George felt like a man who has committed himself to take part in some public competition although not properly prepared for the contest, and during the night that succeeded his last meeting with Constance he slept little. He had promised to write a book. That was bad enough, considering that he felt so little fitted for the task. But, at least, if he had undertaken to finish the work, revise it and polish it and eliminate all the errors he could discover before bringing it to Miss Fearing in its final shape, he could have comforted himself with the thought that the first follies he committed would be known only to himself. He had promised, however, to read the chapters to Constance as he wrote them, one by one, and the thought filled him with dismay. The charming prospect of numberless meetings with her was marred by the fear of being ridiculous in her eyes. It was for her alone that the book was to be written. It would be a failure and he would not even attempt to publish it, but the certainty that the public would not witness his discomfiture brought no consolation with it. Better a thousand times to be laughed at by the critics than to see a pained look of disappointment in Constance’s eyes. Nevertheless he considered his promise sacred, and, after all, it was Constance who had driven him to make it. He had protested his incapacity as well as he could. She would see that he had been right and would acknowledge the wisdom of waiting a little longer before making the great attempt.

At first, he felt as though he were in a nightmare, in a dim labyrinth from which he had pledged himself to find an escape in a given time. His nerves, for the first time in his life, played him false. He grew suddenly hot, and then as suddenly cold again. Attempting to fix his imagination, monstrous faces presented themselves before his eyes in the dark, and he heard fragments of conversation in which there were long sentences that meant nothing. He lit a candle and sat up in bed, clasping his forehead with his long, smooth fingers, and beginning to feel that he knew what despair really meant.

This then was the result of years of preparation, of patient practice with the pen, of thoughtful reading and careful study. He had always felt that he lacked the imagination necessary for producing a novel, and now he felt sure of it. Johnson had told him that he was no critic, and he had believed Johnson, because Johnson was himself the best critic he knew. What then was he? A writer of short papers and articles. Yes, he could do that. How easily now, at this very moment, could he think of half a dozen subjects for such work, and how neatly he could put them into shape, develop them in a certain number of pages and polish them to the proper degree of brilliancy!

The morning dawned and found him still searching and beating his brain for a subject. As the light increased he felt more and more nervous. It was not in his nature to put off the beginning upon which he had determined, and he knew that on that day he must write the first words of his first book, or forfeit his self-respect for ever. There was an eminently comic side to the situation, but he could not see it. His dread of being ridiculous in the eyes of the woman he loved was great enough to keep him from contemplating the absurdity of his case. His sensations became intolerable; he felt like a doomed man awaiting his execution, whose only chance of a reprieve lay in inventing a plot for a novel. He could bear it no longer, and he got out of bed and opened his window. The fresh air of the May morning rushed in and suddenly filled the room with sweetness and his excited brain with a new sense of possibilities. He sat down at his table without thinking of dressing himself, and took up his pen. A sheet of paper lay ready before him, and the habit of writing was strong in itself—too strong to be resisted. In a few minutes that white sheet would be covered with words that would mean something, and those words would be the beginning of his book, of the novel he was about to write but of the contents of which he had not the remotest conception. This was not the way he had anticipated the commencement of the work that was to lay the first stone of his reputation. He had fancied himself sitting down to that first page, calm and collected, armed with a plot already thoroughly elaborated, charmed beforehand with the characters of his own invention, carried away from the first by the spirit of the action, cheered at every page by the certainty of success, because failure was to have been excluded by the multiplicity of his precautions. And here he was, without an idea in his brain or the least subject for an excuse, beginning a romance which was to be judged step by step by the person of all others most dear to him.

George dipped his pen into the ink a second time and then glanced at the calendar. It was the fifth of May.

“Well,” he said aloud, “there is luck in odd numbers. Here goes my first novel!”

And thereupon, to his own great surprise, he began writing rapidly. He did not know what was coming, he hardly knew whether his hero had black hair or brown, and as for the heroine, he had not thought of her at all. But the hero was himself and was passing a night of great anxiety and distress in a small room, in a small house, in the city of New York. The reason of his anxiety and distress was a profound secret as yet, because George had not invented it, but there was no difficulty in depicting his state of mind. The writer had just spent that very night himself, and was describing it while the sun was yet scarcely risen. He chuckled viciously as he drove his pen along the lines and wrote out the ready phrases that rushed into his brain. It was inexpressibly comic to be giving all the details of his hero’s suffering without having the smallest idea of what caused it; but, as he went on, he found that his silence upon this important point was lending an uncanny air of mystery to his first chapter, and his own interest was unexpectedly aroused.

It seemed strange, too, to find himself at liberty to devote as much space as he pleased to the elaboration of details that attracted his attention, and to feel that he was not limited in space as he had hitherto been in all he wrote. Of course, when he stopped to think of what he was to do next, he was as much convinced as ever that nothing could come of his attempt beyond this first chapter. The whole affair was like a sort of trial gallop over the paper, and doubtless when he read over what he had written he would be convinced of its worthlessness. He remembered his first fiery article upon the critics, and the wholesale cutting and pruning it had required before he could even submit it to Johnson. Then, however, he had written under the influence of anger; now, he was conscious of a new pleasure in every sentence, his ideas came smoothly to the surface and his own language had a freshness which he did not recognise. In old times he had studied the manner of great writers in the attempt to improve his own, and his style had been subject to violent attacks of Carlyle and to lucid intervals of Macaulay, he had worshipped at Ruskin’s exquisite shrine and had offered incense in Landor’s classic temple, he had eaten of Thackeray’s salt and had drunk long draughts from Dickens’s loving-cup. Perhaps each had produced its effect, but now he was no longer conscious of receiving influence from any of them. For the first time in his life he was himself, for better, for worse, to fail or to succeed. His soul and his consciousness expanded together in a new and intoxicating life, as he struck those first reckless strokes in the delicious waters of the unknown.

He forgot everything, dress, breakfast, his father, the time of day and the time of year, and when he rose from his seat he had written the first chapter of his novel. For some occult reason he had stopped suddenly and dropped his pen. He knew instinctively that he had reached his first halting-place, and he paused for breath, left the table and went to the window. To his astonishment the sun was already casting shadows in the little brick yard, and he knew that it must be past noon. He looked at himself and saw that he was not dressed, then he looked at his watch and found that it was one o’clock. He rubbed his eyes, for it had all been like a dream, like a vision of fairyland, like a night spent at the play. On the table lay many pages of closely-written matter, numbered and neatly put together by sheer force of habit. He hardly knew what they contained, and he was quite unable to recall the words that opened the first paragraph. But he knew the last sentence by heart, for it was still ringing in his brain, and strange to say, he knew what was to come next, though he seemed not to have known it so long as he held his pen. While he dressed himself the whole book, confused in its details but clear in its general outline, presented itself to his contemplation, and he knew that he should write it as he saw it. It would assuredly not be a good novel, it would never be published, and he was wasting his time, but it would be a book, and he should keep his promise to Constance. He went downstairs and found his father at luncheon, with a newspaper beside him.

“Well, George,” said the old gentleman, “I thought you were never going to get up.”

“I am not quite sure that I have been to bed,” answered the young man. “But I know that I have been writing since it was daylight and have had no breakfast.”

“That is a bad way of beginning the day,” said Jonah Wood, shaking his head. “You will derange your digestion by these habits. It is idle to try such experiments on the human frame.”

“It was quite an unwilling experiment. I forgot all about eating. I had some work that had to be done and so I put it through.”

“More articles?” inquired his father with kindly interest.

“I believe I am writing a book,” said George. “It is a new sensation and very exhilarating, but I cannot tell you anything about it till I have got on with it further.”

“A book, eh? Well, I wish you success, George. I hope you are well prepared and that you will do nothing hasty or ill considered.”

“No, indeed!” exclaimed George with a laugh.

Hasty and ill considered! Could any two epithets better describe the way in which he had gone to work? What rubbish it would be when it was finished, he thought, as he attacked the cold meat and pickles. He realised that he was desperately hungry, and unaccountably gay considering that he anticipated a total failure, and it was surprising that while he believed that he had been producing trash he should be in such a hurry to finish his meal in order to produce more. Nothing, however, seemed to be of the slightest importance, except to write as fast as he could in order to have plenty of manuscript to read to Constance at the first opportunity.

That night before going to bed he sat down in a comfortable chair, lit a pipe and read over what he had written. It must be very poor stuff, of course, he considered, because he had turned it out so quickly; but he experienced one of the great pleasures of his life in reading it over. The phrases sent thrills of satisfaction through him and his hand trembled as he took up one sheet after another. It was strange that he should be able to take such delight in what must manifestly be so bad. But, bad or not, the thing was alive, and the characters were his companions, whispering in his ear the words that they were to speak, and bringing with them their individual atmospheres, while a sort of secondary and almost unconscious imagination performed the scene-shifting in a smooth and masterly fashion.

Three days later, he sat beside Constance Fearing upon a wooden bench in a retired nook in Central Park. The weather was gloriously beautiful, and the whole world smelt of violets and sunshine. Everything was fresh and peaceful, and the stillness was broken only by the voices of laughing children who played together a hundred yards away from where the pair were sitting.

“And now, begin,” said Constance eagerly, as George produced his folded manuscript.

“It is horrible stuff,” he said. “I had really much rather not read it.”

“Shall I go away?”

“No.”

“Then read!”

A great wave of timidity came over the young man in that moment. He could not account for it, for he had often read to Constance the manuscript of his short articles. But this seemed very different. He let the folded sheets rest on his knee, and gazed into the distance, seeing nothing and wishing that he might sink through the earth into his own room. To judge from the sensation in his throat, he would not be able to read at all. Then all at once, he grew cold. He had undertaken to do this thing and he must carry it through, come what might. Constance would not laugh at him, and she would be just. He wished that she were Johnson, for it would be easier.

“I am waiting,” she said with a gentle smile. George laughed.

“I never was so frightened in my life,” he said. “I know what stage fright is, now.”

Constance looked at him, and she liked his timidity more than she had often liked his boldness. She felt that she loved him a little more than before. Her voice was very soft when she spoke.

“Are you afraid of me, dear?” she asked.

The blood came to George’s face. It was the first time she had ever used an endearing expression in speaking to him.

“Not since you have said that,” he answered, opening the sheets.

He read the first chapter, and she did not interrupt him. Occasionally he glanced at her face. It was very grave and thoughtful, and he could not guess what was passing in her mind.

“That is the end of the first chapter,” he said at last. “Do you like it?”

“Go on!” she exclaimed quickly without heeding his question.

George did as he was bidden and read on to the end of what he had brought. Whatever Constance might think of the work, she was evidently anxious to hear it, and this fact at least gave him a little courage. When he had finished, he folded up the sheets quickly and returned them to his pocket, without looking at his companion’s face. He did not dare ask her again for her opinion and he waited for her to speak. But she said nothing and leaned back in her seat, apparently contemplating the trees.

“Would you like to walk a little?” George asked in an unsteady voice. He now took it for granted that she was not pleased.

“Do you want to know what I think of your three chapters?”

“Yes, please,” he answered nervously.

“They are very, very good. They are as much better than anything you have ever done before, as champagne is better than soda-water.”

“Not really!” George exclaimed in genuine and overwhelming surprise. “You are not in earnest?”

“Indeed I am,” Constance answered, with some impatience. “Do you think I would say such a thing if I were not sure of it? Do you not feel it yourself? Did you not know it when you were writing?”

“No—I thought, because it was written so fast it could not be worth much. Indeed, I think so still—I am afraid that you are——”

“Mistaken?”

“Perhaps—carried away because you like me, or because you think I ought to write well.”

“Nonsense. Promise me that you will not show this book to any one until it is quite finished. I want you to take my word for it, to believe in my judgment, because I know I am right. Will you?”

“Of course I will. To whom should I show it? I think I should be ashamed.”

“You need not be ashamed if you go on in that way. When will you have written more?”

“Give me three days—that will give you three chapters at least and take you well into the story. You are not going out of town yet.”

“I shall not go until it is finished,” said Constance with great determination. She had made up her mind that George would write better if he wrote very fast, and she meant to urge him to do his utmost.

“But that may take a long time,” he objected.

“No it will not,” she answered. “You would not keep me in New York when it is too hot, would you?”

“I will do my best,” said George.

He kept his word and three weeks later he sat in his room, in the small hours of the morning, writing the last page of his first novel. He was in a state of indescribable excitement, though he seemed to be no longer thinking at all. The pen seemed to do the work of itself and he followed the words that appeared so quickly with a feverish interest. He had not the least idea how it would all look when it was done, but something told him that it was being done in the right way. His hand flew from side to side of the paper, and then stopped suddenly, why, he could not tell. It was not possible that there should be nothing more to say, no more to add, not one word to make the completion more complete. He collected his thoughts and read the page over carefully to the end. No—there was nothing wanting, and one word more would spoil the conclusion.

“I do not understand why, I am sure,” he said to himself. “But that is the end, and there is no doubt about it. So here it goes! George—Winton—Wood—May 29th.”

He pushed the sheet away from him. Rather theatrical, he thought, to sign his name to it, as though it were a real book, and as though the manuscript were worth keeping. He had done it all to please Constance, and Constance was pleased. In twenty-four days he had concocted a novel—and he had never in his life enjoyed twenty-four days so much. That was because he had seen Constance so often and because this wretched scroll had amused her. Would she like the last three chapters? Of course she would. He would take her the whole manuscript and make her a present of it. That was all it could be good for. To publish such stuff would be folly, even if any publisher could be found to abet such madness. On the whole, he would prefer to throw the whole into the fire. Nobody could tell. He might be famous some day in the far future, and then when he was dead and gone and could not interfere any longer, some abominable literary executor would get hold of this thing and print it, and show the world what an egregious ass the celebrated George Winton Wood had been when he was a very young man. But Constance could have it if she liked, on condition that it was never shown to anybody.

Thereupon George tumbled into bed and slept soundly until ten o’clock on the following morning, when he gathered up his manuscript, tied it up into a neat bundle and went to meet Constance at their accustomed trysting-place in the Park.

There were some very striking passages towards the conclusion of the book, and George read them as well as he could. Indeed as many of the best speeches were put into the mouth of the hero and were supposed to be addressed to the lady of his affections, George found it very natural to speak them to Constance and to give them a very tender emphasis. It was clear, too, that Constance understood the real intention of the love-making and, to all appearance, appreciated it, for the colour came and went softly in her face, and there was sometimes a little moisture in her eyes and sometimes a light that is not caused by mere interest in an everyday novel. George wrote better than he talked, as many men do who are born writers. There was music in his phrases, but it was the music of pure nature and not the rhythm of a studied prose. That was what most struck the attention of the young girl who sat beside him, drinking in the words which she knew were meant for her, and which she felt were more beautiful than anything she had heard before.

To tell the truth, though she had spoken her admiration very frankly and forcibly, she was beginning to doubt her own ability to judge of the work. If George’s talent were really as great as it now seemed to her, how had it remained concealed so long? There had been nothing to compare with this in his numerous short writings. Was this because they had not been addressed to herself, or was it for this very reason that his novel was so much more fascinating? Or was it really because he had at last found out his strength and was beginning to use it like a giant? She could not tell. She confessed to herself that she had assumed much in setting up her judgment as a standard for him in the matter. The more he had read, the more she had been amazed at his knowledge of things and men, at his easy versatility and at the power he displayed in the more dramatic parts of the book. Of one thing she felt sure. The book would be read and would be liked by the class of people with whom she associated. What the critics might think or say about it was another matter.

She had been prepared for something well done at the last, but she had not anticipated the ending—that ending which had so much surprised the writer himself in his inexperience of his own powers. His voice trembled as he read the last page, and he was not even conscious of being ashamed of showing so much feeling about the creatures of his imagination. He was aware, as in a dream that Constance’s small hand was tightly clasped in his while he was reading, and then, as his voice ceased, he felt her head resting against his shoulder.

She was looking down and he could only see that there was colour in her face, but as he gazed at the tiny fair curls that were just visible to him, he saw a crystal tear fall upon his rough sleeve and glisten in the May sunlight.

“You have dropped one of your diamonds,” he said, softly. “Is it for me—or for the man in the book?”

She looked up into his face with a happy smile.

“You should know best,” she answered.

Her face was very near to his, and though his came nearer, she did not draw hers away. George forgot the nurses and the children in the distance. If all his assembled acquaintances had been drawn up in ranks before him, he would have forgotten their presence too. His lips touched her cheek, not timidly, nor roughly either, though he felt for one moment that his blood was on fire. Then she drew back quickly and took her hand from his.

“It is very wrong of me,” she said. “Perhaps I shall never love you enough for that.”

“How can you say so? Was it for the man in the book, then, after all?”

“I do not know—forget it. It may come some day——”

“Is it nearer than it was? Is it any nearer?” George asked, very tenderly.

“I do not know. I am very foolish. Your book moved me I suppose—it is so grand, that last part, where he tells her the truth, and she sees how noble he has been all through.”

“I am glad you have liked it so much. It was written to amuse you, and it has done that, at all events. So here it is. Do you care to keep it?”

Constance looked at him in surprise, not understanding what he meant.

“Of course I want it,” she answered. “After it is printed give it back to me.”

“Printed!” exclaimed George, contemptuously. “Do you think anybody would publish it? Do you really think I would offer it to anybody?”

“You are not serious,” said the young girl, staring at him.

“Indeed I am in earnest. Do you believe a novel can be dashed off in that way, in three or four weeks and be good for anything? Why, it needs six months at least to write a book!”

“What do you call this?” Constance asked, growing suddenly cold and taking the manuscript from his hands.

“Not a book, certainly. It is a scrawl of some sort, a little better than a dime novel, a little poorer than the last thrilling tale in a cheap weekly. Whatever it is, it is not a publishable story.”

Constance could not believe her ears. She did not know whether to be angry at his persistent contempt of her opinion, or to be frightened at the possibility of his being right.

“We cannot both be right,” she said at last, with sudden energy. “One of us two must be an idiot—an absolute idiot—and—well, I would rather not think that I am the one, you know.”

George laughed and tried to take the manuscript back, but she held it behind her and faced him.

“What are you going to do with it?” he asked, when he saw that she was determined to keep it.

“I will not tell you. Did you not say you had written it for me?”

“Yes, but for you alone.”

“Not at all. It is my property, and I will make any use of it I like.”

“Please do not show it to any one,” he said very earnestly.

“I promise nothing. It is mine to dispose of as I see fit.”

“Let me look over it at least—I am sure it is full of bad English, and there are lots of words left out, and the punctuation is erratic. Give me that chance.”

“No. I will not. You can do it on the proof. You are always telling me of what you do on the proofs of things.”

“Constance! For Heaven’s sake give it back to me and think no more about it.”

“Do you love me?”

“You know I do——”

“And do you want me to love you?—I may, you know.”

“I want nothing else—but, Constance, I beg of you——”

“Then apply your gigantic intellect to the contemplation of what concerns you. To be short, mind your own business, and go home.”

“Please——”

“If you are not gone before I count five, I shall hate you. I am beginning—one—two——”

“Well, there is one satisfaction,” said George, abandoning the contest, “if you send it to a publisher to read, you will never see it again, nor hear of it.”

“I will stand over him while he reads it,” said Constance, laughing. “If you are good you can take me to the carriage—if not, go away.”

George walked by her side and helped her into the brougham that waited for her a short distance from the place where they had sat. He was utterly overcome by the novelty of the situation and did not even attempt to speak.

“It is a great book,” said Constance, speaking through the open window after he had shut the door. “Tell him to go home.”

“I do not care a straw what it is, so long as it has pleased you. Home, John!”

“Yes sir.”

And away the carriage rolled. Constance had not determined what she should do with her prize, but she was not long in making up her mind. George had often spoken of his friend Johnson, and had shown her articles written by him. It struck her that he would be the very person to whom she might apply for help. George would never suspect her of having gone to him and, from all accounts, he was an extremely reticent and judicious personage. She told the coachman to drive her to the office of the newspaper to which Johnson belonged and to beguile the time she began to read the manuscript over again from the beginning. When the carriage stopped she did not know that she had been driving for more than an hour since she had left George standing in the road in the Park.