He would resist temptation. He would not see
Lord Henry any more—would not, at any rate,
listen to those subtle poisonous theories that in Basil
Hallward’s garden had first stirred within him
the passion for impossible things. He would go
back to Sibyl Vane, make her amends, marry her, try
to love her again. Yes, it was his duty to do
so. She must have suffered more than he had.
Poor child! He had been selfish and cruel to
her. The fascination that she had exercised over
him would return. They would be happy together.
His life with her would be beautiful and pure.
He got up from his chair and drew a large screen right
in front of the portrait, shuddering as he glanced
at it. “How horrible!” he murmured
to himself, and he walked across to the window and
opened it. When he stepped out on to the grass,
he drew a deep breath. The fresh morning air
seemed to drive away all his sombre passions.
He thought only of Sibyl. A faint echo of his
love came back to him. He repeated her name over
and over again. The birds that were singing
in the dew-drenched garden seemed to be telling the
flowers about her.
It was long past noon when he awoke. His valet
had crept several times on tiptoe into the room to
see if he was stirring, and had wondered what made
his young master sleep so late. Finally his bell
sounded, and Victor came in softly with a cup of tea,
and a pile of letters, on a small tray of old Sevres
china, and drew back the olive-satin curtains, with
their shimmering blue lining, that hung in front of
the three tall windows.
“Monsieur has well slept this morning,”
he said, smiling.
“What o’clock is it, Victor?” asked
Dorian Gray drowsily.
“One hour and a quarter, Monsieur.”
How late it was! He sat up, and having sipped
some tea, turned over his letters. One of them
was from Lord Henry, and had been brought by hand
that morning. He hesitated for a moment, and
then put it aside. The others he opened listlessly.
They contained the usual collection of cards, invitations
to dinner, tickets for private views, programmes of
charity concerts, and the like that are showered on
fashionable young men every morning during the season.
There was a rather heavy bill for a chased silver
Louis-Quinze toilet-set that he had not yet had the
courage to send on to his guardians, who were extremely
old-fashioned people and did not realize that we live
in an age when unnecessary things are our only necessities;
and there were several very courteously worded communications
from Jermyn Street money-lenders offering to advance
any sum of money at a moment’s notice and at
the most reasonable rates of interest.
After about ten minutes he got up, and throwing on
an elaborate dressing-gown of silk-embroidered cashmere
wool, passed into the onyx-paved bathroom. The
cool water refreshed him after his long sleep.
He seemed to have forgotten all that he had gone
through. A dim sense of having taken part in
some strange tragedy came to him once or twice, but
there was the unreality of a dream about it.
