"So you don't know?"

"Know what Lady Helena?"

Lady Helena crossed the room and took Dorian's hands in her own. As the two sat, her grip tightened ever so slightly.

She searched his eyes. "Dorian, don't be frightened—my letter—was to tell you that Sibyl Vane is dead."

A cry sprang unbidden from Dorian's mouth as he jumped to his feet and flung Lady Helena's hands down. "Dead! Sibyl dead? That is a terrible lie and not true! How could you say such a thing?"

Lady Helena's voice was grave. "I'm afraid it is quite true. It is spread across all the morning papers. I wrote to you about it and to ask that you speak to no one until we had a chance to meet. There will be an inquest, of course, and you must not be mentioned when questions arise."

She leaned in closer and placed her hand on Dorian's knee. "Things like this can be fashionable in Paris, but in London the society here is really quite prejudiced. One should never have their debut clouded with scandal or dark rumors. Those things should come with old age. I suppose they do not know your name at the theatre? Tell me, did anyone see you visit her in her room?"

Dorian was unable to answer for several moments. When he was able to speak it was difficult to get the words out. "Did—did you say there was to be an inquest? What do you mean by that? Be quick, and tell me everything at once."

"It really is quite curious and most horrific. It seems that as the girl was leaving the theatre in the evening at about half-past twelve, she decided to walk by the park in her neighborhood. There she was set upon by Jack the Ripper. Either that fiend or the High Rip Gang assisted by some Bulldogs—the constables are still debating various theories. They found her body dragged to the middle of the park. It was absolutely ripped apart you see. She met quite a brutal end with slashes and cuts everywhere and her throat and intestines torn out. She was so badly mutilated, the coroner was only able to identify the body by the engraving on the necklace she wore which bore her name."

"Stop, please stop! I can't bear to hear anymore, how terrible!"

"Yes it is very tragic. Things are quite out of control in the poorer areas of the city. Something really must be done about it. There have been several vicious attacks and murders of the like in recent weeks. But you must not get yourself mixed up in it all. I see by The Standard that the poor girl was seventeen. She seemed even younger, looking like such a child as she did—and with so little acting ability. But, you mustn't let this trouble you. Come and dine with me this evening, and afterwards we will go to the opera."

Dorian spoke in a hushed tone. "So, I have murdered Sibyl Vane. Murdered her as surely as if I had cut her pretty little throat myself. This is a tragedy. It is too late now to go back and fix things to how we were before. Oh, if only I had not been so cruel to her! If only I had never walked into that theatre and never seen her upon the stage!"

He looked out the window just then and continued. "Yet somehow, the birds still sing merrily in the garden. The crimson roses are no less lovely or fragrant. Tonight we will dine together on some delicacy and see art performed at the opera. How extraordinarily dramatic life is! Lady Helena, if I had read this in a book I would weep for days. Somehow, with it actually happening to me it seems too full of wonder for tears. There on my desk is the first passionate love-letter which I have ever composed in my life—and it is addressed to a dead girl. Can the dead feel, I wonder? Can Sibyl know now, that I meant to come back to her? How I deeply loved her once. She was everything to me! I said I would go back to her and now she is dead. My God. What shall I do? I might be in danger! She had no right to get herself killed. It was quite selfish indeed."

Lady Helena removed a cigarette from her gold-leafed case and struck a match. "My dear Mr. Gray, if you had married this girl you would have been wretchedly unhappy. I am sure that you would have been kind to the girl and she loved you wholly in return. But, eventually, you would have become indifferent towards her. And when a woman finds out her husband is indifferent towards her, she either becomes dreadful company or begins to seek the company of another woman's husband. Trust me when I tell you the whole thing would have been an absolute failure."

Dorian begrudged her the point. "I suppose you are right. I only thought it was my duty to do so. It isn't my fault that this abhorrent mishap has prevented me from doing what was right. But why can I not feel as deeply about this loss as I want to? I can't be that heartless. Do you think me heartless?"

Lady Helena gave him a melancholy smile as she looked over at the desk. "That foolish love letter is proof that you are not."

His frown deepened. "I am glad you do not think me heartless, for I am nothing of the kind. My heart soars when I hear well-played music and it quickens when I see beauty or appreciate fine craftsmanship. I know am not heartless. And yet, I must admit, I am not as affected by this as I should be. It all seems like the climactic ending to a Greek play that I have taken part in, but have not been truly wounded by."

"Ah, but most seem never to realize when the curtain has fallen. They always wish to continue with another act, rather than to acknowledge that the play has ended. They have no sense of art. Some chose to move on and are consoled by religion. Nothing makes one so vain, as being told they are a sinner. The Conscience makes egotists of us all. Now, there is one consolation which I enjoy more than anything—to take another's admirer when you have lost one of your own. But really, Mr. Gray, Sibyl Vane was so different than most. There was even something quite beautiful about her death. She undoubtedly brought to life the essence of romance, passion, and love."

Dorian's voice dropped to a low murmur. "She will never bring anything to life again."

"No, she will not. But do not forget that unless you have really lived, you have never really died. At least she was to you a tangible dream, filtered through Shakespeare's plays and presented in its loveliest form. But do not mourn for her. Morn for Ophelia, or Cordelia, or the daughter of Brabantio. Do not waste your tears on Sibyl Vane, for she was less real than the characters she portrayed."

A long silence followed. Dorian ran his hand along his face. "Let us not talk again of what has happened. It was simply an incredible experience and that is all. Let us focus on what other unimaginable wonders that life has yet in store for us. I shall join you for the opera this evening. Only let me dress first for the club as we are rather late. Thank you for all that you have said to me. You are undoubtedly my best friend in this world. No one can ever understand me the way that you do."

As Lady Helena left, Dorian again uncovered the screen from the portrait on the wall. Now came the moment to make his choice. Would he choose a life of eternal youth, infinite passion, secret pleasures, wild joys, and elaborate sins? Or had the decision already been made for him? Yes, life had already decided on his behalf. He was to satisfy his unending curiosity of the mysteries that life had to offer. The wolf would, in turn, bear the full burden of his shame. For who would willingly surrender the chance to always remain young and beautiful? Besides, the change was no longer under his control. Why it had happened was really of no importance. What had happened, had happened. He would lock the portrait away and separate it from the sunlight and the condemnations of the rest of the world. A few hours later, he was at the opera with Lady Helena leaning seductively over his chair.