The Collaborators | Page 7

Its place is taken by hatred. He realizes then, for the first time, while he hears her laugh, what she has done to him. He knows that she has ruined him, and that she is proud of it--that she is rejoicing in having won him to destruction. He sees that his perdition is merely a feather in her cap. He hates her. Oh, how he hates her!--hates her!"
The expression on Andrew's face became terrible as he spoke--cruel, malignant, almost fiendish. Henley turned cold, and shook off his hand abruptly.
"That is horrible!" he said. "I object to that. The book will be one of unrelieved gloom."
"The book!" said Andrew.
"Yes. You behave really as if the story were true, as if everything in it were ordained--inevitable."
"It seems so to me; it is so. What must be, must be. If you are afraid of tragedy, you ought never to have joined me in starting upon such a story. Even what has never happened must be made to seem actual to be successful. The art of fiction is to imitate truth with absolute fidelity, not to travesty it. In such circumstances the man's love would be changed to hatred."
"Yes, if the woman's demeanour were such as you have described. But why should she be so callous? I do not think that is natural."
"You do not know the woman," began Andrew harshly. Then he stopped speaking abruptly, and a violent flush swept over his face.
"I know her as well as you do, my dear fellow," rejoined Henley, laughing. "How you manage to live in your dreams! You certainly do create an atmosphere for yourself with a vengeance, and for me too. I believe you have an abnormal quantity of electricity concealed about you somewhere, and sometimes you give me a shock and carry me out of myself. If this is collaboration, it is really a farce. From the very first you have had things all your own way. You have talked me over to your view upon every single occasion; but now I am going to strike. I object to the conduct you have devised for Olive. It will alienate all sympathy from her; it is the behaviour of a devil."
"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