisthat,stable?"askedtheelderofthetwogentlemen.

  "Mr.Drays,sir,"ahepoli.

  Theylookedateachother,astheywalkedaway,andsneered.OhemwasSirHenryAshtonsuncle.

  Iheservantspartofthehouse,thehalf-claddomesticsweretalkinginlowwhisperstoeachother.OldMrs.Leafwasgandwringingherhands.Francisaleasdeath.

  Afteraboutaquarterofanhottheanahefootmenaupstairs.Theyknocked,buttherewasnoreply.Theycalledout.Everythingwasstill.Finally,aftervainlytryingtoforcethedoor,theygotontheroofanddroppeddownontothebaly.Thewindowsyieldedeasily--theirboltswereold.

  Wheered,theyfoundhanginguponthelendidportraitoftheirmasterastheyhadlastseenhim,inallthewonderofhisexquisiteyouthay.Lyingonthefloorwasadeadman,ineveningdress,withaknifeinhisheart.Hewaswithered,wrinkled,andloathsomeofvisage.Itwasnottilltheyhadexamiheringsthattheyreizedwhoitwas.

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