FullReads

*****

So far the two young men had written. They worked hard, but their industry was occasionally interrupted by the unaccountable laziness of Andrew, who, after toiling with unremitting fury for some days, and scarcely getting up from his desk, would disappear, and perhaps not return for several nights. Henley remonstrated with him, but in vain.

“But what do you do, my dear fellow?” he asked. “What becomes of you?”

“I go away to think out what is coming. The environment I seek helps me,” answered Andrew, with a curious, gleaming smile. “I return full of fresh copy.”

This was true enough. He generally mysteriously departed when the book was beginning to flag, and on his reappearance he always set to work with new vigour and confidence.

“It seems to me,” Henley said, “that it will be your book after all, not mine. It is your plot, and when I think things over I find that every detail is yours. You insisted on the house where the man and the woman hid themselves being on the Chelsea Embankment. You invented the woman, her character, her appearance. You named her Olive Beauchamp.”

“Olive Beauchamp,” Andrew repeated, with a strange lingering over the two words, which he pronounced in a very curious voice that trembled, as if with some keen emotion, love or hate. “Yes; I named her as you say.”

“Then, as the man in the play remarks, ‘Where do I come in?'” Henley asked, half laughing, half vexed. “Upon my word, I shall have some compunction in putting my name below yours on the title-page when the book is published, if it ever is.”

Andrew’s lips twitched once or twice uneasily. Then he said, “You need not have any such compunction. The greatest chapter will probably be written by you.”

“Which chapter do you mean?”

“That which winds the story up–that which brings the whole thing to its legitimate conclusion. You must write the denouement.”

“I doubt if I could. And then we have not even now decided what it is to be.”

“We need not bother about that yet. It will come. Fate will decide it for us.”

“What do you mean, Andrew? How curiously you talk about the book sometimes–so precisely as if it were true!”

Trenchard smiled again, struck a match, and lit his pipe.

“It seems true to me–when I am writing it,” he answered. “I have been writing it these last two days and nights when I have been away, and now I can go forward, if you agree to the new development which I suggest.”

It was night. He had been absent for some days, and had just returned. Henley, meanwhile, had been raging because the book had come to a complete standstill. He himself could do nothing at it, since they had reached a dead-lock, and had not talked over any new scenes, or mutually decided upon the turn events were now to take. He felt rather cross and sore.

“You can go forward,” he said: “yes, after your holiday. You might at least tell me when you are going.”

“I never know myself,” Andrew said rather sadly.

He was looking very white and worn, and his eyes were heavy.

“But I have thought some fresh material out. My idea is this: The man now becomes such a complete slave to the morphia habit that concealment of the fact is scarcely possible. And, indeed, he ceases to desire to conceal it from the woman. The next scene will be an immensely powerful one–that in which he tells her the truth.”

“You do not think it would be more natural if she found it out against his will? It seems to me that what he had concealed so long he would try to hide for ever.”

“No,” Andrew said emphatically; “that would not be so.”

“But—-“

“Look here,” the other interrupted, with some obvious irritability; “let me tell you what I have conceived, and raise any objections afterwards if you wish to raise them. He would tell her the truth himself. He would almost glory in doing so. That is the nature of the man. We have depicted his pride in his own powers, his temptation, his struggle–his fall, as it would be called—-“