The Picture of Dorian Gray
The elder woman grew pale beneath the coarse powder that daubed her
cheeks, and her dry lips twitched with a spasm of pain. Sybil rushed to
her, flung her arms round her neck, and kissed her. “Forgive me,
Mother. I know it pains you to talk about our father. But it only pains
you because you loved him so much. Don’t look so sad. I am as happy
to-day as you were twenty years ago. Ah! let me be happy for ever!”
“My child, you are far too young to think of falling in love. Besides,
what do you know of this young man? You don’t even know his name. The
whole thing is most inconvenient, and really, when James is going away
to Australia, and I have so much to think of, I must say that you
should have shown more consideration. However, as I said before, if he
is rich ...”
“Ah! Mother, Mother, let me be happy!”
Mrs. Vane glanced at her, and with one of those false theatrical
gestures that so often become a mode of second nature to a
stage-player, clasped her in her arms. At this moment, the door opened
and a young lad with rough brown hair came into the room. He was
thick-set of figure, and his hands and feet were large and somewhat
clumsy in movement. He was not so finely bred as his sister. One would
hardly have guessed the close relationship that existed between them.
Mrs. Vane fixed her eyes on him and intensified her smile. She mentally
elevated her son to the dignity of an audience. She felt sure that the
_tableau_ was interesting.
“You might keep some of your kisses for me, Sibyl, I think,” said the
lad with a good-natured grumble.
“Ah! but you don’t like being kissed, Jim,” she cried. “You are a
dreadful old bear.” And she ran across the room and hugged him.
James Vane looked into his sister’s face with tenderness. “I want you
to come out with me for a walk, Sibyl. I don’t suppose I shall ever see
this horrid London again. I am sure I don’t want to.”
“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!