Dorian watched them as they plunged into the alder-clumb, brushing the lithe, swinging branches aside. In a few moments they emerged, dragging a body after them into the sunlight. He turned away in horror. It seemed to him that misfortune followed wherever he went. He heard Sir Geoffrey ask whether the man was really dead, and the affirmative answer of the keeper. The wood seemed to him to have become suddenly alive with faces. There was the trampling of myriad feet, and the low buzz of voices. A great copper-breasted pheasant came beating through the boughs overhead.

  After a few moments, that were to him, in his perturbed state, like endless hours of pain, he felt a hand laid on his shoulder. He started, and looked round.

  “Dorian,” said Lord Henry, “I had better tell them that the shooting is stopped for to-day. It would not look well to go on.”

  “I wish it were stopped forever, Harry,” he answered, bitterly. “The whole thing is hideous and cruel. Is the man . . . ?”

  He could not finish the sentence.

  “I am afraid so,” rejoined Lord Henry. “He got the whole charge of shot in his chest. He must have died almost instantaneously. Come; let us go home.”

  They walked side by side in the direction of the avenue for nearly fifty yards without speaking. Then Dorian looked at Lord Henry, and said, with a heavy sigh, “It is a bad omen, Harry—a very bad omen.”

  “What is?” asked Lord Henry. “Oh! this accident, I suppose. My dear fellow, it can’t be helped. It was the man’s own fault. Why did he get in front of the guns? Besides, it is nothing to us. It is rather awkward for Geoffrey, of course. It does not do to pepper beaters. It makes people think that one is a wild shot. And Geoffrey is not; he shoots very straight. But there is no use talking about the matter.”

  Dorian shook his head. “It is a bad omen, Harry. I feel as if something horrible were going to happen to some of us. To myself, perhaps,” he added, passing his hand over his eyes, with a gesture of pain.

  The elder man laughed. “The only horrible thing in the world is ennui, Dorian. That is the one sin for which there is no forgiveness. But we are not likely to suffer from it, unless these fellows keep chattering about this thing at dinner. I must tell them that the subject is to be tabooed. As for omens, there is no such thing as an omen. Destiny does not send us heralds. She is too wise or too cruel for that. Besides, what on earth could happen to you, Dorian? You have everything in the world that a man can want. There is no one who would not be delighted to change places with you.”

  “There is no one with whom I would not change places, Harry. Don’t laugh like that. I am telling you the truth. The wretched peasant who has just died is better off than I am. I have no terror of Death. It is the coming of Death that terrifies me. Its monstrous wings seem to wheel in the leaden air around 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 gloved 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 to-night. How absurdly nervous you are, my dear fellow! You must come and see my doctor when we get back to town.”

  Dorian heaved a sigh of relief as he saw the gardener approaching. The man touched his hat, glanced for a moment at Lord Henry in a hesitating manner, and then produced a letter, which he handed to his master. “Her Grace told me to wait for an answer,” he murmured.

  Dorian put the letter into his pocket. “Tell her Grace that I am coming in,” he said, coldly. The man turned round, and went rapidly in the direction of the house.

  “How fond women are of doing dangerous things!” laughed Lord Henry. “It is one of the qualities in them that I admire most. A woman will flirt with anybody in the world as long as other people are looking on.”

  “How fond you are of saying dangerous things, Harry! In the present instance you are quite astray. I like the Duchess very much, but I don’t love her.”

  “And the Duchess loves you very much, but she likes you less, so you are excellently matched.”

  “You are talking scandal, Harry, and there is never any basis for scandal.”

  “The basis of every scandal is an immoral certainty,” said Lord Henry, lighting a cigarette.

  “You would sacrifice anybody, Harry, for the sake of an epigram.”

  “The world goes to the altar of its own accord,” was the answer.

  “I wish I could love!” cried Dorian Gray, with a deep note of pathos in his voice. “But I seem to have lost the passion and forgotten the desire. I am too much concentrated on myself. My own personality has become a burden to me. I want to escape, to go away, to forget. It was silly of me to come down here at all. I think I shall send a wire to Harvey to have the yacht got ready. On a yacht one is safe.”

  “Safe from what, Dorian? You are in some trouble. Why not tell me what it is? You know I would help you.”

  “I can’t tell you, Harry,” he answered, sadly. “And I dare say it is only a fancy of mine. This unfortunate accident has upset me. I have a horrible presentiment that something of the kind may happen to me.”

  “What nonsense!”

  “I hope it is, but I can’t help feeling it. Ah! here is the Duchess, looking like Artemisgk in a tailor-made gown—You see we have come back, Duchess.”

  “I have heard all about it, Mr. Gray,” she answered. “Poor Geoffrey is terribly upset. And it seems that you asked him not to shoot the hare. How curious!”

  “Yes, it was very curious. I don’t know what made me say it. Some whim, I suppose. It looked the loveliest of little live things. But I am sorry they told you about the man. It is a hideous subject.”

  “It is an annoying subject,” broke in Lord Henry. “It has no psychological value at all. Now, if Geoffrey had done the thing on purpose, how interesting he would be! I should like to know some one who had committed a real murder.”

  “How horrid of you, Harry!” cried the Duchess. “Isn’t it, Mr. Gray? Harry, Mr. Gray is ill again. He is going to faint.”

  Dorian drew himself up with an effort, and smiled. “It is nothing, Duchess,” he murmured; “my nerves are dreadfully out of order. That is all. I am afraid I walked too far this morning. I didn’t hear what Harry said. Was it very bad? You must tell me some other time. I think I must go and lie down. You will excuse me, won’t you?”

  They had reached the great flight of steps that led from the conservatory on to the terrace. As the glass door closed behind Dorian, Lord Henry turned and looked at the Duchess with his slumberous eyes. “Are you very much in love with him?” he asked.

  She did not answer for some time, but stood gazing at the landscape. “I wish I knew,” she said at last.

  He shook his head. “Knowledge would be fatal. It is the uncertainty that charms one. A mist makes things wonderful.”

  “One may lose one’s way.”

  “All ways end at the same point, my dear Gladys.”

  “What is that?”

  “Disillusion.”

  “It was my début in life,” she sighed.

  “It came to you crowned.”

  “I am tired of strawberry leaves.”gl

  “They become you.”

  “Only in public.”

  “You would miss them,” said Lord Henry.

  “I will not part with a petal.”

  “Monmouth has ears.”

  “Old age is dull of hearing.”

  “Has he never been jealous?”

  “I wish he had been.”

  He glanced about as if in search of something. “What are you looking for?” she inquired.

  “The button from your foil,” he answered. “You have dropped it.”gm

  She laughed. “I have still the mask.”

  “It makes your eyes lovelier,” was his reply.

  She laughed again. Her teeth showed like white seeds in a scarlet fruit.

  Up-stairs, in his own room, Dorian Gray was lying on a sofa, with terror in every tingling fiber of his body. Life had suddenly become too hideous a burden for him to bear. The dreadful death of the unlucky beater, shot in the thicket like a wild animal, had seemed to him to prefigure death for himself also. He had nearly swooned at what Lord Henry had said in a chance mood of cynical jesting.

  At five o’clock he rang his bell for his servant, and gave him orders to pack his things for the night express to town, and to have the brougham at the door by eight-thirty. He was determined not to sleep another night at Selby Royal. It was an ill omened place. Death walked there in the sunlight. The grass of the forest had been spotted with blood.

  Then he wrote a note to Lord Henry, telling him that he was going up to town to consult his doctor, and asking him to entertain his guests in his absence. As he was putting it into the envelope, a knock came to the door, and his valet informed him that the head keeper wished to see him. He frowned, and bit his lip. “Send him in,” he muttered, after some moments’ hesitation.

  As soon as the man entered, Dorian pulled his cheque-book out of a drawer, and spread it out before him.

  “I suppose you have come about the unfortunate accident of this morning, Thornton?” he said, taking up a pen.

  “Yes, sir,” answered the gamekeeper.

  “Was the poor fellow married? Had he any people dependent on him?” asked Dorian, looking bored. “If so, I should not like them to be left in want, and will send them any sum of money you may think necessary.”

  “We don’t know who he is, sir. That is what I took the liberty of coming to you about.”

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

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

  The pen dropped from Dorian Gray’s hand, and he felt as if his heart had suddenly stopped beating. “A sailor!” he cried out. “Did you say a sailor?”

  “Yes, sir. He looks as if he had been a sort of sailor; tattooed on both arms, and that kind of thing.”

  “Was there anything found on him?” said Dorian, leaning forward and looking at the man with startled eyes. “Anything that would tell his name?”

  “Some money, sir—not much, and a six-shooter. There was no name of any kind. A decent-looking man, sir, but roughlike. A sort of sailor, we think.”

  Dorian started to his feet. A terrible hope fluttered past him. He clutched at it madly. “Where is the body?” he exclaimed. “Quick, I must see it at once.”

  “It is in an empty stable in the Home Farm, sir. The folk don’t like to have that sort of thing in their houses. They say a corpse brings bad luck.”

  “The Home Farm! Go there at once and meet me. Tell one of the grooms to bring my horse round. No. Never mind. I’ll go to the stables myself. It will save time.”

  In less than a quarter of an hour Dorian Gray was galloping down the long avenue as hard as he could go. The trees seemed to sweep past him in spectral procession, and wild shadows to fling themselves across his path. Once the mare swerved at a white gate-post and nearly threw him. He lashed her across the neck with his crop. She cleft the dusky air like an arrow. The stones flew from her hoofs.

  At last he reached the Home Farm. Two men were loitering in the yard. He leaped from the saddle and threw the reins to one of them. In the farthest stable a light was glimmering. Something seemed to tell him that the body was there, and he hurried to the door, and put his hand upon the latch.

  There he paused for a moment, feeling that he was on the brink of a discovery that would either make or mar his life. Then he thrust the door open, and entered.

  On a heap of sacking in the far corner was lying the dead body of a man dressed in a coarse shirt and a pair of blue trousers. A spotted handkerchief had been placed over the face. A coarse candle, stuck in a bottle, sputtered beside it.

  Dorian Gray shuddered. He felt that his could not be the hand to take the handkerchief away, and called out to one of the farm-servants to come to him.

  “Take that thing off the face. I wish to see it,” he said, clutching at the door-post for support.

  When the farm-servant had done so, he stepped forward. A cry of joy broke from his lips. The man who had been shot in the thicket was James Vane.

  He stood there for some minutes, looking at the dead body. As he rode home his eyes were full of tears, for he knew he was safe.

  Chapter XIX.

  There is no use your telling me that you are going to be good!” cried Lord Henry, dipping his white fingers into a red copper bowl filled with rose-water. “You are quite perfect. Pray, 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. I began my good actions yesterday.”

  “Where were you yesterday?”

  “In the country, Harry. I was staying at a little inn by myself.”

  “My dear boy,” said Lord Henry, smiling, “anybody can be good in the country. There are no temptations there. That is the reason why people who live out of town are so absolutely uncivilized. Civilization is not, by any means, an easy thing to attain to. There are only two ways by which men can reach it. One is by being cultured, the other by being corrupt. Country people have no opportunity of being either, so they stagnate.”

  “Culture and corruption,” echoed Dorian. “I have known something of both. It seems terrible to me now that they should ever be found together. For I have a new ideal, Harry. I am going to alter. I think I have altered.”

  “You have not yet told me what your good action was. Or did you say you had done more than one?” asked his companion, as he spilt into his plate a little crimson pyramid of seeded strawberries, and through a perforated, shell-shaped spoon snowed white sugar upon them.

  “I can tell you, Harry. It is not a story I could tell to any one else. I spared somebody. It sounds vain, but you understand what I mean. She was quite beautiful, and wonderfully like Sibyl Vane. I think it was that which first attracted me to her. You remember Sibyl, don’t you? How long ago that seems? Well, Hetty was not one of our own class, of course. She was simply a girl in a village. But I really loved her. I am quite sure that I loved her. All during this wonderful May that we have been having I used to run down and see her two or three times a week. Yesterday she met me in a little orchard. The apple blossoms kept tumbling down on her hair, and she was laughing. We were to have gone away together this morning at dawn. Suddenly I determined to leave her as flowerlike as I had found her.”

  “I should think the novelty of the emotion must have given you a thrill of real pleasure, Dorian,” interrupted Lord Henry. “But I can finish your idyl for you. You gave her good advice, and broke her heart. That was the beginning of your reformation.”

  “Harry, you are horrible! You musn’t say these dreadful things. Hetty’s heart is not broken. Of course, she cried, and all that. But there is no disgrace upon her. She can live, like Perdita, in her garden of mint and marigold.”

  “And weep over a faithless Florizel,”gn said Lord Henry, laughing, as he leaned back in his chair. “My dear Dorian, you have the most curiously boyish moods. Do you think this girl will ever be really contented now with any one of her own rank? I suppose she will be married some day to a rough carter or a grinning plowman. Well, the fact of having met you, and loved you, will teach her to despise her husband, and she will be wretched. From a moral point of view, I cannot say that I think much of your great renunciation. Even as a beginning, it is poor. Besides, how do you know that Hetty isn’t floating at the present moment in some star-lit mill-pond, with lovely water-lilies round her, like Ophelia?”

  “I can’t bear this, Harry! You mock at everything, and then suggest the most serious tragedies. I am sorry I told you now. I don’t care what you say to me. I know I was right in acting as I did. Poor Hetty! As I rode past the farm this morning I saw her white face at the window, like a spray of jasmine. Don’t let me talk about it any more, and don’t try to persuade me that the first good action I have done for years, the first little bit of self-sacrifice I have ever known, is really a sort of sin. I want to be better. I am going to be better. Tell me something about yourself. What is going on in town? I have not been to the club for days.”

  “The people are still discussing poor Basil’s disappearance.”

  “I should have thought they had got tired of that by this time,” said Dorian, pouring himself out some wine, and frowning slightly.

  “My dear boy, they have only been talking about it for six weeks, and the British public are really not equal to the mental strain of having more than one topic every three months. They have been very fortunate lately, however. They have had my own divorce case and Alan Campbell’s suicide. Now they have got the mysterious disappearance of an artist. Scotland Yard still insists that the man in the grey ulster who left for Paris by the midnight train on the 9th of November was poor Basil, and the French police declare that Basil never arrived in Paris at all. I suppose in about a fortnight we shall be told that he has been seen in San Francisco.29 It is an odd thing, but every one who disappears is said to be seen at San Francisco. It must be a delightful city, and possess all the attraction of the next world.”

  “What do you think has happened to Basil?” asked Dorian, holding up his Burgundy against the light, and wondering how it was that he could discuss the matter so calmly.

  “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, wearily.

  “Because,” said Lord Henry, passing beneath his nostrils the gilt trellis of an open vinaigrette box,go “one can survive everything nowadays except that. Death and vulgarity are the only two facts in the nineteenth century that one cannot explain away. Let us have our coffee in the music-room, Dorian. You must play Chopin to me. The man with whom my wife ran away played Chopin exquisitely. Poor Victoria! I was very fond of her. The house is rather lonely without her. Of course, married life is merely a habit—a bad habit. But then one regrets the loss even of one’s worst habits. Perhaps one regrets them the most. They are such an essential part of one’s personality.”