The Early Ayn Rand Read Online Free PDF Page B

Dahlen. I was not astonished. I approached the study door calmly and listened, looking through the keyhole. She was there. I saw her long, bright-green silk shawl on a tan suit. She was perfectly beautiful.
    I heard Henry’s voice: “Once more, I ask you to leave my house, Mrs. Van Dahlen. I do not want to see you. Do you not understand this?”
    “No, I don’t, Mr. Stafford,” she answered. She looked at him with half-closed eyes. “You are a coward,” she said slowly.
    He made a step towards her and I saw him. His face was white and, even from the distance where I was, I could see his lips tremble.
    “Go away,” he said in a strangled voice.
    She opened her eyes wholly then. They had a strange look of passion, command, and immense tenderness, that she tried to hide. “Henry . . .” she said slowly, and her voice seemed velvet like her body.
    “Mrs. Van Dahlen . . .” he muttered, stepping back.
    She approached him more. “You cannot fight . . . I love you, Henry! . . . I want you!”
    He was unable to speak. She continued, with a haughty, lightly mocking smile: “You love me and you know it, as well as I. Will you dare to deny it?”
    There was torture in his eyes that I could not look upon; and, as though he felt it, he covered them with his hand. “Why did you come here!” he groaned.
    She smiled. “Because I want you!” she answered. “Because I love you, Henry, I love you!” She slowly put her hands on his shoulders. “Tell me, Henry, do you love me?” she whispered.
    He tore his hand from his eyes. “Yes! . . . Yes! . . . Yes! . . .” he cried. He seized her wildly in his arms and pressed his lips to hers with a desperate greediness.
    I was not stricken. There was nothing new for me in all this. But to see him kiss her—it was hard. I closed my eyes. That was all.
    “I expected it long ago,” she said at last, with her arms embracing him more passionately than she wanted to show.
    But he pushed her aside, suddenly and resolutely. “You will never see me again,” he said sternly.
    “I will see you tonight,” she answered. “I will wait for you at nine o’clock at the Excelsior.”
    “I shall not come!”
    “You shall!”
    “Never! . . . Never!”
    “I ask you a favor, Henry. . . . Till nine o’clock!” And she walked out of the study. I had just time to throw myself behind a curtain.
    When I looked into his room again, Henry had fallen on a chair, his head in his hands. I saw all his despair in the fingers that clutched his hair convulsively.
    I had found my opportunity. Now—I had to act.
    I went to my room, took off my hat and overcoat. I moved towards the door, to go downstairs, to Henry . . . and begin. Then I stopped. “Do you realize,” I muttered to myself, “do you understand whom and what you are going to lose?” I opened my mouth to take a breath.
    There was a photograph of Henry on my table, the best he had ever taken. There was an inscription on it: “To my Irene—Henry—Forever.” I approached it. I fell on my knees. I looked at it with a silent prayer. “Henry . . . Henry . . .” I whispered. I had no voice to say more. I asked him for the strength to do what I had to do.
    Then I arose and walked downstairs.
    “Henry,” I said, entering his room, “I have received a letter from Mrs. Cowan. She is ill and I am going to visit her.” Mrs. Cowan was an old acquaintance that lived in a little town four hours’ ride from ours. I visited her very rarely.
    “I would not like you to go,” answered Henry, tenderly passing his hand on my forehead. “You look pale and tired; you must need a rest.”
    “I am perfectly well,” I answered. “I shall be back tomorrow morning.”
    I had a telephone in my room, and Henry could not hear me talk. At seven o’clock I called Gerald Gray. “Mr. Gray,” I said, “would you be at half past eight at the Excelsior?”
    “W-what? . . . Oh! Mrs. Stafford!” he muttered in the telephone, losing his perfect countenance