The Early Ayn Rand by Ayn Rand

happy, very happy. . . . And I shall go through life with one thing, one right only left to me: the right to say that I loved you, Henry . . . and the right to love you . . . till the end.” I kissed his hand with a long, long kiss.
    Then I arose, closed the curtain, and went out.
    It was a cold, gray day, the next and the last. There was a little chilly rain sometimes, and a wind that carried gray smoky clouds in the sky.
    The train was leaving our town at ten-fifteen P.M. Mr. Gray called me in the morning. He was radiant with joy. He wanted to come in the evening to bring me to the station. I refused. “Wait for me there,” I said shortly. “I shall come myself.”
    It was already dark and I sat in my room waiting. Waiting with such a despair that it astonished me, for I thought that I was unable to feel anything now. I waited for Henry. He was not at home. He must have gone to Claire, to spend with her the first day of his freedom. I could not say farewell to him, no; but I wanted to take a last look at him, the last one before going forever. And he was not there. . . . I sat by the window. It was cold, but I opened it. I watched the street. The roofs and pavement were wet and glittering. There were few passersby that walked rarely, with a nervous hurry, lonely, hopeless shadows in glittering raincoats. . . .
    It was nine-thirty. Henry had not come.
    I closed the window and took a little bag. I had not much to pack. I put some linen in it and one dress—my wedding dress, with the veil; I put in Henry’s photograph. It was all I took with me.
    When I was closing the bag, I heard a key turn in the entrance door and footsteps, his footsteps. He had come!
    I put on my hat and overcoat, took my bag. “I shall pass through the hall and open the door of his study a little. He will not notice and I shall take a look, just one look,” I thought.
    I went downstairs. I entered the hall and opened his door: the study was empty; he was not there. I took a deep breath and walked to the entrance door. I put my hand on the knob.
    “Irene, are you not going to say farewell to me?” I turned. It was Henry. His voice was calm and sad.
    I was so stricken that I almost lost all my self-possession in the first second. “Yes . . . yes . . .” I muttered incoherently.
    We entered his study. There was a fire in the fireplace. He looked at me with his dark eyes, and they were very clear and very sad.
    “We are parting forever, perhaps, Irene,” he said, “and we had meant much to one another.”
    I nodded. My voice would have betrayed me, if I spoke.
    “I cannot blame or judge you, Irene. . . . That evening, in the restaurant, it was a sudden madness, perhaps, that you did not realize yourself. . . . I do not think you are really the woman you were then.”
    “No, Henry . . . perhaps not.” I could not help whispering.
    “You are not. I shall always think of you as the woman I loved.” He paused. I had never seen him so quiet and hopeless.
    “Life goes on,” he continued. “I shall marry another woman and you—another man. . . . And everything is over.” He took my hands in his and there was a sudden light in his eyes when he said: “But we were so happy, Irene!”
    “Yes, Henry, we were,” I answered firmly and calmly.
    “Did you love me then, Irene?”
    “I did, Henry.”
    “That time has gone. . . . But I could never forget you, Irene. I cannot. I shall think about you.”
    “Yes, Henry, think about me . . . sometimes.”
    “You will be happy, Irene, won’t you? I want you to be happy.”
    “I will be, Henry.”
    “I will be also. . . . Maybe even as happy as I was with you. . . . But we cannot look behind now. One has to go on. . . . Will you think about me a little, Irene?”
    “I will, Henry.”
    His eyes were dark and there was a deep sorrow in them. I raised my head. I put my hand on his shoulder. I spoke with a great calm, with a majesty, perhaps, to which I had the right now.
    “Henry, you must be