The Early Ayn Rand by Ayn Rand Read Free Book Online Page B

her, or a victory that flattered her pride. It was a deep, great passion, the first in her life, perhaps. She was no “vamp.” She was a clever, noble, refined woman, as clever as she was beautiful. . . . He will be happy.
    I saw them together once. They were walking in the street. They were talking and smiling. She wore an elegant white suit. They looked perfectly happy.
    The town was indignant at our divorce, indignant with me, of course. I was not admitted in any house any more. Many persons did not greet me in the street. I noticed disdainful, mocking smiles, despising grins on the faces of persons that had been my friends. I met Mrs. Brogan once. She stopped and told me plainly, for she always said what she thought: “You dirty creature! Do you think nobody understands that you sold yourself for Gray’s money?” And Patsy Tillins approached me once in the street and said: “You’ve made a bad bargain, dearie: I wouldn’t have changed Henry Stafford for no one, from heaven to hell!”
    The day came when we got the divorce. . . . I was Irene Wilmer again; divorced for unfaithfulness to my husband. That was all.
    When Henry spoke to me about money that I might need, I refused to take anything and said cynically: “Mr. Gray has more money than you!”
    Gerald Gray was to leave for New York, just on the next day, to take a ship for Europe from there. I was to go with him.
    That evening, Mr. Barnes called upon me. He had been out of town for the last months and, returning only today, heard about everything. He came to me immediately. “Now, Irene,” he said very seriously, and his voice trembled in spite of him, “there is some terrible mistake in what I have heard. Would you tell me?”
    “Why, Mr. Barnes,” I answered calmly, “I don’t think there could be any mistake: I am divorced, just today.”
    “But . . . but . . . but is it really your fault? Are you really guilty?”
    “Well, if you call it guilty . . . I love Gerald Gray, that’s all.”
    His face grew red, purple, then white. He could not speak for some long minutes. “You . . . you don’t love your husband?” he muttered at last.
    “Henry Stafford, you mean? He is not my husband any longer. . . . No, I don’t love him.”
    “Irene . . .” He tried to speak calmly and there was a strange solemn strength in his voice. “Irene, it is not true. I will tell everybody that you could not have done it.”
    “I’m no saint.”
    He stepped back and his grayish old head shook piteously. “Irene,” he said again, and there was almost a plea in his voice, “you could not have traded a man like your husband for that silly snob.”
    “I did.”
    “You, Irene, you? I cannot believe it!”
    “Don’t. Who cares?”
    This was too much. He raised his head. “Then,” he said slowly, “I have nothing more to say. . . . Farewell, Irene.”
    “Bye-bye!” I answered with an indifferent insolence.
    I looked through the window, when he was going away. His poor old figure seemed more bent and heavy than ever. “Farewell, Mr. Barnes,” I whispered. “Farewell . . . and forgive me.”
    That night, the last night I spent in my home, I awoke very late. When all was silent in the house, I went noiselessly downstairs. I thought that I could not say farewell to Henry, tomorrow, and I wanted to say it. I cautiously opened the bedroom door: he was sleeping. I entered. I raised slightly the window curtain, to see him. I stood by his bed, that had been mine also. I looked at him. His face was calm and serene. The dark lashes of his closed eyes were immobile on his cheeks. His beautiful lips seemed carved of marble on his face, pale in the darkness. I did not dare to touch him. I put my hand slowly and cautiously on the pillow, near his head.
    Then I knelt down, by the bed. I could not kiss his lips; it would have awakened him. I took his hand cautiously and pressed it to my lips. “Henry,” I whispered, “you shall never know. And you must not know. Be