“My doubt has kept me awake so many nights!” he said, and his voice was rather husky and worn.
Henley looked at him almost compassionately.
“How intensely you live in your fancies!”
“My fancies?” said Andrew, with a sudden harsh accent, and darting a glance of curious watchfulness upon his friend. “My—— Yes, yes. Perhaps I do. Perhaps I try to. Some people have souls that must escape from their environment, their miserable life-envelope, or faint. Many of us labour and produce merely to create an atmosphere in which we ourselves may breathe for awhile and be happy. Damn this London, and this lodging, and this buying bread with words! I must create for myself an atmosphere. I must be always getting away from what is, even if I go lower, lower. Ah! Well—but the dénouement. Give me your impressions.”
Henley meditated for awhile. Then he said; “Let us leave it. Let us get to work; and in time, as the story progresses, it will seem inevitable. We shall see it in front of us, and we shall not be able to avoid it. Let us get to work”—he glanced at his watch and laughed—“or, rather, let us get to bed. It is past four. This way madness lies. When we collaborate, we will write in the morning. Our book shall be a book of the dawn, and not of the darkness, despite its sombre theme.”
“No, no; it must be a book of the darkness.”
“Of the darkness, then, but written in the dawn. Your tragedy tempered by my trust in human nature, and the power that causes things to right themselves. Good-night, old boy.”
“Good-night.”
When Henley had left the room, Tren-chard sat for a moment with his head sunk low on his breast and his eyes half closed. Then, with a jerk, he gained his feet, went to the door, opened it, and looked forth on the deserted landing. He listened, and heard Henley moving to and fro in his bedroom. Then he shut the door, took off his smoking-coat, and bared his left arm. There was a tiny blue mark on it.
“What will the dénouement be?” he whispered to himself, as he felt in his waistcoat pocket with a trembling hand.