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as　he　thought　of　hetty　merton；　he　began　to　wonder　if　the　portrait　in　the　locked　room　had　changed。　surely　it　was　not　still　so　horrible　as　it　had　been？　perhaps　if　his　life　became　pure；　he　would　be　able　to　expel　every　sign　of　evil　passion　from　the　face。　perhaps　the　signs　of　evil　had　already　gone　away。　he　would　go　and　look。

he　took　the　lamp　from　the　table　and　crept　upstairs。　as　he　unbarred　the　door；　a　smile　of　joy　flitted　across　his　strangely　young…looking　face　and　lingered　for　a　moment　about　his　lips。　yes；　he　would　be　good；　and　the　hideous　thing　that　he　had　hidden　away　would　no　longer　be　a　terror　to　him。　he　felt　as　if　the　load　had　been　lifted　from　him　already。

he　went　in　quietly；　locking　the　door　behind　him；　as　was　his　custom；　and　dragged　the　purple　hanging　from　the　portrait。　a　cry　of　pain　and　indignation　broke　from　him。　he　could　see　no　change；　save　that　in　the　eyes　there　was　a　look　of　cunning　and　in　the　mouth　the　curved　wrinkle　of　the　hypocrite。　the　thing　was　still　loathsomemore　loathsome；　if　possible；　than　beforeand　the　scarlet　dew　that　spotted　the　hand　seemed　brighter；　and　more　like　blood　newly　spilled。　then　he　trembled。　had　it　been　merely　vanity　that　had　made　him　do　his　one　good　deed？　or　the　desire　for　a　new　sensation；　as　lord　henry　had　hinted；　with　his　mocking　laugh？　or　that　passion　to　act　a　part　that　sometimes　makes　us　do　things　finer　than　we　are　ourselves？　or；　perhaps；　all　these？　and　why　was　the　red　stain　larger　than　it　had　been？　it　seemed　to　have　crept　like　a　horrible　disease　over　the　wrinkled　fingers。　there　was　blood　on　the　painted　feet；　as　though　the　thing　had　drippedblood　even　on　the　hand　that　had　not　held　the　knife。　confess？　did　it　mean　that　he　was　to　confess？　to　give　himself　up　and　be　put　to　death？　he　laughed。　he　felt　that　the　idea　was　monstrous。　besides；　even　if　he　did　confess；　who　would　believe　him？　there　was　no　trace　of　the　murdered　man　anywhere。　everything　belonging　to　him　had　been　destroyed。　he　himself　had　burned　what　had　been　below…stairs。　the　world　would　simply　say　that　he　was　mad。　they　would　shut　him　up　if　he　persisted　in　his　story。　。　。　。　yet　it　was　his　duty　to　confess；　to　suffer　public　shame；　and　to　make　public　atonement。　there　was　a　god　who　called　upon　men　to　tell　their　sins　to　earth　as　well　as　to　heaven。　nothing　that　he　could　do　would　cleanse　him　till　he　had　told　his　own　sin。　his　sin？　he　shrugged　his　shoulders。　the　death　of　basil　hallward　seemed　very　little　to　him。　he　was　thinking　of　hetty　merton。　for　it　was　an　unjust　mirror；　this　mirror　of　his　soul　that　he　was　looking　at。　vanity？　curiosity？　hypocrisy？　had　there　been　nothing　more　in　his　renunciation　than　that？　there　had　been　something　more。　at　least　he　thought　so。　but　who　could　tell？　。　。　。　no。　there　had　been　nothing　more。　through　vanity　he　had　spared　her。　in　hypocrisy　he　had　worn　the　mask　of　goodness。　for　curiositys　sake　he　had　tried　the　denial　of　self。　he　recognized　that　now。

but　this　murderwas　it　to　dog　him　all　his　life？　was　he　always　to　be　burdened　by　his　past？　was　he　really　to　confess？　never。　there　was　only　one　bit　of　evidence　left　against　him。　the　picture　itself　that　was　evidence。　he　would　destroy　it。　why　had　he　kept　it　so　long？　once　it　had　given　him　pleasure　to　watch　it　changing　and　growing　old。　of　late　he　had　felt　no　such　pleasure。　it　had　kept　him　awake　at　night。　when　he　had　been　away；　he　had　been　filled　with　terror　lest　other　eyes　should　look　upon　it。　it　had　brought　melancholy　across　his　passions。　its　mere　memory　had　marred　many　moments　of　joy。　it　had　been　like　conscience　to　him。　yes；　it　had　been　conscience。　he　would　destroy　it。

he　looked　round　and　saw　the　knife　that　had　stabbed　basil　hallward。　he　had　cleaned　it　many　times；　till　there　was　no　stain　left　upon　it。　it　was　bright；　and　glistened。　as　it　had　killed　the　painter；　so　it　would　kill　the　painters　work；　and　all　that　that　meant。　it　would　kill　the　past；　and　when　that　was　dead；　he　would　be　free。　it　would　kill　this　monstrous　soul…life；　and　without　its　hideous　warnings；　he　would　be　at　peace。　he　seized　the　thing；　and　stabbed　the　picture　with　it。

there　was　a　cry　heard；　and　a　crash。　the　cry　was　so　horrible　in　its　agony　that　the　frightened　servants　woke　and　crept　out　of　their　rooms。　two　gentlemen；　who　were　passing　in　the　square　below；　stopped　and　looked　up　at　the　great　house。　they　walked　on　till　they　met　a　policeman　and　brought　him　back。　the　man　rang　the　bell　several　times；　but　there　was　no　answer。　except　for　a　light　in　one　of　the　top　windows；　the　house　was　all　dark。　after　a　time；　he　went　away　and　stood　in　an　adjoining　portico　and　watched。

〃whose　house　is　that；　constable？〃　asked　the　elder　of　the　two　gentlemen。

〃mr。　dorian　grays；　sir；〃　answered　the　policeman。

they　looked　at　each　other；　as　they　walked　away；　and　sneered。　one　of　them　was　sir　henry　ashtons　uncle。

inside；　in　the　servants　part　of　the　house；　the　half…clad　domestics　were　talking　in　low　whispers　to　each　other。　old　mrs。　leaf　was　crying　and　wringing　her　hands。　francis　was　as　pale　as　death。

after　about　a　quarter　of　an　hour；　he　got　the　coachman　and　one　of　the　footmen　and　crept　upstairs。　they　knocked；　but　there　was　no　reply。　they　called　out。　everything　was　still。　finally；　after　vainly　trying　to　force　the　door；　they　got　on　the　roof　and　dropped　down　on　to　the　balcony。　the　windows　yielded　easilytheir　bolts　were　old。

when　they　entered；　they　found　hanging　upon　the　wall　a　splendid　portrait　of　their　master　as　they　had　last　seen　him；　in　all　the　wonder　of　his　exquisite　youth　and　beauty。　lying　on　the　floor　was　a　dead　man；　in　evening　dress；　with　a　knife　in　his　heart。　he　was　withered；　wrinkled；　and　loathsome　of　visage。　it　was　not　till　they　had　examined　the　rings　that　they　recognized　who　it　was。

the　end　

xiaoshuot锛竧锛宑o锛�

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