“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.”