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 dripped--blood 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 curiosity's
sake he had tried the denial of self. He recognised that now.

But this murder--was 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 s