Chapter 18

15 min

The next day he did not leave the house, and, indeed, spent most of the time in his own room, sick with a wild terror of dying, and yet indifferent to life itself. The consciousness of being hunted, snared, tracked down, had begun to dominate him. If the tapestry did but tremble in the wind, he shook. The dead leaves that were blown against the leaded panes seemed to him like his own wasted resolutions and wild regrets. When he closed his eyes, he saw again the sailor’s face peering through the mist-stained glass, and horror seemed once more to lay its hand upon his heart.

The next day, he did not leave the house. In fact, he spent most of the time in his room, sick with a wild fear of dying. Yet he did not care about life itself. The feeling that he was being hunted, trapped, and tracked down had begun to take over. If the tapestry so much as trembled in the wind, he shook. The dead leaves blowing against the leaded windows seemed like his own wasted resolutions and wild regrets. When he closed his eyes, he saw the sailor’s face again, peering through the mist-stained glass. Horror seemed once more to lay its hand on his heart.

But perhaps it had been only his fancy that had called vengeance out of the night and set the hideous shapes of punishment before him. Actual life was chaos, but there was something terribly logical in the imagination. It was the imagination that set remorse to dog the feet of sin. It was the imagination that made each crime bear its misshapen brood. In the common world of fact the wicked were not punished, nor the good rewarded. Success was given to the strong, failure thrust upon the weak. That was all. Besides, had any stranger been prowling round the house, he would have been seen by the servants or the keepers. Had any foot-marks been found on the flower-beds, the gardeners would have reported it. Yes, it had been merely fancy. Sibyl Vane’s brother had not come back to kill him. He had sailed away in his ship to founder in some winter sea. From him, at any rate, he was safe. Why, the man did not know who he was, could not know who he was. The mask of youth had saved him.

But perhaps his imagination alone had summoned vengeance out of the night and shown him those hideous visions of punishment. Real life was chaos, but the imagination had a terrifying logic. It was the imagination that made remorse follow at the heels of sin. It was the imagination that made each crime give birth to its own monstrous offspring. In the ordinary world of fact, the wicked were not punished, nor were the good rewarded. The strong were given success, and the weak were forced to fail. That was all. Besides, if a stranger had been prowling around the house, the servants or the keepers would have seen him. If any footprints had been found on the flower beds, the gardeners would have reported them. Yes, it had only been his imagination. Sibyl Vane’s brother had not come back to kill him. He had sailed away on his ship, which would sink in some winter sea. From him, at any rate, he was safe. After all, the man did not know who he was, and could not know. The mask of youth had saved him.

And yet if it had been merely an illusion, how terrible it was to think that conscience could raise such fearful phantoms, and give them visible form, and make them move before one! What sort of life would his be if, day and night, shadows of his crime were to peer at him from silent corners, to mock him from secret places, to whisper in his ear as he sat at the feast, to wake him with icy fingers as he lay asleep! As the thought crept through his brain, he grew pale with terror, and the air seemed to him to have become suddenly colder. Oh! in what a wild hour of madness he had killed his friend! How ghastly the mere memory of the scene! He saw it all again. Each hideous detail came back to him with added horror. Out of the black cave of time, terrible and swathed in scarlet, rose the image of his sin. When Lord Henry came in at six o’clock, he found him crying as one whose heart will break.

And yet, if it had been only an illusion, how terrible it was to think what conscience could do! It could raise such terrifying phantoms, give them visible form, and make them move before him. What kind of life would he have if shadows of his crime haunted him day and night? They would peer at him from silent corners and mock him from secret places. They would whisper in his ear as he sat at a feast and wake him with icy fingers as he slept. As the thought crept into his mind, he grew pale with terror. The air seemed to turn suddenly colder. Oh, what a wild moment of madness it had been when he killed his friend! How horrifying even the memory of the scene was! He saw it all again. Every horrible detail came back to him, more terrifying than before. From the black cave of time, the image of his sin rose, terrible and wrapped in scarlet. When Lord Henry came in at six o’clock, he found him crying as if his heart would break.

It was not till the third day that he ventured to go out. There was something in the clear, pine-scented air of that winter morning that seemed to bring him back his joyousness and his ardour for life. But it was not merely the physical conditions of environment that had caused the change. His own nature had revolted against the excess of anguish that had sought to maim and mar the perfection of its calm. With subtle and finely wrought temperaments it is always so. Their strong passions must either bruise or bend. They either slay the man, or themselves die. Shallow sorrows and shallow loves live on. The loves and sorrows that are great are destroyed by their own plenitude. Besides, he had convinced himself that he had been the victim of a terror-stricken imagination, and looked back now on his fears with something of pity and not a little of contempt.

It was not until the third day that he dared to go out. Something in the clear, pine-scented air of that winter morning seemed to restore his joy and passion for life. But his surroundings alone had not caused the change. His own nature had rebelled against the overwhelming anguish that had threatened to damage and spoil its perfect calm. This is always true of sensitive, finely developed natures. Their strong passions must either hurt them or give way. The passions either kill the person or die themselves. Shallow sorrows and shallow loves live on. Great loves and sorrows are destroyed by their own fullness. Besides, he had convinced himself that he had been the victim of a terrified imagination. He now looked back on his fears with some pity and considerable contempt.

After breakfast, he walked with the duchess for an hour in the garden and then drove across the park to join the shooting-party. The crisp frost lay like salt upon the grass. The sky was an inverted cup of blue metal. A thin film of ice bordered the flat, reed-grown lake.

After breakfast, he walked with the duchess in the garden for an hour. Then he drove across the park to join the shooting party. Crisp frost lay on the grass like salt. The sky was like an upside-down cup of blue metal. A thin layer of ice edged the flat lake, where reeds grew.

At the corner of the pine-wood he caught sight of Sir Geoffrey Clouston, the duchess’s brother, jerking two spent cartridges out of his gun. He jumped from the cart, and having told the groom to take the mare home, made his way towards his guest through the withered bracken and rough undergrowth.

At the edge of the pine woods, he saw Sir Geoffrey Clouston, the duchess’s brother. Sir Geoffrey was pulling two spent cartridges from his gun. He jumped from the cart and told the groom to take the mare home. Then he made his way toward his guest through the withered bracken and rough undergrowth.

“Have you had good sport, Geoffrey?” he asked.

“Did you have good sport, Geoffrey?” he asked.

“Not very good, Dorian. I think most of the birds have gone to the open. I dare say it will be better after lunch, when we get to new ground.”

“Not very good, Dorian. I think most of the birds have gone into the open. It will probably be better after lunch, when we get to new ground.”

Dorian strolled along by his side. The keen aromatic air, the brown and red lights that glimmered in the wood, the hoarse cries of the beaters ringing out from time to time, and the sharp snaps of the guns that followed, fascinated him and filled him with a sense of delightful freedom. He was dominated by the carelessness of happiness, by the high indifference of joy.

Dorian strolled beside him. The crisp, fragrant air and the brown and red lights glimmering in the woods fascinated him. So did the occasional hoarse cries of the beaters and the sharp cracks of the guns that followed. It all filled him with a wonderful sense of freedom. He was swept up in the carelessness of happiness, in the lofty indifference of joy.

Suddenly from a lumpy tussock of old grass some twenty yards in front of them, with black-tipped ears erect and long hinder limbs throwing it forward, started a hare. It bolted for a thicket of alders. Sir Geoffrey put his gun to his shoulder, but there was something in the animal’s grace of movement that strangely charmed Dorian Gray, and he cried out at once, “Don’t shoot it, Geoffrey. Let it live.”

Suddenly, a hare sprang from a clump of old grass about twenty yards ahead of them. Its black-tipped ears stood upright, and its long hind legs propelled it forward. It raced toward a thicket of alder trees. Sir Geoffrey raised his gun to his shoulder, but the hare’s graceful movement strangely charmed Dorian Gray. He immediately cried out, “Don’t shoot it, Geoffrey. Let it live.”

“What nonsense, Dorian!” laughed his companion, and as the hare bounded into the thicket, he fired. There were two cries heard, the cry of a hare in pain, which is dreadful, the cry of a man in agony, which is worse.

“What nonsense, Dorian!” his companion laughed. As the hare bounded into the bushes, he fired. Two cries followed. One was the dreadful cry of a hare in pain. The other was the even worse cry of a man in agony.

“Good heavens! I have hit a beater!” exclaimed Sir Geoffrey. “What an ass the man was to get in front of the guns! Stop shooting there!” he called out at the top of his voice. “A man is hurt.”

“Good heavens! I hit a beater!” exclaimed Sir Geoffrey. “What an idiot to get in front of the guns! Stop shooting!” he shouted at the top of his voice. “A man is hurt.”

The head-keeper came running up with a stick in his hand.

The head gamekeeper came running up with a stick in his hand.

“Where, sir? Where is he?” he shouted. At the same time, the firing ceased along the line.

“Where, sir? Where is he?” he shouted. At the same time, the firing stopped along the line.

“Here,” answered Sir Geoffrey angrily, hurrying towards the thicket. “Why on earth don’t you keep your men back? Spoiled my shooting for the day.”

“Here,” Sir Geoffrey replied angrily, hurrying toward the thicket. “Why on earth don’t you keep your men back? You’ve spoiled my shooting for the day.”

Dorian watched them as they plunged into the alder-clump, 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 if 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.

Dorian watched them rush into the clump of alder trees, pushing aside the flexible, swaying branches. A few moments later, they emerged, dragging a body into the sunlight. He turned away in horror. It seemed to him that misfortune followed him wherever he went. He heard Sir Geoffrey ask if the man was really dead. The gamekeeper said he was. The woods seemed to Dorian to have suddenly come alive with faces. Countless feet trampled the ground, and voices murmured. A large pheasant with a copper-colored breast flew through the branches overhead, beating its wings.

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.

A few moments passed. In his distressed state, they felt like endless hours of pain. Then he felt a hand on his shoulder. He startled and looked around.

“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.”

“Dorian,” said Lord Henry, “I had better tell them the shooting is over for today. It would not look good to continue.”

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

“I wish it would stop forever, Harry,” he replied bitterly. “The whole thing is horrible and cruel. Is the man ...?”

He could not finish the sentence.

He couldn't 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.”

“I’m afraid so,” Lord Henry replied. “The whole load of shot hit him in the chest. He must have died almost instantly. Come on, let’s 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.”

They walked side by side toward the avenue for nearly fifty yards without speaking. Then Dorian looked at Lord Henry and sighed heavily. “It’s 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.”

“What is?” asked Lord Henry. “Oh! The accident, I suppose. My dear fellow, nothing can be done about it. 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 look good to shoot the beaters. People might think you are a careless shot. And Geoffrey is not. He shoots very straight. But there is no point talking about it.”

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.

Dorian shook his head. “It’s a bad omen, Harry. I feel as if something horrible is going to happen to some of us. To me, perhaps,” he added, passing his hand over his eyes in 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.”

The older man laughed. “The only horrible thing in the world is boredom, Dorian. That is the one sin that can never be forgiven. But we are unlikely to suffer from boredom unless these fellows keep chattering about this thing at dinner. I must tell them the subject is off limits. As for omens, there is no such thing as an omen. Destiny does not send us messengers. She is too wise or too cruel for that. Besides, what on earth could happen to you, Dorian? You have everything in the world a man could want. Everyone would 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?”

“There is no one I wouldn’t trade places with, Harry. Don’t laugh like that. I’m telling you the truth. The miserable peasant who just died is better off than I am. I’m not afraid of death. It’s the approach of death that terrifies me. Its monstrous wings seem to circle in the heavy air around me. Good heavens! Don’t you see a man moving behind those trees, 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.”

Lord Henry looked where the trembling gloved hand was pointing. “Yes,” he said, smiling, “I see the gardener waiting for you. I suppose he wants to ask what flowers you want on the table tonight. You’re absurdly nervous, 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 sighed with relief when he saw the gardener approaching. The man touched his hat and glanced hesitantly at Lord Henry. Then he took out a letter and handed it to Dorian. “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.

Dorian put the letter in his pocket. “Tell her Grace that I’m coming in,” he said coldly. The man turned and hurried toward 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 women love doing dangerous things!” laughed Lord Henry. “That is one of the qualities I admire most in women. A woman will flirt with anyone in the world as long as other people are watching.”

“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.”

“You do love saying dangerous things, Harry! But this time, you’re quite wrong. 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.”

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

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

“You’re spreading gossip, Harry, and gossip is never based on facts.”

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

“Every scandal is based on an immoral certainty,” said Lord Henry, lighting a cigarette.

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

“You would sacrifice anyone, Harry, just to make a witty remark.”

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

“The world goes to the altar willingly,” came the reply.

“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.”

“I wish I could love,” cried Dorian Gray, his voice full of sorrow. “But I seem to have lost the passion and forgotten the desire. I am too focused 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’ll send Harvey a telegram to have the yacht made 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.”

“Safe from what, Dorian? You’re in some kind of trouble. Why not tell me what’s wrong? 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.”

“I can’t tell you, Harry,” he answered sadly. “And I suppose it may just be my imagination. This unfortunate accident has upset me. I have a terrible feeling that something like it may happen to me.”

“What nonsense!”

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

“I hope it is, but I can’t help feeling it. Ah, here is the duchess, looking like Artemis in a tailored gown. As you can see, we’re 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!”

“I’ve heard all about it, Mr. Gray,” she replied. “Poor Geoffrey is terribly upset. And it seems you asked him not to shoot the hare. How strange!”

“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.”

“Yes, it was very strange. I don’t know what made me say it. I suppose it was just a whim. It looked like the loveliest little living thing. But I’m sorry they told you about the man. It’s a horrible 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.”

“This is an annoying subject,” Lord Henry interrupted. “It has no psychological value at all. But if Geoffrey had done it on purpose, how interesting he would be! I’d like to know someone who has 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.”

“How awful 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?”

Dorian straightened up with an effort and smiled. “It’s nothing, Duchess,” he murmured. “My nerves are terribly unsettled. That’s all. I’m afraid I walked too far this morning. I didn’t hear what Harry said. Was it very bad? You must tell me another time. I think I need to lie down. You’ll 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.

They had reached the broad steps leading from the conservatory to the terrace. As the glass door closed behind Dorian, Lord Henry turned and looked at the duchess with sleepy 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.

She did not answer for a while, but stood looking at the landscape. “I wish I knew,” she finally said.

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

He shook his head. “Knowing would be fatal. Uncertainty is what makes it so appealing. A mist makes things seem wonderful.”

“One may lose one’s way.”

“You may lose your way.”

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

“All paths lead to the same place, my dear Gladys.”

“What is that?”

“Disillusion.”

“Disappointment.”

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

“It was my first appearance in life,” she sighed.

“It came to you crowned.”

“I am tired of strawberry leaves.”

“They become you.”

“They suit you.”

“Only in public.”

“You would miss them,” said Lord Henry.

“I will not part with a petal.”

“I won’t give up a single petal.”

“Monmouth has ears.”

“Old age is dull of hearing.”

“Old age makes it hard to hear.”

“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.

He looked around as if searching for something. “What are you looking for?” she asked.

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

“The button from your foil,” he replied. “You dropped it.”

She laughed. “I have still the mask.”

She laughed. “I still have the mask.”

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

“It makes your eyes more beautiful,” he replied.

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

She laughed again. Her teeth looked like white seeds in a bright red fruit.

Upstairs, in his own room, Dorian Gray was lying on a sofa, with terror in every tingling fibre 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 pre-figure death for himself also. He had nearly swooned at what Lord Henry had said in a chance mood of cynical jesting.

Upstairs in his own room, Dorian Gray lay on a sofa, terror running through every tingling fiber of his body. Life had suddenly become too horrible a burden for him to bear. The unfortunate beater had been shot in the thicket like a wild animal. His dreadful death had seemed to Dorian to foretell his own death too. He had nearly fainted at something Lord Henry had said in a moment of cynical joking.

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.

At five o’clock, he rang for his servant. He told him to pack his things for the night express to town and have the carriage at the door by eight thirty. He was determined not to spend another night at Selby Royal. The place was cursed. Death walked there in the sunlight. The forest grass 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.

Then he wrote a note to Lord Henry. He said he was going to town to see his doctor and asked him to entertain his guests while he was away. As he put the note into the envelope, someone knocked on the door. His valet told him that the head gamekeeper wanted to see him. He frowned and bit his lip. After hesitating for a few moments, he muttered, “Send him in.”

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

As soon as the man entered, Dorian took his checkbook from a drawer and opened it in front of him.

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

“I suppose you’ve come about the unfortunate accident this morning, Thornton?” he said, picking up a pen.

“Yes, sir,” answered the gamekeeper.

“Yes, sir,” replied 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.”

“Was the poor man married? Did anyone depend on him?” asked Dorian, looking bored. “If so, I wouldn’t want them to be left without enough money. I’ll send them whatever amount you think necessary.”

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

“We don’t know who he is, sir. That’s why I came to you.”

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

“Don’t know who he is?” Dorian said, without much interest. “What do you mean? Wasn’t he one of your men?”

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

“No, sir. I’ve never seen him before. He 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?”

The pen fell from Dorian Gray’s hand, and he felt as if his heart had suddenly stopped. “A sailor?” he cried. “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.”

“Yes, sir. He looks as if he used to be a sailor, with tattoos on both arms and things like that.”

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

“Did they find anything on him?” Dorian leaned forward and looked at the man with startled eyes. “Anything that would tell them his name?”

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

“Some money, sir, but not much, and a six-shooter. There was no name of any kind. He was a decent-looking man, sir, but a bit rough. We think he was some kind of sailor.”

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.”

Dorian sprang to his feet. A terrible hope flashed through his mind. He clung to it desperately. “Where is the body?” he cried. “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.”

“It is in an empty stable at Home Farm, sir. People 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.”

“The Home Farm! Go there right away and meet me. Tell one of the grooms to bring my horse. No. Never mind. I’ll go to the stables myself. That 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.

In less than fifteen minutes, Dorian Gray was galloping down the long avenue as fast as he could. The trees seemed to sweep past him like a procession of ghosts, and wild shadows seemed to fling themselves across his path. Once, the mare swerved at a white gatepost and nearly threw him. He whipped her across the neck with his riding crop. She cut through the dim air like an arrow. Stones flew from her hooves.

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.

At last, he reached the Home Farm. Two men were standing around in the yard. He jumped off his horse and threw the reins to one of them. A light was glowing in the farthest stable. Something seemed to tell him the body was there. He hurried to the door and put his hand on 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.

He paused there for a moment. He felt he was close to a discovery that would either make or ruin his life. Then he pushed 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.

The dead body of a man lay on a heap of sacks in the far corner. He wore a rough shirt and blue trousers. A spotted handkerchief covered his face. A rough candle stuck in a bottle sputtered beside the body.

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.

Dorian Gray shuddered. He felt he could not remove the handkerchief himself. He called one of the farm workers over to him.

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

“Take that thing off the face. I want to see it,” he said, gripping the doorframe 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.

When the farm worker had done so, he stepped forward. He cried out with joy. The man shot in the bushes 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.

He stood there for a few minutes, looking at the dead body. As he rode home, his eyes filled with tears because he knew he was safe.