The Wolf of Dorian Gray

by Brian S. Ference

  “Smashing! But have you had occasion to—,” Dorian cut off as they came upon two gentleman along the roadway who were also mounted. They were well-equipped, though on lesser brown-Cob horseflesh.

  Dorian was quite startled to see that the riders were none other than Lord Donohoe and his lesser-known brother. Lord Donohoe was dressed plainly in simple brown riding trousers and a matching coat. His greying hair was cut smartly in the military style. A door-knocker beard and mustache adorned his face. His brother attired himself in a comparable manner. All four of the horses slowed to a walk as they approached, with Dorian reigning up when they were a few meters away.

  Dorian called out a greeting. “Good afternoon Lord Donohoe. I was unaware that you had a residence in Trouville.”

  “There are many things you mistakenly think me unaware of—you cussed bedswerver!” With that insult, Lord Donohoe removed his riding glove and threw it to the ground before bellowing his challenge to Dorian. “I demand satisfaction for what you have done to my daughter!”

  Dorian’s reply was smooth and in blatant disregard for the challenge to duel that was just laid before him. “My dear man, I believe there has been some case of mistaken identity. I do not even know your daughter.”

  “Liar! Scoundrel! I know what you have done to her, corrupting her mind and body. It is by your hand that she has become nothing more than a common dollymop.”

  “Take care with your insults sir. I assure you, I have nothing to do with your daughter’s poor choices in life. I will not tolerate your slander any further.”

  “Then you will face me today on the field of honor and pistols will decide the truth of it!”

  Dorian saw that Lord Donohoe was resolute in his challenge. He took stock of the older man’s frail stature and the slight shaking of his pointing hand.

  He sighed and lifted his hands in a gesture of compliance. “Very well. If you insist on this course we will play it out. But let it be known that I attempted to move you from it.” With that, Dorian swiftly dismounted in a fluid motion and beckoned to his friend. “Lord Crawley will act as my second, as I am sure your brother will act as yours. Since you have determined the choice of weapons and the time of the duel, I will determine the ground and the form to be followed.”

  Dorian gestured towards a small clearing behind the group. “We will meet in the small field behind you and begin back-to-back. Following ten paces on my count, we will both turn and shoot. Are these terms acceptable to you sir?”

  Lord Donohoe and his brother dismounted in response. They moved briskly to the prescribed field and the seconds began to inspect the pistols that Lord Donohoe produced from a cherry wood case, carried on his saddlebag. The selected weapons were brown-barrel, octagonal sighted, Percussion 14 bore pistols. They could be loaded with only one lead ball at a time.

  Lord Crawley picked up the weapons and checked the firing mechanism on each one. “They are balanced and level, Dorian. They appear adequate and should produce a straight shot.”

  Dorian liked his chances in this contest, for he was no stranger to firearms and was an accomplished marksman. He regularly hit his target when shooting at cans or stuffed animals on the firing range and he had brought down many a stag and quail while hunting. His opponent was nearly two decades his senior and of questionable health. However, he had never before killed a man with a firearm. At that moment, Lord Donohoe began a coughing fit as he was preparing himself. Dorian smiled and offered his handkerchief, which was harshly refused. He confidently selected his weapon and assumed his position. There was always a chance that both combatants would miss. Then the matter would be concluded without bloodshed. When Lord Donohoe finally regained his breath, he approached with the second pistol in his hand and the two stood back-to-back.

  “This is your last chance to withdraw your challenge,” whispered Dorian.

  “And your last chance to pray to God for forgiveness,” Lord Donohoe responded curtly.

  Dorian cocked his weapon and heard the sharp click as his opponent did the same. The gun felt strangely heavy in his hand. The grip seemed suddenly slick, as sweat began to form in his palm and along the top of his hand. Now was the moment for steely resolve.

  In a scratchy voice he shouted out, “Begin!” and started counting off the ten paces in a measured tone. He was surprised at the trepidation he felt and the thundering of his heart beating in his ears. True, he had never fought in a duel before but surely it was not a difficult thing. He was young and strong and would certainly triumph. It was only a matter of breathing and aiming carefully. There was no chance of this old man besting him.

  The wide field where they dueled was really a picturesque sight. It was framed by a small blue stream with two large weeping willows on either bank. They each dropped spiral-green strands into the gently flowing water. Stubborn wildflowers grew everywhere in whites, blues, and oranges. On the other side of a light-colored beech fence a herd of creamy-white cattle grazed, indifferent to the drama unfolding so close by. The sky was clear and filled with the bright-warmth of a bold, yellow sun. It seemed as if you could see for kilometers in every direction. What a beautiful place this would be to meet one’s end.

  The count reached ten and Dorian began turning. As he spun he started to level his pistol as he raised his arm. He was startled to see that his aged opponent had already completed his turn by pivoting smartly on his heel. He was expeditiously aiming his pistol in Dorian’s direction, unmistakably preparing to fire. Dorian struggled to make up the lost time—too late. Lord Donohoe fired his pistol with a crack like thunder, sending up an acrid cloud of black smoke. The 44 caliber lead ball exploded through Dorian’s shoulder. The soft lead flattened and expanded as it exited out his back, leaving a wound the size of a pomegranate. The pain was excruciating and Dorian cried out. As his knees buckled, he gritted his teeth and fired blindly into the smoke in front of him before passing out.

  Dorian awoke in the plush, canopied bed of his villa. His dreams had been filled with blood and death. He remembered running through a misty field at night, tripping over the dismembered bodies of friends and loved ones. Their faces were pale and bloated. No matter how quickly he ran, the field seemed to never end. Just a dream. Perhaps the duel had been a dream as well. Then his hand found the side of his riding trousers. He looked down in surprise. His clothing was the same that he had been wearing on the field and was now covered in dirt and blood. Exhaustion lay heavy on his body, as if he was drowning at the bottom of the sea in a full suit of armor.

  Lord Crawley was suddenly there at his side with a worried look on his face. “Dorian, are you feeling well? You are very fortunate that Lord Donohoe’s aim was off. Apparently, he was once renowned for his dueling prowess as a Captain in the Army.”

  Dorian’s confusion reached his voice. “You mean, he missed? I was certain that I was hit. Are you quite sure? What of Lord Donohoe?”

  “Well he must have missed for here you are, whole and sound. Your aim however, was true. It was really a fantastic shot. I’ve never quite seen the like. Your ball took him right between those beady little eyes of his and he was killed instantly. His brother was very distraught and has taken the body away. Dorian, you’ve won!”

  Dorian looked around tentatively at his surroundings. “I’ve won? But, how did I get here?”

  “When I saw you were unconscious I rode back for help. I thought for sure you had been injured. Your valet and I brought a wagon and together we lifted you from the field and transported you here. You were breathing quite rapidly, so we put you straight into bed while the valet went for the doctor. I am sure that won’t be needed now, your color seems quite restored.”

  “Yes, I am fine. Please, there is no need for a doctor.”

  “Very well, but are you sure you weren’t grazed in the arm by the shot? There was quite a lot of blood but we were amiss as to its origin. The whole matter is inextricable.”

  Dorian was silent and fingered the spot on his chest where the b
all had entered his skin. The clothing was ripped and torn, exposing the flesh beneath. There was no wound there, not even a scratch. But his finger could feel dried blood. Had it been his imagination? Then whose blood was it?

  Dorian placed his hand on his chin speculatively. “Perhaps Lord Donohoe’s aim was so bad, his ball struck a passing bird from the sky. Yes that must be it.”

  Lord Crawley laughed. “Capital! Quite right. When the doctor arrives, I will let him know his service is no longer needed and see he receives compensation for his trouble. Now, get some rest and when you are recovered we will invite the Eldritch sisters to dine with us.”

  Lord Crawley excused himself from the room and exited quietly. Dorian wearily rose from his mahogany bed and decided he should change into a fresh shirt and trousers. He moved to the washbasin and stripped off his clothes. After filling it with water, he carefully cleaned away the dried blood on his chest. He turned around slowly in the mirror, only to discover a larger mass of red caked on his back. This too he cleaned, while contemplating what it all might mean. How had he healed so quickly and perfectly from the wound? It was Impossible.

  The duel made Dorian even more paranoid that someone might discover his many secrets. He cut short his holiday in the country and returned home. After a time, he could no longer endure to be long away from England. He gave up the villa, as well as the house at Algiers where he and Lady Helena had spent so many pleasant winters together. He couldn’t abide to be separated from the picture that was now so much a part of his life. There was always the nagging fear that someone might gain access to the room, despite the elaborate bars that covered the door. Sometimes, while entertaining at his great house in Nottinghamshire, he would inexplicably take leave of his guests to rush back to town. He could not be at peace until he examined the door and made certain the picture was still held safely within. What if it was stolen from him? Then the world would know his secret. Perhaps they already suspected.

  Chapter 17.

  Whispered Conversations

  Several days later, Dorian took his Hyson green tea in the drawing room and began reading the evening paper. He was shocked at what he saw on the fifth page of The St. James:

  INQUEST ON AN ACTRESS.—An inquest was held this morning at the Bell Tavern, Hoxton Road, by Mr. Marlow, the District Coroner, on the body of Sibyl Vane, a young actress recently engaged at the Royal Theatre, Holborn. An open verdict was returned as the cause of death is still being investigated. Considerable sympathy was expressed for the mother of the deceased, who was greatly affected during the giving of her own evidence, and that of Dr. Ashford, who made the post-mortem examination of the deceased.

  The paper was filled with an unusually large number of inquests resulting in verdicts of murder, manslaughter, or with undetermined cause of death. It appeared that Jack the Ripper and the High Rip Gang were growing increasingly out-of-hand and the authorities were powerless against them. Several pages also decried the recent rise in attacks on farm animals in the surrounding areas. The suspected culprit was a feral pack of Bulldogs which were running wild and terrorizing the countryside.

  He grimaced, tore the paper in two, and flung the pieces away. How horrid the whole matter was. But at least no one suspected his involvement. What had Dorian Gray to do with her death? He had not been the one that had killed her.

  As was to be expected, the inquest came to nothing. Everyone moved forward with their lives as did the ever-changing seasons. Dorian glorified in the experiences of life and the many pleasures that it had to offer him. Whenever a strange rumor about his conduct surfaced in the chatter of London clubs, it was quickly dismissed and explained away by those who saw his perfect, unblemished face.

  Those who spoke evil against Dorian Gray fell silent whenever he entered the room. The unassailable purity of his visage provided the strongest rebuke that could be made. His very demeanor recalled a memory of innocence and replaced the tarnished one which flew behind closed doors like a specter of whispered conversations. It caused bewilderment that one so charming and graceful could so elegantly escape the stain of age. He was immune to the growing dread that others felt amongst all the violence and uncertainty.

  Those who thought themselves his friends increasingly noticed Dorian’s disappearances, leaving them to ruminate on the cause of such mysterious and prolonged absences. The nature of these forays gave rise to much conjecture by all in society. Upon returning, Dorian would creep upstairs to the locked room. He could often be seen wearing a key on a fashioned silver chain around his neck. These days it never left his sight. He would stand in front of the portrait that Sage had painted and stare at it for hours. He grew more enamored of his own beauty and more intrigued in the corruption of his own soul.

  Many a sleepless night passed in his delicately scented bedchamber, or in some fetid, sordid room of a tavern by the docks. He would think on the ruin that he had brought upon his soul and the curiosity of life—which increased with each gratification he indulged in. The more knowledge he possessed, the more he desired. He had taken to using assumed names and disguises when he frequented various dens of iniquity so that his secrets could stay just that. But his mad hungers continued to grow more ravenous the more that they were fed.

  He would try to strike a sort of balance. Once or twice a week, Dorian would open his elegant home to the world and throw lavish parties. He invited the most celebrated musicians and renowned artists. Lady Helena was always quick to assist in any preparations that were needed. An invitation to such an event was most coveted. This was particularly the case among the very young women who viewed Dorian Gray as the ultimate realization of scholarly culture and distinction. To them he was a true citizen of the world.

  His fancy dictated all the hottest trends in the arts and fashion. His uncommon mode of dress and unique style could be marked on all the young exquisites of the Mayfair balls. They copied him in club windows in every way—yet they always fell half-short when trying to reproduce his accidental charm and unintentional grace.

  He began to gather to himself all things of beauty and rarity. This included alluring jewels, delicate silks, sophisticated perfumes, rare works of art, exquisite furniture, renowned musical instruments, ancient manuscripts, archaic scrolls, imported pieces from faraway lands, coveted textile and embroidered works, rich tapestries, faded frescoes, and all types of lattice and vermilion and gold. These he pursued with gusto and lost himself in the pursuit.

  He would have some measure of joy for a short time, as he examined a new item that he had come to possess. But always Dorian would grow saddened by thinking of the ruin that time would bring to these beautiful and wondrous things. Somehow he had managed to escape the effects of time. They would fade and turn to dust while he remained the same. Summer followed summer, the nights of horror and degradation repeated—but he was always unchanged.

  After Dorian passed his thirty-fifth year, curious accounts of his activities began to emerge. These placed him in company with shifty sailors, wanted thieves, and deceitful coiners in the low dens of Whitechapel. He was nearly blackballed at the West End club. On one occasion, while entering the smoking-room of the Churchill, the Duke of Berwick got up in a most marked manner and went out very abruptly. Dorian’s absences from society became notorious. Men would mutter to each other in corners or pass him with a sneer of contempt set upon their face. Others would look at him with cold, searching eyes as if in an attempt to uncover his secrets.

  Of course, Dorian took no notice of such slights and the petty insolence of others. His frank manner, boyish smile, and infinite youth were sufficient answer to any whispers that circulated around him. However, it was remarked that some of those with whom Dorian had seemed most intimate appeared after a time to shun him completely. Women who had once wildly adored him and had thrown caution and social convention to the wind for his sake, were now seen to grow pale with horror or red with shame whenever Dorian Gray entered the room.

  Despite that, these m
inor scandals only increased his flourishing fame. Along with his apparently vast wealth, it only served to cement him as a requisite element of society. A Civilized society can never really believe anything too detrimental of the rich and fascinating. For they understand that good manners are vastly more important than good morals. They are far more likely never to forgive a man who throws a boring party, serves cheap wine, or prepares a tasteless dinner. Too many were enamored with Dorian Gray’s opinions on life. He often expressed that life was really a mixture of multiple lives. It was a myriad of sensations, strange legacies of thought and passions, and with everything including the very flesh—tainted by the lives of the dead who came before us.

  Chapter 18.

  The Fog

  On the ninth of November, Dorian was walking home near eleven o’clock at night after dining with Lady Helena. He was wrapped in heavy furs against the frigid and foggy night. The street was veiled in a weighty mist, the streetlights glowing in blanketed orbs of grey. They cast strange silhouettes on the swirling vapor that hovered above the ground. As he moved along, unable to see but a few feet ahead, he had the strange sensation that he was being followed. There was a familiarity to the presence that he couldn’t quite place. A sense of instinctual fear came over him, which he quickly dismissed. Any miscreant would also be swallowed in the enveloping white shroud and would find his path difficult, if not impossible, to track.

  At the corner of Grosvenor Square and South Audley Street, a woman passed him in the haze. She was wearing a mink coat and walking very quickly by with a heavy cowhide bag in her hand. Though blurry in the fog, he recognized the gait and dress of the woman. It could belong to none other than his estranged friend, Sage. Dorian made no sign of recognition but went hurriedly on in the direction of his own house, hoping he had not also been recognized in the gloom. But she had seen him. Her footsteps stopped on the pavement about a meter after they passed each other and then the sound turned and began hurrying after him. In a few moments her hand was on his arm.