Chapter 10When his servaered, be looked at him steadfastly and wondered if he had thought of peering behind the s. The man was quite impassive and waited for his orders. Dorian lit a cigarette and walked over to the gss and gnced into it. He could see the refle of Victors face perfectly. It was like a pcid mask of servility. There was nothing to be afraid of, there. Yet he thought it best to be on his guard.Speaking very slowly, he told him to tell the house-keeper that he wao see her, and then to go to the frame-maker and ask him to send two of his men round at o seemed to him that as the mahe room his eyes wandered in the dire of the s. Or was that merely his own fancy?After a few moments, in her bck silk dress, with old-fashiohread mittens on her wrinkled hands, Mrs. Leaf bustled into the library. He asked her for the key of the schoolroom."The old schoolroom, Mr. Dorian?" she excimed. "Why, it is full of dust. I must get it arranged and put straight before you go into it. It is not fit for you to see, sir. It is not, indeed.""I dont want it put straight, Leaf. I only want the key.""Well, sir, youll be covered with cobwebs if you go into it. Why, it hasnt been opened for nearly five years--not since his lordship died."He wi the mention of his grandfather. He had hateful memories of him. "That does not matter," he answered. "I simply want to see the pce-- that is all. Give me the key.""And here is the key, sir," said the old dy, going over the tents of her bunch with tremulously uain hands. "Here is the key. Ill have it off the bun a moment. But you dont think of living up there, sir, and you so fortable here?""No, no," he cried petuntly. "Thank you, Leaf. That will do."She lingered for a few moments, and was garrulous over some detail of the household. He sighed and told her to mahings as she thought best. She left the room, wreathed in smiles.As the door closed, Dorian put the key in his pocket and looked round the room. His eye fell on a rge, purple satin coverlet heavily embroidered with gold, a splendid piece of te seveh-tury Veian work that his grandfather had found in a vent near Bologna. Yes, that would serve to the dreadful thing in. It had perhaps served often as a pall for the dead. Now it was to hide something that had a corruption of its own, worse than the corruption of death itself-- something that would breed horrors a would never die. What the worm was to the corpse, his sins would be to the painted image on the vas. They would mar its beauty a away its grace. They would defile it and make it shameful. Ahe thing would still live on. It would be always alive.He shuddered, and for a moment he regretted that he had not told Basil the true reason why he had wished to hide the picture away. Basil would have helped him to resist Lord Henrys influence, and the still more poisonous influehat came from his own temperament. The love that he bore him--for it was really love-- had nothing in it that was not noble and intellectual. It was not that mere physical admiration of beauty that is born of the senses and that dies when the seire. It was such love as Migelo had known, and Montaigne, and Winckelmann, and Shakespeare himself. Yes, Basil could have saved him. But it was too te now. The past could always be annihited. Regret, denial, or fetfulness could do that. But the future was iable. There were passions in him that would find their terrible outlet, dreams that would make the shadow of their evil real.He took up from the couch the great purple-and-gold texture that covered it, and, holding it in his hands, passed behind the s. Was the fa the vas viler than before? It seemed to him that it was unged, a his loathing of it was intensified. Gold hair, blue eyes, and rose-red lips--they all were there. It was simply the expression that had altered. That was horrible in its cruelty. pared to what he saw in it of sure or rebuke, how shallow Basils reproaches about Sibyl Vane had been!-- how shallow, and of what little at! His own soul was looking out at him from the vas and calling him to judgement. A look of pain came across him, and he flung the rich pall over the picture. As he did so, a knock came to the door. He passed out as his servaered."The persons are here, Monsieur."He felt that the man must be got rid of at once. He must not be allowed to know where the picture was being taken to. There was something sly about him, and he had thoughtful, treacherous eyes. Sitting down at the writing-table he scribbled a o Lord Henry, asking him to send him round something to read and reminding him that they were to meet at eight-fifteen that evening."Wait for an answer," he said, handing it to him, "and show the men in here."In two or three mihere was another knock, and Mr. Hubbard himself, the celebrated frame-maker of South Audley Street, came in with a somewhat rough-looking young assistant. Mr. Hubbard was a florid, red-whiskered little man, whose admiration for art was siderably tempered by the ie impeiosity of most of the artists who dealt with him. As a rule, he never left his shop. He waited for people to e to him. But he always made an exception in favour of Dorian Gray. There was something about Dorian that charmed everybody. It leasure even to see him."What I do for you, Mr. Gray?" he said, rubbing his fat freckled hands. "I thought I would do myself the honour of ing round in person. I have just got a beauty of a frame, sir. Picked it up at a sale. Old Florentine. Came from Fonthill, I believe. Admirably suited for a religious subject, Mr. Gray.""I am so sorry you have given yourself the trouble of ing round, Mr. Hubbard. I shall certainly drop in and look at the frame-- though I dont go in much at present fious art--but to-day I only want a picture carried to the top of the house for me. It is rather heavy, so I thought I would ask you to lend me a couple of your men.""No trouble at all, Mr. Gray. I am delighted to be of any service to you. Which is the work of art, sir?""This," replied Dorian, moving the s back. " you move it, c and all, just as it is? I dont want it to get scratched going upstairs.""There will be no difficulty, sir," said the genial frame-maker, beginning, with the aid of his assistant, to unhook the picture from the long brass s by which it was suspended. "And, now, where shall we carry it tray?""I will show you the way, Mr. Hubbard, if you will kindly follow me. Or perhaps you had better go in front. I am afraid it is right at the top of the house. We will go up by the front staircase, as it is wider."He held the door open for them, and they passed out into the hall and began the ast. The eborate character of the frame had made the picture extremely bulky, and now and then, in spite of the obsequious protests of Mr. Hubbard, who had the true tradesmans spirited dislike of seeing a gentleman doing anything useful, Dorian put his hand to it so as to help them."Something of a load to carry, sir," gasped the little mahey reached the top nding. And he wiped his shiny forehead."I am afraid it is rather heavy," murmured Dorian as he unlocked the door that opened into the room that was to keep for him the curious secret of his life and hide his soul from the eyes of men.He had ered the pore than four years--not, indeed, since he had used it first as a py-room when he was a child, and then as a study when he grew somewhat older. It was a rge, well-proportioned room, which had been specially built by the st Lord Kelso for the use of the little grandson whom, for his strange likeo his mother, and also for other reasons, he had always hated and desired to keep at a dista appeared to Dorian to have but little ged. There was the huge Italian cassone, with its fantastically painted panels and its tarnished gilt mouldings, in which he had so often hidden himself as a boy. There the satinwood book-case filled with his dog-eared schoolbooks. On the wall behind it was hanging the same ragged Flemish tapestry where a faded king and queen were pying chess in a garden, while a pany of hawkers rode by, carrying hooded birds on their gaued wrists. How well he remembered it all! Every moment of his lonely childhood came ba as he looked round. He recalled the stainless purity of his boyish life, and it seemed horrible to him that it was here the fatal portrait was to be hidden away. How little he had thought, in those dead days, of all that was in store for him!But there was no other p the house so secure fr eyes as this. He had the key, and no one else could e. Beh its purple pall, the face painted on the vas could grow bestial, sodden, and un. What did it matter? No one could see it. He himself would not see it. Why should he watch the hideous corruption of his soul? He kept his youth-- that was enough. And, besides, might not his nature grow finer, after all? There was no reason that the future should be so full of shame. Some love might e across his life, and purify him, and shield him from those sins that seemed to be already stirring in spirit and in flesh-- those curious unpictured sins whose very mystery lent them their subtlety and their charm. Perhaps, some day, the cruel look would have passed away from the scarlet sensitive mouth, and he might show to the world Basil Hallwards masterpieo; that was impossible. Hour by hour, and week by week, the thing upon the vas was growing old. It might escape the hideousness of sin, but the hideousness of age was in store for it. The cheeks would bee hollow or fccid. Yellow crows feet would creep round the fading eyes and make them horrible. The hair would lose its brightness, the mouth would gape or droop, would be foolish ross, as the mouths of old mehere would be the wrihroat, the cold, blue-veined hands, the twisted body, that he remembered in the grandfather who had been so stern to him in his boyhood. The picture had to be cealed. There was no help for it.&qu it in, Mr. Hubbard, please," he said, wearily, turning round. "I am sorry I kept you so long. I was thinking of something else.""Always gd to have a rest, Mr. Gray," answered the frame-maker, who was still gasping for breath. "Where shall we put it, sir?""Oh, anywhere. Here: this will do. I dont want to have it hung up. Just lean it against the wall. Thanks.""Might one look at the work of art, sir?"Dorian started. "It would not i you, Mr. Hubbard," he said, keeping his eye on the man. He felt ready to leap upon him and fling him to the ground if he dared to lift the geous hanging that cealed the secret of his life. "I shant trouble you any more now. I am much obliged for your kindness in ing round.""Not at all, not at all, Mr. Gray. Ever ready to do anything for you, sir." And Mr. Hubbard tramped downstairs, followed by the assistant, who gnced back at Dorian with a look of shy wonder in his rough unely face. He had never seen any one so marvellous.When the sound of their footsteps had died away, Dorian locked the door and put the key in his pocket. He felt safe now. No one would ever look upon the horrible thing. No eye but his would ever see his shame.On reag the library, he found that it was just after five oclod that the tea had been already brought up. On a little table of dark perfumed wood thickly incrusted with nacre, a present from Lady Radley, his guardians wife, a pretty professional invalid who had spent the preg winter in Cairo, was lying a note from Lord Henry, and beside it was a book bound in yelloer, the cover slightly torn and the edges soiled. A copy of the third edition of The St. Jamess Gazette had been pced oea-tray. It was evident that Victor had returned. He wondered if 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 would be sure to miss the picture--had no doubt missed it already, while he had been ying the tea-things. The s had not bee back, and a bnk space was visible on the wall. Perhaps some night he might find him creeping upstairs and trying to force the door of the room. It was a horrible thing to have a spy in ones house. He had heard of rich men who had been bckmailed all their lives by some servant who had read a letter, or overheard a versation, or picked up a card with an address, or fouh a pillow a withered flower or a shred of crumpled ce.He sighed, and having poured himself out some tea, opened Lord Henrys was simply to say that he sent him round the evening paper, and a book that might i him, and that he would be at the club at eight-fifteen. He opehe St. Jamess nguidly, and looked through it. A red pencil-mark on the fifth page caught his eye. It drew attention to the following paragraph:I ON AN ACTRESS.--An i was held this m at the Bell Tavern, Hoxton Road, by Mr. Danby, the District er, on the body of Sibyl Vane, a young actress retly e the Royal Theatre, Holborn. A verdict of death by misadventure was returned. siderable sympathy was expressed for the mother of the deceased, who was greatly affected during the giving of her own evidence, and that of Dr. Birrell, who had made the post-mortem examination of the deceased.He frowned, and tearing the paper in two, went across the room and flung the pieces away. How ugly it all was! And how horribly real ugliness made things! He felt a little annoyed with Lord Henry for havi him the report. And it was certainly stupid of him to have marked it with red pencil. Viight have read it. The man knew more than enough English for that.Perhaps he had read it and had begun to suspeething. And, yet, what did it matter? What had Dorian Gray to do with Sibyl Vanes death? There was nothing to fear. Dorian Gray had not killed her.His eye fell on the yellow book that Lord Henry had sent him. What was it, he wondered. He went towards the little, pearl-coloured octagonal stand that had always looked to him like the work of some straiahat wrought in silver, and taking up the volume, flung himself into an arm-chair and began to turhe leaves. After a few minutes he became absorbed. It was the stra book that he had ever read. It seemed to him that in exquisite raiment, and to the delicate sound of flutes, the sins of the world were passing in dumb show before him. Things that he had dimly dreamed of were suddenly made real to him. Things of which he had never dreamed were gradually revealed.It was a novel without a plot and with only one character, being, indeed, simply a psychological study of a certain young Parisian who spent his life trying to realize in the eenth tury all the passions and modes of thought that beloo every tury except his own, and to sum up, as it were, in himself the various moods through which the world-spirit had ever passed, loving for their mere artificiality those renunciations that men have unwisely called virtue, as much as those natural rebellions that wise men still call sin. The style in which it was written was that curious jewelled style, vivid and obscure at once, full ot and of archaisms, of teical expressions and of eborate paraphrases, that characterizes the work of some of the fi artists of the French school of Symbolistes. There were in it metaphors as monstrous as orchids and as subtle in colour. The life of the senses was described ierms of mystical philosophy. One hardly k times whether one was reading the spiritual ecstasies of some mediaeval saint or the morbid fessions of a modern sinner. It oisonous book. The heavy odour of inse seemed to g about its pages and to trouble the brain. The mere ce of the sentehe subtle monotony of their music, so full as it was of plex refrains and movements eborately repeated, produced in the mind of the d, as he passed from chapter to chapter, a form of reverie, a mady of dreaming, that made him unscious of the falling day and creeping shadows.Cloudless, and pierced by one solitary star, a creen sky gleamed through the windows. He read on by its wan light till he could read no mo九_九_藏_書_網re. Then, after his valet had reminded him several times of the teness of the hour, he got up, and going into the room, pced the book otle Floreable that always stood at his bedside and began to dress for di was almost nine oclock before he reached the club, where he found Lord Henry sitting alone, in the m-room, looking very much bored."I am so sorry, Harry," he cried, "but really it is entirely your fault. That book you sent me so fasated me that I fot how the time was going.""Yes, I thought you would like it," replied his host, rising from his chair."I didnt say I liked it, Harry. I said it fasated me. There is a great difference.""Ah, you have discovered that?" murmured Lord Henry. And they passed into the dining-room.