“My son, don’t say such dreadful things,” murmured Mrs. Vane, taking up a tawdry theatrical dress,with a sigh, and beginning to patch it.She felt a little disappointed that he had not joined the group.It would have increased the theatrical picturesqueness of the situation.
“Why not, Mother?I mean it.”
“You pain me, my son. I trust you will return from Australia in a position of affluence.I believe there is no society of any kind in the Colonies—nothing that I would call society—so when you have made your fortune,you must come back and assert yourself in London.”
“Society!” muttered the lad. “I don’t want to know anything about that.I should like to make some money to take you and Sibyl off the stage. I hate it.”
“Oh, Jim!” said Sibyl, laughing, “how unkind of you!But are you really going for a walk with me?That will be nice!I was afraid you were going to say good-bye to some of your friends—to Tom Hardy,who gave you that hideous pipe, or Ned Langton, who makes fun of you for smoking it.It is very sweet of you to let me have your last afternoon. Where shall we go?Let us go to the park.”
“I am too shabby,” he answered, frowning. “Only swell people go to the park.”
“Nonsense, Jim,” she whispered, stroking the sleeve of his coat.
He hesitated for a moment. “Very well,” he said at last, “but don’t be too long dressing.” She danced out of the door. One could hear her singing as she ran upstairs. Her little feet pattered overhead.
He walked up and down the room two or three times. Then he turned to the still figure in the chair. “Mother, are my things ready?” he asked.
“Quite ready, James,” she answered, keeping her eyes on her work.For some months past she had felt ill at ease when she was alone with this rough stern son of hers.Her shallow secret nature was troubled when their eyes met.She used to wonder if he suspected anything. The silence, for he made no other observation,became intolerable to her. She began to complain. Women defend themselves by attacking,just as they attack by sudden and strange surrenders. “I hope you will be contented, James,with your sea-faring life,” she said. “You must remember that it is your own choice.You might have entered a solicitor’s office. Solicitors are a very respectable class,and in the country often dine with the best families.”
“I hate offices, and I hate clerks,” he replied. “But you are quite right.I have chosen my own life. All I say is, watch over Sibyl. Don’t let her come to any harm. Mother, you must watch over her.”
“James, you really talk very strangely. Of course I watch over Sibyl.”
“I hear a gentleman comes every night to the theatre and goes behind to talk to her. Is that right?What about that?”
“You are speaking about things you don’t understand, James.In the profession we are accustomed to receive a great deal of most gratifying attention.I myself used to receive many bouquets at one time. That was when acting was really understood.As for Sibyl, I do not know at present whether her attachment is serious or not.But there is no doubt that the young man in question is a perfect gentleman.He is always most polite to me. Besides, he has the appearance of being rich, and the flowers he sends are lovely.”
“You don’t know his name, though,” said the lad harshly.
“No,” answered his mother with a placid expression in her face.“He has not yet revealed his real name. I think it is quite romantic of him.He is probably a member of the aristocracy.”
James Vane bit his lip. “Watch over Sibyl, Mother,” he cried, “watch over her.”
“My son, you distress me very much. Sibyl is always under my special care. Of course,if this gentleman is wealthy, there is no reason why she should not contract an alliance with him.I trust he is one of the aristocracy. He has all the appearance of it, I must say.It might be a most brilliant marriage for Sibyl. They would make a charming couple.His good looks are really quite remarkable; everybody notices them.”
The lad muttered something to himself and drummed on the window-pane with his coarse fingers.He had just turned round to say something when the door opened and Sibyl ran in.
“How serious you both are!” she cried. “What is the matter?”
“Nothing,” he answered. “I suppose one must be serious sometimes. Good-bye, Mother;I will have my dinner at five o’clock. Everything is packed, except my shirts, so you need not trouble.”
“Good-bye, my son,” she answered with a bow of strained stateliness.
She was extremely annoyed at the tone he had adopted with her,and there was something in his look that had made her feel afraid.
“Kiss me, Mother,” said the girl. Her flowerlike lips touched the withered cheek and warmed its frost.
“My child!my child!” cried Mrs. Vane, looking up to the ceiling in search of an imaginary gallery.
“Come, Sibyl,” said her brother impatiently. He hated his mother’s affectations.
They went out into the flickering, wind-blown sunlight and strolled down the dreary Euston Road.The passersby glanced in wonder at the sullen heavy youth who, in coarse, ill-fitting clothes,was in the company of such a graceful, refined-looking girl.He was like a common gardener walking with a rose.
Jim frowned from time to time when he caught the inquisitive glance of some stranger.He had that dislike of being stared at,which comes on geniuses late in life and never leaves the commonplace. Sibyl, however,was quite unconscious of the effect she was producing.Her love was trembling in laughter on her lips. She was thinking of Prince Charming, and,that she might think of him all the more, she did not talk of him,but prattled on about the ship in which Jim was going to sail,about the gold he was certain to find, about the wonderful heiress whose life he was to save from the wicked,red-shirted bushrangers. For he was not to remain a sailor, or a supercargo, or whatever he was going to be. Oh, no!A sailor’s existence was dreadful. Fancy being cooped up in a horrid ship, with the hoarse,hump-backed waves trying to get in, and a black wind blowing the masts down and tearing the sails into long screaming ribands!He was to leave the vessel at Melbourne, bid a polite good-bye to the captain,and go off at once to the gold-fields. Before a week was over he was to come across a large nugget of pure gold,the largest nugget that had ever been discovered,and bring it down to the coast in a waggon guarded by six mounted policemen.The bushrangers were to attack them three times, and be defeated with immense slaughter. Or, no.He was not to go to the gold-fields at all. They were horrid places, where men got intoxicated,and shot each other in bar-rooms, and used bad language. He was to be a nice sheep-farmer,and one evening, as he was riding home,he was to see the beautiful heiress being carried off by a robber on a black horse, and give chase,and rescue her. Of course, she would fall in love with him, and he with her,and they would get married, and come home, and live in an immense house in London. Yes,there were delightful things in store for him. But he must be very good, and not lose his temper,or spend his money foolishly. She was only a year older than he was,but she knew so much more of life. He must be sure, also, to write to her by every mail,and to say his prayers each night before he went to sleep. God was very good,and would watch over him. She would pray for him, too,and in a few years he would come back quite rich and happy.
The lad listened sulkily to her and made no answer. He was heart-sick at leaving home.
Yet it was not this alone that made him gloomy and morose. Inexperienced though he was,he had still a strong sense of the danger of Sibyl’s position.This young dandy who was making love to her could mean her no good. He was a gentleman,and he hated him for that, hated him through some curious race-instinct for which he could not account,and which for that reason was all the more dominant within him.He was conscious also of the shallowness and vanity of his mother’s nature,and in that saw infinite peril for Sibyl and Sibyl’s happiness.Children begin by loving their parents; as they grow older they judge them; sometimes they forgive them.
His mother!He had something on his mind to ask of her,something that he had brooded on for many months of silence.A chance phrase that he had heard at the theatre,a whispered sneer that had reached his ears one night as he waited at the stage-door,had set loose a train of horrible thoughts.He remembered it as if it had been the lash of a hunting-crop across his face.His brows knit together into a wedge-like furrow, and with a twitch of pain he bit his underlip.
“You are not listening to a word I am saying, Jim,” cried Sibyl,“and I am making the most delightful plans for your future. Do say something.”
“What do you want me to say?”
“Oh!that you will be a good boy and not forget us,” she answered, smiling at him.
He shrugged his shoulders. “You are more likely to forget me than I am to forget you, Sibyl.”
She flushed. “What do you mean, Jim?” she asked.
“You have a new friend, I hear. Who is he?Why have you not told me about him?He means you no good.”
“Stop, Jim!” she exclaimed. “You must not say anything against him. I love him.”
“Why, you don’t even know his name,” answered the lad. “Who is he?I have a right to know.”
“He is called Prince Charming. Don’t you like the name?Oh!you silly boy!you should never forget it. If you only saw him,you would think him the most wonderful person in the world.Some day you will meet him—when you come back from Australia. You will like him so much.Everybody likes him, and I ... love him. I wish you could come to the theatre to-night.He is going to be there, and I am to play Juliet. Oh!how I shall play it!Fancy, Jim, to be in love and play Juliet!To have him sitting there!To play for his delight!I am afraid I may frighten the company, frighten or enthrall them.To be in love is to surpass one’s self. Poor dreadful Mr.Isaacs will be shouting ‘genius’ to his loafers at the bar. He has preached me as a dogma;to-night he will announce me as a revelation. I feel it. And it is all his, his only,Prince Charming, my wonderful lover, my god of graces. But I am poor beside him. Poor?What does that matter?When poverty creeps in at the door, love flies in through the window. Our proverbs want rewriting.They were made in winter, and it is summer now; spring-time for me, I think,a very dance of blossoms in blue skies.”
“He is a gentleman,” said the lad sullenly.
“A prince!” she cried musically. “What more do you want?”
“He wants to enslave you.”
“I shudder at the thought of being free.”
“I want you to beware of him.”
“To see him is to worship him; to know him is to trust him.”
“Sibyl, you are mad about him.”
She laughed and took his arm. “You dear old Jim, you talk as if you were a hundred.Some day you will be in love yourself. Then you will know what it is. Don’t look so sulky.Surely you should be glad to think that, though you are going away,you leave me happier than I have ever been before. Life has been hard for us both,terribly hard and difficult. But it will be different now. You are going to a new world,and I have found one. Here are two chairs; let us sit down and see the smart people go by.”
They took their seats amidst a crowd of watchers.The tulip-beds across the road flamed like throbbing rings of fire.A white dust—tremulous cloud of orris-root it seemed—hung in the panting air.The brightly coloured parasols danced and dipped like monstrous butterflies.
She made her brother talk of himself, his hopes, his prospects. He spoke slowly and with effort.They passed words to each other as players at a game pass counters. Sibyl felt oppressed.She could not communicate her joy. A faint smile curving that sullen mouth was all the echo she could win.After some time she became silent. Suddenly she caught a glimpse of golden hair and laughing lips,and in an open carriage with two ladies Dorian Gray drove past.
She started to her feet. “There he is!” she cried.
“Who?” said Jim Vane.
“Prince Charming,” she answered, looking after the victoria.
He jumped up and seized her roughly by the arm. “Show him to me. Which is he?Point him out. I must see him!” he exclaimed; but at that moment the Duke of Berwick’s four-in-hand came between,and when it had left the space clear, the carriage had swept out of the park.
“He is gone,” murmured Sibyl sadly. “I wish you had seen him.”
“I wish I had, for as sure as there is a God in heaven, if he ever does you any wrong, I shall kill him.”
She looked at him in horror. He repeated his words. They cut the air like a dagger.The people round began to gape. A lady standing close to her tittered.
“Come away, Jim; come away,” she whispered.He followed her doggedly as she passed through the crowd. He felt glad at what he had said.
When they reached the Achilles Statue, she turned round.There was pity in her eyes that became laughter on her lips. She shook her head at him.“You are foolish, Jim, utterly foolish; a bad-tempered boy, that is all. How can you say such horrible things?You don’t know what you are talking about. You are simply jealous and unkind. Ah!I wish you would fall in love. Love makes people good, and what you said was wicked.”
“I am sixteen,” he answered, “and I know what I am about. Mother is no help to you.She doesn’t understand how to look after you. I wish now that I was not going to Australia at all.I have a great mind to chuck the whole thing up. I would, if my articles hadn’t been signed.”
“Oh, don’t be so serious, Jim. You are like one of the heroes of those silly melodramas Mother used to be so fond of acting in.I am not going to quarrel with you. I have seen him, and oh!to see him is perfect happiness. We won’t quarrel. I know you would never harm any one I love, would you?”
“Not as long as you love him, I suppose,” was the sullen answer.
“I shall love him for ever!” she cried.
“And he?”
“For ever, too!”
“He had better.”
She shrank from him. Then she laughed and put her hand on his arm. He was merely a boy.
At the Marble Arch they hailed an omnibus,which left them close to their shabby home in the Euston Road. It was after five o’clock,and Sibyl had to lie down for a couple of hours before acting. Jim insisted that she should do so.He said that he would sooner part with her when their mother was not present.She would be sure to make a scene, and he detested scenes of every kind.
In Sybil’s own room they parted. There was jealousy in the lad’s heart,and a fierce murderous hatred of the stranger who, as it seemed to him, had come between them. Yet,when her arms were flung round his neck, and her fingers strayed through his hair,he softened and kissed her with real affection. There were tears in his eyes as he went downstairs.
His mother was waiting for him below. She grumbled at his unpunctuality, as he entered.He made no answer, but sat down to his meagre meal.The flies buzzed round the table and crawled over the stained cloth.Through the rumble of omnibuses, and the clatter of street-cabs,he could hear the droning voice devouring each minute that was left to him.
After some time, he thrust away his plate and put his head in his hands.He felt that he had a right to know. It should have been told to him before,if it was as he suspected. Leaden with fear, his mother watched him.Words dropped mechanically from her lips. A tattered lace handkerchief twitched in her fingers.When the clock struck six, he got up and went to the door. Then he turned back and looked at her.Their eyes met. In hers he saw a wild appeal for mercy. It enraged him.
“Mother, I have something to ask you,” he said. Her eyes wandered vaguely about the room.She made no answer. “Tell me the truth. I have a right to know. Were you married to my father?”
She heaved a deep sigh. It was a sigh of relief. The terrible moment, the moment that night and day,for weeks and months, she had dreaded, had come at last, and yet she felt no terror. Indeed,in some measure it was a disappointment to her.The vulgar directness of the question called for a direct answer.The situation had not been gradually led up to. It was crude. It reminded her of a bad rehearsal.
“No,” she answered, wondering at the harsh simplicity of life.
“My father was a scoundrel then!” cried the lad, clenching his fists.
She shook her head. “I knew he was not free. We loved each other very much. If he had lived,he would have made provision for us. Don’t speak against him, my son. He was your father,and a gentleman. Indeed, he was highly connected.”
An oath broke from his lips. “I don’t care for myself,” he exclaimed, “but don’t let Sibyl....It is a gentleman, isn’t it, who is in love with her, or says he is?Highly connected, too, I suppose.”
For a moment a hideous sense of humiliation came over the woman. Her head drooped.She wiped her eyes with shaking hands. “Sibyl has a mother,” she murmured; “I had none.”
The lad was touched. He went towards her, and stooping down, he kissed her.“I am sorry if I have pained you by asking about my father,” he said, “but I could not help it.I must go now. Good-bye. Don’t forget that you will have only one child now to look after,and believe me that if this man wrongs my sister, I will find out who he is, track him down, and kill him like a dog. I swear it.”
The exaggerated folly of the threat, the passionate gesture that accompanied it,the mad melodramatic words, made life seem more vivid to her. She was familiar with the atmosphere.She breathed more freely, and for the first time for many months she really admired her son.She would have liked to have continued the scene on the same emotional scale, but he cut her short.Trunks had to be carried down and mufflers looked for. The lodging-house drudge bustled in and out.There was the bargaining with the cabman. The moment was lost in vulgar details.It was with a renewed feeling of disappointment that she waved the tattered lace handkerchief from the window,as her son drove away. She was conscious that a great opportunity had been wasted.She consoled herself by telling Sibyl how desolate she felt her life would be,now that she had only one child to look after. She remembered the phrase. It had pleased her.Of the threat she said nothing. It was vividly and dramatically expressed.She felt that they would all laugh at it some day.
CHAPTER VI.
“I suppose you have heard the news, Basil?” said Lord Henry that evening as Hallward was shown into a little private room at the Bristol where dinner had been laid for three.
“No, Harry,” answered the artist, giving his hat and coat to the bowing waiter. “What is it?Nothing about politics, I hope!They don’t interest me. There is hardly a single person in the House of Commons worth painting,though many of them would be the better for a little whitewashing.”
“Dorian Gray is engaged to be married,” said Lord Henry, watching him as he spoke.
Hallward started and then frowned. “Dorian engaged to be married!” he cried. “Impossible!”
“It is perfectly true.”
“To whom?”
“To some little actress or other.”
“I can’t believe it. Dorian is far too sensible.”
“Dorian is far too wise not to do foolish things now and then, my dear Basil.”
“Marriage is hardly a thing that one can do now and then, Harry.”
“Except in America,” rejoined Lord Henry languidly. “But I didn’t say he was married.I said he was engaged to be married. There is a great difference.I have a distinct remembrance of being married, but I have no recollection at all of being engaged.I am inclined to think that I never was engaged.”
“But think of Dorian’s birth, and position, and wealth.It would be absurd for him to marry so much beneath him.”
“If you want to make him marry this girl, tell him that, Basil. He is sure to do it, then.Whenever a man does a thoroughly stupid thing, it is always from the noblest motives.”
“I hope the girl is good, Harry. I don’t want to see Dorian tied to some vile creature,who might degrade his nature and ruin his intellect.”
“Oh, she is better than good—she is beautiful,” murmured Lord Henry,sipping a glass of vermouth and orange-bitters. “Dorian says she is beautiful,and he is not often wrong about things of that kind.Your portrait of him has quickened his appreciation of the personal appearance of other people.It has had that excellent effect, amongst others. We are to see her to-night,if that boy doesn’t forget his appointment.”
“Are you serious?”
“Quite serious, Basil. I should be miserable if I thought I should ever be more serious than I am at the present moment. ”
“But do you approve of it, Harry?” asked the painter, walking up and down the room and biting his lip. “You can’t approve of it,possibly. It is some silly infatuation.”
“I never approve, or disapprove, of anything now. It is an absurd attitude to take towards life.We are not sent into the world to air our moral prejudices.I never take any notice of what common people say,and I never interfere with what charming people do. If a personality fascinates me,whatever mode of expression that personality selects is absolutely delightful to me.Dorian Gray falls in love with a beautiful girl who acts Juliet, and proposes to marry her. Why not?If he wedded Messalina, he would be none the less interesting.You know I am not a champion of marriage.The real drawback to marriage is that it makes one unselfish. And unselfish people are colourless.They lack individuality. Still, there are certain temperaments that marriage makes more complex.They retain their egotism, and add to it many other egos.They are forced to have more than one life. They become more highly organized,and to be highly organized is, I should fancy, the object of man’s existence. Besides,every experience is of value, and whatever one may say against marriage,it is certainly an experience. I hope that Dorian Gray will make this girl his wife,passionately adore her for six months, and then suddenly become fascinated by some one else. He would be a wonderful study.”
“You don’t mean a single word of all that, Harry; you know you don’t.If Dorian Gray’s life were spoiled, no one would be sorrier than yourself.You are much better than you pretend to be.”
Lord Henry laughed. “The reason we all like to think so well of others is that we are all afraid for ourselves.The basis of optimism is sheer terror. We think that we are generous because we credit our neighbour with the possession of those virtues that are likely to be a benefit to us. We praise the banker that we may overdraw our account, and find good qualities in the highwayman in the hope that he may spare our pockets. I mean everything that I have said. I have the greatest contempt for optimism. As for a spoiled life, no life is spoiled but one whose growth is arrested. If you want to mar a nature, you have merely to reform it. As for marriage, of course that would be silly, but there are other and more interesting bonds between men and women. I will certainly encourage them. They have the charm of being fashionable. But here is Dorian himself. He will tell you more than I can.”
“My dear Harry, my dear Basil, you must both congratulate me!” said the lad, throwing off his evening cape with its satin-lined wings and shaking each of his friends by the hand in turn.“I have never been so happy. Of course, it is sudden—all really delightful things are.And yet it seems to me to be the one thing I have been looking for all my life.” He was flushed with excitement and pleasure, and looked extraordinarily handsome.
“I hope you will always be very happy, Dorian,” said Hallward,“but I don’t quite forgive you for not having let me know of your engagement. You let Harry know.”
“And I don’t forgive you for being late for dinner,” broke in Lord Henry,putting his hand on the lad’s shoulder and smiling as he spoke. “Come,let us sit down and try what the new _chef_ here is like,and then you will tell us how it all came about.”
“There is really not much to tell,” cried Dorian as they took their seats at the small round table.“What happened was simply this. After I left you yesterday evening, Harry, I dressed,had some dinner at that little Italian restaurant in Rupert Street you introduced me to,and went down at eight o’clock to the theatre. Sibyl was playing Rosalind. Of course,the scenery was dreadful and the Orlando absurd. But Sibyl!You should have seen her!When she came on in her boy’s clothes, she was perfectly wonderful.She wore a moss-coloured velvet jerkin with cinnamon sleeves, slim, brown, cross-gartered hose,a dainty little green cap with a hawk’s feather caught in a jewel,and a hooded cloak lined with dull red. She had never seemed to me more exquisite.She had all the delicate grace of that Tanagra figurine that you have in your studio, Basil.Her hair clustered round her face like dark leaves round a pale rose. As for her acting—well,you shall see her to-night. She is simply a born artist.I sat in the dingy box absolutely enthralled.I forgot that I was in London and in the nineteenth century.I was away with my love in a forest that no man had ever seen. After the performance was over,I went behind and spoke to her. As we were sitting together,suddenly there came into her eyes a look that I had never seen there before.My lips moved towards hers. We kissed each other.I can’t describe to you what I felt at that moment.It seemed to me that all my life had been narrowed to one perfect point of rose-coloured joy.She trembled all over and shook like a white narcissus.Then she flung herself on her knees and kissed my hands.I feel that I should not tell you all this, but I can’t help it. Of course,our engagement is a dead secret. She has not even told her own mother.I don’t know what my guardians will say. Lord Radley is sure to be furious. I don’t care.I shall be of age in less than a year, and then I can do what I like. I have been right, Basil,haven’t I, to take my love out of poetry and to find my wife in Shakespeare’s plays?Lips that Shakespeare taught to speak have whispered their secret in my ear.I have had the arms of Rosalind around me, and kissed Juliet on the mouth.”
“Yes, Dorian, I suppose you were right,” said Hallward slowly.
“Have you seen her to-day?” asked Lord Henry.
Dorian Gray shook his head. “I left her in the forest of Arden;I shall find her in an orchard in Verona.”
Lord Henry sipped his champagne in a meditative manner.“At what particular point did you mention the word marriage, Dorian?And what did she say in answer?Perhaps you forgot all about it.”
“My dear Harry, I did not treat it as a business transaction,and I did not make any formal proposal. I told her that I loved her,and she said she was not worthy to be my wife. Not worthy!Why, the whole world is nothing to me compared with her.”
“Women are wonderfully practical,” murmured Lord Henry, “much more practical than we are.In situations of that kind we often forget to say anything about marriage, and they always remind us.”
Hallward laid his hand upon his arm. “Don’t, Harry. You have annoyed Dorian.He is not like other men. He would never bring misery upon any one. His nature is too fine for that.”
Lord Henry looked across the table. “Dorian is never annoyed with me,” he answered.“I asked the question for the best reason possible, for the only reason, indeed,that excuses one for asking any question—simple curiosity.I have a theory that it is always the women who propose to us, and not we who propose to the women.Except, of course, in middle-class life. But then the middle classes are not modern.”
Dorian Gray laughed, and tossed his head. “You are quite incorrigible, Harry; but I don’t mind.It is impossible to be angry with you. When you see Sibyl Vane,you will feel that the man who could wrong her would be a beast, a beast without a heart.I cannot understand how any one can wish to shame the thing he loves. I love Sibyl Vane.I want to place her on a pedestal of gold and to see the world worship the woman who is mine. What is marriage?An irrevocable vow. You mock at it for that. Ah!don’t mock. It is an irrevocable vow that I want to take. Her trust makes me faithful,her belief makes me good. When I am with her, I regret all that you have taught me.I become different from what you have known me to be. I am changed,and the mere touch of Sibyl Vane’s hand makes me forget you and all your wrong, fascinating, poisonous, delightful theories.”
“And those are ...?” asked Lord Henry, helping himself to some salad.
“Oh, your theories about life, your theories about love, your theories about pleasure. All your theories, in fact, Harry.”
“Pleasure is the only thing worth having a theory about,” he answered in his slow melodious voice.“But I am afraid I cannot claim my theory as my own. It belongs to Nature, not to me.Pleasure is Nature’s test, her sign of approval. When we are happy, we are always good,but when we are good, we are not always happy.”
“Ah!but what do you mean by good?” cried Basil Hallward.
“Yes,” echoed Dorian, leaning back in his chair and looking at Lord Henry over the heavy clusters of purple-lipped irises that stood in the centre of the table, “what do you mean by good, Harry?”