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The Collaborators
by
“It is the behaviour of a woman,” said Andrew, with a cold cynicism that seemed to cut like a knife.
“How can you tell? How can you judge of women so surely?”
“I study all strange phenomena, women among the rest.”
“Have you ever met an Olive Beauchamp, then, in real life?” said Henley.
The question was put more than half in jest; but Trenchard received it with a heavy frown.
“Don’t let us quarrel about the matter,” he said, “I can only tell you this; and mind, Jack, I mean it. It is my unalterable resolve. Either the story must proceed upon the lines that I have indicated, or I cannot go on with it at all. It would be impossible for me to write it differently.”
“And this is collaboration, is it?” exclaimed the other, trying to force a laugh, though even his good-nature could scarcely stand Trenchard’s trampling demeanour.
“I can’t help it. I cannot be inartistic and untrue to Nature even for the sake of a friend.”
“Thank you. Well, I have no desire to ruin your work, Andrew; but it is really useless for this farce to continue. Do what you like, and let us make no further pretence of collaborating. I cannot act as a drag upon such a wheel as yours. I will not any longer be a dead-weight upon you. Our temperaments evidently unfit us to be fellow-workers; and I feel that your strength and power are so undeniable that you may, perhaps, be able to carry this weary tragedy through, and by sheer force make it palatable to the public. I will protest no more; I will only cease any longer to pretend to have a finger in this literary pie.”
Andrew’s morose expression passed away like a cloud. He got up and laid his hand upon Henley’s shoulder.
“You make me feel what a beast I am,” he said. “But I can’t help it. I was made so. Do forgive me, Jack. I have taken the bit between my teeth, I know. But–this story seems to me no fiction; it is a piece of life, as real to me as those stars I see through the window-pane are real to me–as my own emotions are real to me. Jack, this book has seized me. Believe me, if it is written as I wish, it will make an impression upon the world that will be great. The mind of the world is given to me like a sheet of blank paper. I will write upon it with my heart’s blood. But”–and here his manner became strangely impressive, and his sombre, heavy eyes gazed deeply into the eyes of his friend–“remember this! You will finish this book. I feel that; I know it. I cannot tell you why. But so it is ordained. Let me write as far as I can, Jack, and let me write as I will. But do not let us quarrel. The book is ours, not mine. And–don’t–don’t take away your friendship from me.”
The last words were said with an outburst of emotion that was almost feminine in intensity. Henley felt deeply moved, for, as a rule, Andrew’s manner was not specially affectionate, or even agreeable.
“It is all right, old fellow,” he said, in the embarrassed English manner which often covers so much that might with advantage be occasionally revealed. “Go on in your own way. I believe you are a genius, and I am only trying to clip the wings that may carry you through the skies. Go on in your own way, and consult me only when you feel inclined.”
Andrew took his hand and pressed it in silence.
III.
It was some three weeks after this that one afternoon Trenchard laid down his pen at the conclusion of a chapter, and, getting up, thrust his hands into his pockets and walked to the window.
The look-out was rather dreary. A gray sky leaned over the great, barrack-like church that gives an ecclesiastical flavour to Smith’s Square. A few dirty sparrows fluttered above the gray pavement–feverish, unresting birds, Trenchard named them silently, as he watched their meaningless activity, their jerky, ostentatious deportment, with lacklustre, yet excited, eyes. How gray everything looked, tame, colourless, indifferent! The light was beginning to fade stealthily out of things. The gray church was gradually becoming shadowy. The flying forms of the hurrying sparrows disappeared in the weary abysses of the air and sky. The sitting-room in Smith’s Square was nearly dark now. Henley had gone out to a matinee at one of the theatres, so Trenchard was alone. He struck a match presently, lit a candle, carried it over to his writing-table, and began to examine the littered sheets he had just been writing. The book was nearing its end. The tragedy was narrowing to a point. Trenchard read the last paragraph which he had written: