Page 209 of 490

One thing, however, he felt that it had done for him. It had made

him conscious how unjust, how cruel, he had been to Sibyl Vane.

It was not too late to make reparation for that. She could still

be his wife. His unreal and selfish love would yield to some

higher influence, would be transformed into some nobler passion,

and the portrait that Basil Hallward had painted of him would be

a guide to him through life, would be to him what holiness is to

some, and conscience to others, and the fear of God to us all.

There were opiates for remorse, drugs that could lull the moral

sense to sleep. But here was a visible symbol of the degradation

of sin. Here was an ever-present sign of the ruin men brought

upon their souls.