The Collaborators | Page 7

had a
quite abnormal power of making it appear true and real.
"She looks at him, and then she bursts out laughing. Her eyes shine
with triumph. She is glad; she is joyous with the joy of a lost soul when
it sees that other souls are irrevocably lost too; she laughs, and she says
nothing."
"And the man?"
Andrew's eyes suddenly dilated. He leaned forward and laid his hand
on Henley's arm.
"Ah, the man! that is my great idea. As she laughs his heart is changed.
His love for her suddenly dies. 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