Dorian, laying his hands upon the old servant's shoulders, pushes him gently backwards, so that he may look the more readily into his face.
"Why, Simon! How absolutely in earnest you are!" he says, lightly. "What crime have I committed, that I should spend the rest of my days in sackcloth and ashes!"
"I know nothing," says old Gale, sadly. "How should I be wiser than my masters? All I feel is that youth is careless and headstrong, and things once done are difficult of undoing. If you would go to your grave happy, keep yourself from causing misery to those who love you and—trust in you."
His voice sinks, and grows tremulous. Dorian, taking his hands from his shoulders, moves back from the old man, and regards him meditatively, stroking his fair moustache slowly, in a rather mechanical fashion, as he does so.
"The whole world seems dyspeptic to-day," he says, ironically. Then, "It would be such a horrid bore to make any one miserable that I daresay I sha'n't try it. If, however, I do commit the mysterious serious offence at which you broadly hint, and of which you plainly believe me fully capable, I'll let you know about it."
He smiles again,—a jarring sort of smile, that hardly accords with the beauty of the dying day,—and, moving away from the old man, crosses the oaken flooring to the glass door that lies at the farther end of the room, and that opens on to a gravelled path outside, on which lilacs are flinging broadcast their rich purple bloom. As he moves, with a pale face and set lips (for the bitter smile has faded), he tramples ruthlessly, and without thought for their beauty, upon the deep soft patches of coloring that are strewn upon the flooring from the stained-glass windows above.
Throwing open the door, he welcomes gladly the cool evening air that seems to rush to meet him.
"Pah!" he says, almost aloud, as he strides onwards beneath the budding elms. "To think, after all these years, they should so readily condemn! Even that old man, who has known me from my infancy, believes me guilty."
Then a change sweeps over him. Insults to himself are forgotten, and his thoughts travel onward to a fear that for many days has been growing and gaining strength.
Can Horace have committed this base deed? This fear usurps all other considerations. Going back upon what he has just heard, he examines in his mind each little detail of the wretched history imparted to him by his uncle. All the suspicions—lulled to rest through lack of matter wherewith to feed them—now come to life again, and grow in size and importance in spite of his intense desire to suppress them.