The Husband I Bought (alternate ending # 2)

by Ayn Rand (1926) and Kyrel Zantonavitch (2019)

I should not have written this story. If I did it all — I did it only by keeping silent. I went through tortures, such as no other woman on earth, perhaps just to keep silent. And now — I speak. I must not have written my secret. But I have a hope. My one and only, and last hope. And I have no time before me. When life is dead and you have nothing left on your way — who can blame you for taking a last chance, a poor little chance... before the end? And so I write my story.

I loved Henry. I love him. It is the only thing I know and I can say about myself. It is the only thing, that was my life. There is no person on earth that has never been in love. But love can go beyond all limits and bounds. Love can go beyond all consciousness, beyond your very soul.

I never think of how I met him. It has no importance for me. I had to meet him and I did. I never think of how and when I began to love him or how I realized that he loved me. The only thing I know is that two words only were written on my life: "Henry Stafford."

He was tall and slim, and beautiful, too beautiful. He was intensely ambitious and never made a step to realize it. He had an immense, indefinite longing and did not trouble himself to think about it. He was the most perfectly refined and brilliant man, whom society admired and who laughed at society. A little lazy, very skeptical, indifferent to everything. Haughty and self-conceited for himself — gracious and ironical for everybody.

In our little town Henry Stafford was, of course, the aim and target of all the girls and "homemade" vamps. He flirted openly with everyone; that made them all furious.

His father had left him a big business. He managed it just enough to have the necessary money and the least trouble possible. He treated his business with the same smile of perfect politeness and perfect indifference with which he spoke to our society ladies or read a popular best-seller, from the middle.

Mr. Barnes, an old lawyer and a friend of mine, said once, with that thoughtful, indefinite look afar that was so characteristic to him: "That impossible man... I could envy the girl he shall love. I would pity the one he will marry."

For the moment, I could have been envied by Mr. Barnes, and not by Mr. Barnes only: Henry Stafford loved me. I was twenty-one then, just graduated from one of the best colleges. I had come to live in my little native town, in the beautiful estate that belonged to me after my parents' death. It was a big, luxurious house, with a wonderful old garden, the best in the town. I had a considerable fortune and no near relatives at all. I was accustomed to ruling my existence quietly and firmly myself.

I tell the whole truth here, so I must tell that I was beautiful and I was clever, I knew it; you always know it when you are. I was considered a "brilliant girl," "a girl with a great future" by everybody in our society, though they did not like me too much, for I was a little too willful and resolute.

I loved Henry Stafford. It was the only thing I ever understood in my life. It was my life. I knew I would never have another one, never could have. And I never did. Perhaps you should not love a human being like this. I cannot tell and I will not listen, if someone tells me you should not. I cannot listen: it was my whole life.

Henry Stafford loved me. He loved me seriously. It was the first thing he did not smile at in his life.

"I did not know I would be so helpless before love," he said sometimes. "It was impossible, that you would not be mine, Irene. I must always have the things I wish, and it is the only thing I ever wished!" He kissed my arms, from the fingertips to the shoulder... As for me, I looked at him and felt nothing else. His every movement, his manners, the sound of his voice made me tremble. When a passion like this gets hold of you, it never lets you go, never till your last breath. It burns all in you, and still flames, when there is nothing more to burn... But then, how happy, oh! how happy I was!

I remember one day better than everything. It was summer and there was as much sun on the bushes in my garden as water in a flood. We were flying on a swing, he and I. Both all in white, we stood at each side of the long, narrow plank, holding strongly to the ropes with both hands, and making the swing fly madly from one side to the other. We went so fast that the ropes cracked piteously and I could hardly breathe... Up and down! Up and down! My skirt flew high above my knees, like a light white flag.

"Faster, faster, Irene!" he cried.

"Higher, higher, Henry!" I answered.

With his white shirt open at the chest and the sleeves rolled above the elbows, he held the ropes with his arms, burned by the sun, and pushed the swing by easy, gracious movements of his strong, flexible body. His hair was flying in the wind...

And in the breathtaking speed, in the glowing sun, I saw and felt nothing but the man with the flying hair that was before me.

Then, without saying anything to each other, with one thought, we jumped down from the highest position of our swing, in its fastest moment we scratched our arms and legs badly in falling; but we did not mind it. I was in his arms. He kissed me with more madness than there had been in our flight. It was not for the first time, but I shall never forget it. To feel his arms around me made me dizzy, almost unconscious. I clutched his shoulders with my hands, so that my nails must have scratched him through his shirt, till blood. I kissed his lips. I kissed his neck, where the shirt was open.

The only words we said then were pronounced by him, or rather whispered, so that he could hardly distinguish them himself: "Forever... Irene, Irene, say that it is forever..."

I did not see him the next day. I waited anxiously till the evening- He did not come. Neither did he on the second day. A young fellow, a very self-confident and very clumsy "sheik," who tried hopelessly to win a little attention from me, called upon me that day and, talking endlessly and quickly about everything imaginable, like a radio, dropped finally: "By the way, Henry Stafford has got into some business trouble... serious, they say."
I learned the whole terrible news in the next days: Henry was ruined. It was a frightful ruin: not only had he lost everything, but he owed a whole fortune to many persons. It was not his fault, even though he had always been so careless with his business. It was circumstance. Everybody knew it; but it looked like his fault. And it was a terrible blow, a mortal blow to his name, his reputation, all his future. 

Our little town was greatly excited. There were persons who sympathized with him, but most of them were maliciously, badly glad. They had always resented him, despite the admiration they surrounded him with, or just because of it, perhaps. “I would like to see what kind of face he’ll make now,” said one. “O-oh! That’s great!” “Such a shame!” said others. 

Many remarks turned upon me, also. They had always resented me for being Henry’s choice. “Don’t know what he’d find ’bout that Irene Wilmer,” had said once Patsy Tillins, the town’s prize vamp, summing up the general opinion. Now, Mrs. Hughes, one of our social leaders, a respectable lady, but who had three daughters to marry, said to me, with a charming smile: “I am sincerely happy that you escaped it in time, dear child. . . . Always thought that man was good for nothing”; to which Patsy Tillins added, in a white cloud, as she was quickly powdering her nose: “Who’s it you’ll pick up next, dearie?”

I did not pay any attention to it all and I was not hurt. I only tried to understand the position and wondered if it was really so serious for Henry or not. One sentence only, pronounced by a stern, serious businessman whom I always respected, explained all to me and cleared the terrible truth. “He is an honest man,” he said to a friend, not knowing that I heard it, “but the only honorable thing left to him is to shoot himself, and the sooner the better.” Then I understood. I did not think long. I threw a wrap on my shoulders and ran to his house. 

I trembled when I saw him. I scarcely even recognized him. He was sitting at his desk, with a stone face and immobile eyes. One of his arms was hanging helplessly by his side and I saw that only his fingers were trembling, so lightly I could scarcely notice it. . . . 

He did not hear me enter. I approached him and fell at his feet, burying my head in his knees. He shuddered. Then he took my arms strongly and forced me to rise. “Go home, Irene,” he said with a stern, cold, expressionless voice, “and never come again.” 

“You . . . you don’t love me, Henry?” I muttered. 

There was suffering now in his voice, but anger also when he answered: “There can be nothing between us, now. . . . Can’t you understand it?” 

I understood. But I smiled, I just smiled from fun, because it was too impossible to be true. Money was now between us, money pretended to take him from me. Him! . . . I laughed, a frightful laugh. But would you not laugh if one would try to deprive you of your whole life, your one and only aim, your god . . . because that god has no money? . . . 

He did not want to listen to me. But I made him listen . . . I could not tell how many long, horrible hours I spent begging and imploring him. He refused. He was tender at times, asking me to forget him; then he was cold and stern, and turned his back to me, not to hear my words, ordering me to leave him. But I saw the passionate love in his eyes, the despair that he tried in vain to hide. I remained. I fell on my knees; I kissed his hands. “Henry . . . Henry, I cannot live without you! . . . I just cannot!” I cried. 

It took a long time to conquer him. But I was desperate and despair always finds a way. He surrendered himself at last and agreed . . . And when he held me in his arms, covering my face with kisses, flooded by tears, when he whispered: “Yes . . . Irene . . . yes,” and his lips trembled, I knew that he loved me, that an immense love made his eyes so dark with emotion. . . . 

The town exploded with surprise when they learned the news. No one was able to believe it, at first. When they did—the terror was general. Even Mrs. Hughes rushed to me and cried with a real sincerity and a sincere terror: “But . . . but you will not marry him, Irene! . . . It’s foolish! Why, but it’s . . . it’s foolish!” She was unable to find another word. “The girl is crazy!” said her friend, Mrs. Brogan, who was not so particular about expressions. 

Mr. Davis, an old friend of my parents, came to speak to me. He asked me to think it over again. He advised me not to marry Henry, to remember that if I gave my fortune to pay my husband’s debt, it would take all I possess— and could I be sure of the future? All this only made me laugh. I was so happy! 

The most farsighted of all was Mr. Barnes. He looked at me with his long, thoughtful glance. He had a sad, kind smile, which his experience with life and men had given him. He said: “I fear you will be very unhappy, Irene. . . . One is never happy with a passion like this.” 

Then he said to Henry, in a voice unusually stern for him: “Now, be careful with yourself, Stafford.” 

“I think it was superfluous to tell me this,” answered Henry coldly.

We were married. Some persons say there is no perfect happiness on earth. There was. I was. I could not even call it happiness—the word is too small. 

I was his wife. I was not Irene Wilmer any longer, I was Irene Stafford. I can hardly describe the first time of my married life. I do not remember anything. If one asks me what was then, I could answer one word only: “Henry!” He was there, and what could I have noticed besides this? We sold all I had, the debt was paid, and he was saved. We could live just for one another, with nothing to disturb us, in the maddest, the wildest of happiness two human beings had ever experienced. 

The day came, however, when we were obliged to think of the future. We had paid all the money I possessed, sold my estate and my jewels. So we had to think of some work. Henry had been educated as an engineer. He found employment. It was not a very big position, but it was good enough for the beginning, considering the fact he had never worked in his specialty before. 

I rented a little flat. And then we lived, and I took all my strength, all my soul to make his life as it should be. I helped him in his work. He had not enough character to do it always with the necessary energy. He would often, in the middle of an important work, lie down on the sofa, his feet on his desk, with some eccentric new book in hand and a current of smoke from his cigarette. I always found a way to make him work and be more and more successful.

I never allowed myself to become just his “pal,” his good friend and servant-for-all-work. I was his mistress, as well as his wife, and he was my lover. I managed to put a certain indefinite aloofness about me, that made me always seem somewhat inaccessible. He never noticed who was doing all the housework for him. I was a queen in his house, a mysterious being, that he was never sure to possess wholly and unquestionably, that he could never call his property and habitual commodity. I can say, we did not notice our home life; we had no home life. We were lovers, with an immense passion between us. Only. 

I made a romance out of his life. I made it seem different, strange, exciting every day, every moment. His house was not a place to rest, eat, and sleep in. It was an unusual, fascinating palace, where he had to fight, win, and conquer, in a silent, thrilling game. 

“Who could have thought of creating a woman like you, Irene!” he said sometimes, and his kisses left burning red marks on my neck and shoulders. “If I live it is only because I have you!” I said nothing. I never showed him all my adoration. You must not show a man that he is your whole life. But he knew it; he felt it. . . .

The town's society, which had met our marriage with such disapproval, began to look more kindly at us, after a while. But through the first hard time of fight, work, and loneliness, I led him, I alone, and I am proud to say that he did not need anyone else, through all those years.

A frequent guest of ours and my best friend was Mr. Barnes. He watched our life attentively. He saw our impossible, unbelievable happiness. It made him glad, but thoughtful. He asked me once: "What would happen if he stopped loving you?"

I had to gather all my strength to make my voice speak: "Don't ever repeat it. There are things too horrible that one must not think about."

Time went, and instead of growing cold and tedious, our love became greater and greater. We could understand each other's every glance, every movement now. We liked to spend long evenings before a burning fireplace in his study. I sat on a pillow and he lay on the carpet, his head on my knees. I bent to press my lips to his, in the dancing red glow of the fire. "I wonder how two persons could have been made so much for one another, Irene," he said.

We lived like this four years. Four years of perfect, delirious happiness. Who can boast of such a thing in his life? After all, I wonder sometimes whether I have the right to consider myself unhappy now. I paid a terrible price to life, but I had known a terrible happiness. The price was not too high. It was just. For those days had been, they were, and they were mine.

Society had taken us back, even with more appreciation than before, perhaps. Henry became the most popular, the most eagerly expected guest everywhere. He had made a rapid career. He was not very rich yet, but his name began to be mentioned among those of the most brilliant engineers. When a man is so interesting, so fascinating as he was, lack of money will never mean much to society...

Then it happened... I have had the strength to live through it, I shall have the strength to write it down...

A new woman came to our town and appeared in our society. Her name was Claire Van Dahlen. She was divorced and had come from New York after a trip to Europe to rest in our little town, where she had some distant relatives. I saw her on the first evening she appeared in our society, at a dancing party.

She had the body of an antique statuette. She had golden skin and dark-red lips. Her black hair was parted in the middle, combed straight and brilliant, and she wore long, hanging perfume-earrings. She had slow, soft, fluent movements; it seemed that her body had no bones at all. Her arms undulated like velvet ribbons. She was dressed very simply, but it was the simplicity that costs thousands of dollars... She was gorgeously, stunningly beautiful.

Our society was amazed with admiration; they had never seen a woman like this... She was perfectly charming and gracious with everybody, but she had that haughty, disinterested smile of women accustomed to and tired of admiration.

Henry looked at her... he looked too long and too fixedly. The glance with which he followed her every movement was full of a strange admiration, too intense for him. He danced with her several times.

At the end of the party, a crowd of young men rushed to ask the favor of bringing Mrs. Van Dahlen home. "I will have to choose," she said, with a charming, indulgent smile.

"Choose from everyone present!" proposed one of her eager new admirers.

"From everyone?" she repeated, with her smile. She paused, then: "Well, it will be Mr. Stafford."

Henry had not asked for the favor; he was astonished. But it was impossible to refuse. Mr. Barnes brought me home.

When Henry came back and I asked his opinion of her, he said shortly and indifferently: "Yes, very interesting." I had seen that he was much more impressed than this, but I did not pay any attention to it.

The next time we had to go to a party, Henry had no desire to go out that evening. He was tired, he had work to do. "Why, Henry, they expect us," I said. "There will be many persons tonight: Mr. and Mrs. Harwings, Mr. and Mrs. Hughes, Mrs. Brooks, Mrs. Van Dahlen, Mr. Barnes..."

"Well, yes, I think we might go," he said suddenly.

He danced with Claire Van Dahlen that evening more than anyone else. Her dress had a very low neck in back, and I saw his fingers sometimes touch her soft silken skin. The look in her eyes, which were fixed straight into his, between her long, dark lashes, astonished me... At the table, they were placed near one another: the hostess wanted to please Mrs. Van Dahlen.

After this Henry missed no party where she appeared. He took her for rides in his automobile. He called at her relatives', where she lived. He managed to be in theaters the evenings she was there. He had a strange look, eager and excited. At home, he was always busy, working with an unusual speed, then hurrying somewhere.

I saw it, I was astonished; that was all. I had no suspicion whatever. The thing I could have suspected was so horrible, so unbelievably atrocious, that it simply could not slip into my mind. I could not think of it.

Then, suddenly, he broke off every relation with her. He did not want to go out. He refused sternly every invitation.

He was dark, and beneath his darkness I distinguished one thing — fear.

Then I understood. His courtship had meant nothing to me; his break told me everything. Oh, not immediately, of course. These things never happen immediately. First, a vague, uncertain thought, a supposition, that made my blood cold. Then a doubt. A desperate fight against this doubt, which only made it stronger. Then an attentive, frightful study. Then — certainty. Henry loved Claire Van Dahlen... Yes, it is my own hand that writes this sentence.

There are things, there are moments in life, which you must not speak about. That was what I felt when I told this sentence to myself for the first time. I found some gray hair on my head that day.

Then came a madness. I could not believe it. It was there and it could not enter into my brain. Oh, that awful feeling of everything falling, falling down, everything around me and in me!... There were days when I was calm, hysterically calm, and I cried it was impossible. There were nights when I bit my hands till blood... And then I resolved to fight.

There was a cold, heavy terror in my head now, and life had changed its whole appearance for me. But I gathered all my strength. I told myself that one must not give up one's husband so easily. He had been mine — he might be again.

I understood clearly what was going on in his soul. He had flirted with Claire at first, thinking he was just a little interested in her as in a new acquaintance. The supposition of something serious seemed as impossible to him as it seemed to me. He did not think of it. And it came. And when it came — he broke all off, resolved to crush it immediately.

So we both fought. I, for him; he, against himself. Oh, it was long and hard! We fought bravely. We lost — both.

He was never cold, stern, or irritable with me during those days of his struggle. He was tender as ever. I was gay, quiet as always, attractive as never before. But I could not win him back even for a moment: it was done, and finished.

"Henry," I said once, very calmly and very firmly, "we shall go to this party." We had been refusing all invitations for a long time. Now we went to the party.

He saw her and I watched him. We both knew what we wanted to know. There was no use fighting any longer.

I did not sleep that night. I made all my efforts to breathe. Something strangled me. "One of us has to go through this torture, for life," I thought, "he or I… It shall be I…" I breathed with effort. "He will tell me everything at last... and I shall give him a divorce... And if he should be too sorry for me... I shall tell him that I do not love him as much as before... if I have the strength to do it..." One thing only was clear and without doubt — he could never be happy with me again.

"Henry," I asked one evening, sitting at the fireplace with him and forcing my voice not to tremble, "what will you say... if I tell you I do not love you any more?"

He looked into my eyes, kindly and seriously. "I will not believe it," he answered.

Time passed and he did not say a word to me about the truth. I could not understand him. He pitied me, perhaps; but he must tell it sooner or later. He was calm, quiet, and tender; but I saw his pale face, the drooping corners of his mouth, his dark, desperate eyes. When a passion like this gets him — a man is helpless, and I could not blame him. He must have gone through a terrible torture. But he was silent.

In those heartbreaking days, there was one thing which made me furious, for it looked as though fate was playing a grim joke on me. This thing was Gerald Gray. He was a young English aristocrat who came to our town not long ago for a trip. He was thirty years old, elegant, flawlessly dressed, gracious and polite to the points of his nails, and flirting was his only occupation in life. Many women in our town had fallen in love with him. I do not know what made him become interested, too much interested in me. Gracious, polite, yet firm in his courtship, he called upon me, even after I almost plainly threw him out. And this during the time when I awoke every morning, thinking that it is the last day, that I shall hear the fatal words from Henry, at last!

But I waited and Henry said nothing. He refused any possibility of meeting Claire Van Dahlen. She did all she could to meet him. We were flooded with invitations. She sent an invitation to him herself, at last. He refused.

Then came the day when I understood everything. And that day decided my fate. I went to a party alone that evening. Henry stayed at home, as usual, and besides, he had work to do. I could not refuse this invitation without seriously offending the hostess. So I went, but it was a kind of torture for me. I waited with the greatest impatience for the time when it would be possible for me to leave.

I never regretted afterwards that I went to that party. As I was passing near a curtain, I heard two women speaking on the other side of it. It was Mrs. Hughes and Mrs. Brogan. They were speaking about Henry and Claire; they were speaking about me. "Well, she has given all her fortune," said Mrs. Hughes, "she paid enough for him. He cannot leave her now."

"I'll say so," said Mrs. Brogan. "She bought her husband. He might be miserable as a starving dog now — he could not show it!"

I stuffed my handkerchief into my mouth. I knew, now...

I went home alone, on foot... I bought my husband... I boughtmy husband!... So this was the mystery. He could not leave me. He will never tell me. He will be tortured and keep silent He cannot be happy with me and his life will be ruined... because of my money!... Oh! if he will not speak, I must speak!

Perhaps I would not have done what I did, had it not been for that money. I would have fought more, perhaps, and might have gained him back. But now — I could not. I had no right. If he ever came back to me, how would I know whether it was love or thankfulness for my "sacrifice" and the resolution to sacrifice himself in his turn? How would I know that he was not ruining his happiness to recompense me for that money?

I must give him up now — voluntarily and myself. I must give him up — because he owed me too much. I had no right to my husband any more — because I had done too much for him...

I must act now. But what to do? Offer him a divorce? He will not accept it. Tell him I do not love him? He will not believe.

I took off my hat; I could not keep it on. Little drops of rain fell on my forehead and the wind blew my hair — it was such a relief!

I saw a light in the window of Henry's study as I approached our house. I went in noiselessly, not to disturb him. And when I passed by the door of his study, I heard a sound that made my heart stop. I approached the door and looked through the opening, not believing my ears. Sitting at the desk with his arms on his plans and his head on his arms, Henry was sobbing. I saw his back, which shuddered, racked by deep, desperate sobs.

I made a step from the door. I looked before me with senseless eyes... Henry cried!...

"... He might be miserable as a starving dog now — he could not show it!"

I knew what I had to do. He will not believe that I do not love him? I must make him believe it!...

I went up to my room. I entered it mad, horrified, desperate. I came out in the morning, quiet and calm. What had gone on in me during that night — I will never speak about it with any living creature.

"What is the matter, Irene?" asked Henry, looking into my face, when I came downstairs in the morning.

"Nothing," I answered. "It was a bad dream; it's over now."

I was conscious of one thing only then: I must find a way, an opportunity to prove to Henry my unfaithfulness, so that there should remain no doubt. I found that opportunity. It came the same day.

I returned home after being out, and, entering the hall, I heard a voice in Henry's study. I knew that voice. It was Claire Van 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 before this unexpected favor. I hung up the receiver.

My plan was simple. Henry shall come to the Excelsior for Claire Van Dahlen and he shall see me with Mr. Gray. I had told him that I was going away for the whole night. That's all.

I dressed myself slowly and carefully. I tried to be very attentive, very busy with my toilet, and to drown all thoughts in it. I put on my best gown, a silver gauze dress, all glimmering with rhinestones. I made up my face to look as pretty as possible: I had to use a lot of rouge for it.

Then, suddenly, a thought flashed through my mind, a thought that made me jump from my chair. What if Henry did not come to the Excelsior? He had cried "Never! Never!" so resolutely... What if he had the strength to resist Claire?

The porcelain powder box which I held dropped from my hand and broke to pieces.

Oh, then, if he does not come, it means that he does not love her so much! Then, I will run home and fall at his feet and tell him everything!... I had not cried all day; now, tears rolled down my cheeks, so big that I was astonished. Once a person has lost hope, its return is more cruel than the most terrible tortures. I was calm when I began to dress. Now my hands trembled, so that I could hardly touch things.

When I was ready, I put on my traveling overcoat; it hid my evening dress completely. Then I went downstairs.

"Take care of yourself, Irene," said Henry, fastening tightly and carefully the collar of my overcoat. "Don't tire yourself. Don't take too much out of your strength."

"No, Henry, I won't... Goodbye, Henry." I kissed him. For the last time, perhaps...

I walked on foot through the dark streets. It was a cold night and the wind ran under my overcoat, on my naked arms and shoulders. I felt the soft cloud of silver gauze blown close to my legs. I walked firmly and steadily, with a high head.

The Excelsior was a big nightclub in our town. It had not a bad reputation, but somehow women came there with their husbands or did not come at all. I saw the gigantic electric letters "Excelsior," so white that it hurt the eyes to look upon, above the wide glass entrance. I went upstairs. I did not hear my own footsteps on the deep, soft carpets, and the waiters' metallic buttons gleamed like diamonds in the strong, unnatural light around me.

The sharp, piercing rumble of a jazz band struck my head like a blow when I entered the great hall I saw big round white lanterns, white tables, black suits and naked shoulders. I saw glittering glasses, silk stockings, and diamonds.

Mr. Gray was waiting for me. He looked like the best pictures in the most exclusive men's style magazine. As a perfect gentleman, he did not show the slightest sign of astonishment or surprise at all this. He smiled as courteously and respectfully as it is possible for a man to smile. I chose a table behind a screen, from where I could see the entrance door. Then I sat looking at it, and, strangely, all seemed to be veiled by a cloud. I distinguished the room very vaguely, as in a mist, while I saw the door clearly, precisely, as though through a magnifying glass, with every little detail, to the slightest reflection of the glass, to the smallest curves of the knob.

I remember that Mr. Gray spoke about something and I spoke. He smiled and I smiled, probably, also... There was a clock above the entrance door. It was eight-thirty when I arrived. The hands on the dial moved. I watched them. And if someone could look into my soul then — he would have seen there a round white dial with moving hands. Nothing more.

Just at nine, in the very second when the big hand reached the middle of the 12, the wide glass door opened. I knew it would be opened... However, it was not Henry, no. But it was Claire Van Dahlen.

She was alone. She had a plain black velvet dress, just a piece of soft velvet wrapped around her body; but she had the most gorgeous diamond tiara on her head, with sparkling stones falling to her beautiful golden shoulders.

She stopped at the door and inspected the hall with a quick glance around. She saw at once that he was not there. Her lips had an imperceptible movement of anger and grief. She moved slowly across the hall and sat at a table. I could observe her through a hole in the screen.

Nine-fifteen... The door opened every two minutes. Men in dress coats and women in silk wraps and furs entered and walked noiselessly into the brilliant crowd. I watched the endless torrent of patent-leather shoes and little silver slippers on the soft lavender carpet at the entrance. Oh, why, why were there so many visitors in this restaurant! Every time I heard the door open, with a sinister creaking sound, a cold shudder ran through my back and knees.

My eyes could not leave the door for a second. "Careful, Mrs. Stafford!" I heard Mr. Gray's voice, as in a dream. I noticed that I had been holding a glass of water and the water was spilling on my dress. I took a little piece of ice from the glass and swallowed it. Mr. Gray looked at me with astonishment.

Nine twenty-five... My knees trembled convulsively. It seemed to me that I would never be able to walk. I looked at Claire through the screen's hole. She, too, was waiting. Her eyes were also fixed at the door. She was nervously breaking a flower's stem in her fingers.

Nine-thirty... I could not have told whether the jazz band was rumbling or it was the heavy, striking, knocking noise in my temples... I held my throat with my hand: there was so little air in this hall and a strange leaden humming strangled me.

At nine forty-five he came. The door opened and I saw Henry. For a second it seemed to me that he was standing in the air: there was nothing around. Then I saw the door, but did not see him, though he was standing there: I saw a black hole. Then I saw him again and he moved. And there was a strange dead silence around. No sounds in my ears.

Then I threw back my head and cried: "Let us be merry, Mr. Gray!" I flung my arms around his neck and, burying my face in his shoulder, I bit convulsively his coat: I understood plainly one thing only — I must not shout.

Mr. Gray was amazed; he had been sitting with his back to the door and had not seen Henry. But with his perfect, courteous self-possession, he remained calm and even passed his hand cautiously on my hair.

I raised my head and he could read nothing in my face now. But my eyes must have been horrible, for he looked into them and grew a little uneasy. I seized nervously at all the glasses that were on the table. "Where is the wine, Mr. Gray?" I cried. "Why is there no wine? I want wine!" Afraid to make any opposition, he called a waiter and whispered some words, and the waiter winked.

I looked through the screen's hole. Henry approached Claire. She had involuntarily jumped from her chair and smiled, with more happiness and passionate tenderness than she wanted to show, perhaps. She must have been very anxious, for she did not even say a word about his delay. He was pale and serious. This delay told me more than anything: he had struggled, oh! horribly struggled, and lost... He sat at her table. I saw his eyes light with an unconquerable joy as he looked at her, and his lips smiled... And he was so beautiful!

The waiter brought the wine, two bottles. Mr. Gray wanted to pour it. I seized the bottle from his hand and filled a glass, so that the wine ran over, on my dress. Then I lifted the glass as high as I could and let it fall to the floor, breaking with a sharp, ringing sound. I burst into a loud, piercing, provocative laugh.

Mr. Gray was amazed. "Laugh!" I whispered threateningly. "I want you to laugh! Laugh loudly!" He laughed. I looked through the hole. Many persons glanced in our direction, wondering who could be making that vulgar noise. That was what I wanted.

I seized my hair and brought it to a wild disorder, so that threads flew in all directions. Then I seized a bottle of wine and flung it to the floor, with a terrible noise. I laughed again and cried: "O-oh! Gerry!" Then I overturned my chair and jumping on Mr. Gray's knees, embracing him, I pressed my face to his, as though I was kissing him. He could not notice that I pushed the screen with my foot in the same moment. The screen fell and there I was, on "Gerry's" lap!

Many persons arose from their seats to look, and when I arose, pretending to be very vexed and ashamed — I stood face to face with Henry.

I shall never forget his eyes... We were silent... "Irene... Irene," he muttered.

I pretended to be stricken, afraid, terrified the first minutes. Then I raised my head and looking at him with the greatest insolence: "Well?" I asked.

He stepped back. He shuddered. He passed his hand over his eyes. Then he said slowly: "I will not disturb you." He turned and walked to Mrs. Van Dahlen. "Let us go to another restaurant... Claire," he said. They walked out. I followed them with my eyes, till they disappeared behind the door. That was all...

I was completely, deeply calm now. I turned to Mr. Gray. He had put the screen around our table again. "Do not grieve yourself, Mrs. Stafford," he said. "It is for the best, perhaps."

"Yes, Mr. Gray, it is for the best," I answered.

We sat down and we finished our dinner, calmly and quietly. I had all my consciousness now. I spoke, and smiled, and flirted with him so gently, so graciously, that he was wholly charmed and forgot the wild scene. At half past ten I asked him to take me home. He was disappointed that our meeting was so short, but said nothing and courteously brought me to my house door, in an automobile. "Shall we meet again soon?" he asked, holding my hand in his.

"Yes, very soon... and very often," I answered. He went away, completely happy.

I entered our apartment. I stood motionless, I could not tell for how long... It was done...

I entered Henry's study. I saw some papers on the floor and, picking them up, replaced them on the desk. A chair was pushed into the middle of the room — I put it back. I adjusted the pillows on the sofa. I put in order the plans and drawings that covered all the desk. His rulers, compasses, and other objects were thrown all over the room. I put them on the desk. I made a fire in the fireplace... It was for the last time that I could do a wife's duty for him.

When there was nothing more to arrange, I went to the fireplace and sat on the floor. Henry's armchair was standing by the fire, and there was a pillow near it, on which he put his feet. I did not dare to sit in the armchair. I lay on the floor and put my head on the pillow... The wood was burning with a soft red glow in the darkness and a little crackling sound in the silence. I lay motionless, pressing the pillow to my lips...

I arose quickly when I heard a key turn in the entrance door's lock. I went into the hall. Henry was pale, very pale. He did not look at me. He took off his hat and overcoat and hung them on the clothes peg. Then he walked to his study and, passing by me, looked at me with a long glance. He entered first; I followed him.

We were silent for a long time. Then he spoke, sternly and coldly: "Will you explain to me anything?"

"I have nothing to explain, Henry," I answered. "You have seen."

"Yes," he said, "I have seen."

He walked up and down the room, then stopped again. He smiled, a smile of disgust and hatred. "It was great!" he said. I did not answer. He trembled with fury. "You... you..." he cried, clasping his fists.

"How could you?" I was silent. "And I called my wife during four years a woman like that!" He pressed his head. "You make me crazy! It is impossible! It is not you! You were not like this! You could not be like this!"

I said nothing. He seized me by the arms and flung me to the floor. "Speak, dirt! Answer! Why did you do it?"

I looked at him, I looked straight into his eyes and told a lie. It was the most atrocious lie that could be and the only one he could believe and understand. "I hid it from you because I did not want to make you unhappy. I struggled a long time against this love and could not stand it any longer," I said.

And he understood this. He left my arms and stepped back. Then laughed. "Well, I can make you happy, then!" he cried. "I don't love you at all and I am not unhappy at all! I love another woman! I am only happy now!"

"You are happy, Henry?"

"Yes, immensely! I see that you are disappointed!"

"No, Henry, I am not disappointed. It is all right."

"All right?... What are you doing lying on the floor? Get up!... All right? You have the insolence to say that?"

He walked up and down the room. "Don't look at me!" he cried. "You have no right any more even to look at me! I forbid it to you!"

"I will not look, Henry," I answered, bowing my head.

"No, you will! You will look at yourself!" he cried and, seizing me by the arm, flung me to the looking glass. "Look at your dress!" he cried. Dark wine spots covered the silver gauze of my dress.

"You loved him, you went with him, well. But wine! But kisses! But that conduct in a public place!" he cried. Oh, my plan had worked perfectly! I said nothing.

He was silent for some time, then he said, more calmly and coldly: "You understand that there will be nothing between us, now. I wish I could forget that there ever was... And I want you to forget that I was your husband. I want you to give me back everything you have from me, any kind of remembrance."

"Well, Henry, I can give them now," I answered.

I went to my room and brought everything, all his pictures, his presents, some letters, all I had from him. He took them all and threw them into the fireplace. "May I... may I keep this one, Henry?" I asked, handing him the best picture, with the inscription. My fingers trembled. He took it, looked, and threw it back to me disdainfully. It fell on the floor. I picked it up.

"I will see to it that we are divorced as soon as possible," he said. He fell into an armchair. "Let me alone now," he added.

I walked to the door, then stopped. I looked at him. And I said, with a voice that was very firm and very calm: "Forgive me, Henry... if you can... and forget me... And don't grieve with grim thoughts, think about Claire, and be happy... and don't think about me... it is not worthwhile."

He looked at me. "You were like this... before," he said slowly.

"I was... I am no longer... Everything changes, Henry... everything has an end. But life is beautiful... life is great... You must be happy, Henry."

"Irene," he said, in a very low voice, "tell me, why have you changed?"

I have gone through it all calmly. This simple sentence, my name, his low voice, made something rise in my throat. But for one second only. "I could not help it, Henry," I answered.

Then I went upstairs to my room.

I bit my lips, when I entered, so that I felt the heavy taste of blood in my mouth. "That's nothing," I muttered. "That's nothing, Irene... That's nothing..." I felt a strange necessity to speak; to say something; to drown with words something that has no name and that was there, waiting for me. "That's nothing... nothing... It will be over... it will be over... just one minute, Irene, it will be over... one minute..."

I knew I was not blind, but I did not see anything. I did not hear a sound... When I began to hear again I noticed that I was repeating senselessly, "... one minute... one minute..."

Henry's picture, which I held, fell to the floor. I looked at it. Then, suddenly, I saw clearly, wholly, and exactly what had happened and what was going to happen. It lasted less than a second, as though in the glow of a sudden lightning, but it seized me at the throat, like pincers of red-hot iron. And I shouted. I uttered a cry. It was not even a cry, it was not a human sound. It was the wild howl of a wounded animal; the primitive, ferocious cry of life for help.

I heard running footsteps on the staircase. "What happened?" cried Henry, knocking at my door.

"Nothing," I answered. "I saw a mouse." I heard him go downstairs.

I wanted to move, to take some steps. But the floor was running under my feet, running down, down. And there was a black smoke in my room that turned, turned, turned in columns with a frightful speed. I fell...

When I opened my eyes, I was lying on the floor. It was quite dark in the room, and cold. A window had been left open and the curtains moved slowly, blown by the wind. "I was unconscious," I said to myself.

I rose to my feet and tried to stand. My knees seemed broken. I let myself slowly down again. Then I saw his picture on the floor. A long shudder ran through all my body.

I took the picture and put it in an armchair. Then I whispered, and my voice was human now, weak and trembling: "Henry... Henry... my Henry... that is nothing... It is not true, is it, Henry? It was a dream, perhaps, and we shall awaken soon... And I will not cry. Don't look at my eyes, Henry, lam not crying... it will be over... in a minute... Because, you see, it was hard... I think it was even very hard... But that is nothing. You are with me, aren't you, Henry?... And you know everything... You do... I am foolish to grieve like this, am I not, Henry? Say that I am... Smile, Henry, and laugh at me... and scold me for torturing myself like this, when there is nothing... nothing at all... Nothing happened... and you know everything... You see, I am smiling... And you love me... You are my Henry... I am a little tired, you know, but I will take a rest... and it will be over... No, I am not crying, Henry... I love you... Henry…"

Tears ran down my cheeks, big, heavy, silent tears. I did not cry, there were no sobs, no sound. I spoke and I smiled. Only tears rolled down, without interruption, without sound, without end...

I do not remember much about the months that followed. We had applied for a divorce, on the ground of wife's unfaithfulness. Waiting for it, I lived in Henry's house. But we did not meet often. When we met, we greeted one another politely.

I managed to live, somehow. I remember that I read books, lots of books. But I cannot remember a word of them now, their titles or how they looked; not one of them. I walked much too, in the little deserted streets of the poorest neighborhoods, where nobody could see me. I think I was calm then. Only I remember that I once heard a boy say, pointing at me: "Here's one that's goofy!"

I met Gerald Gray often, as often as I could, and I flirted with him, I had to. I do not remember one of our meetings. But I must have played my part perfectly well, for I remember, as though out of a deep fog, one sentence said by him: "You are the most bewitching, the most exquisite of women, Mrs. Stafford, and your husband is a fool... for which I am immensely happy." I do not know how I could have done it; I must have acted with the precision and unconsciousness of a lunatic.

One thing I remember welclass="underline" I watched Henry. He spent all his time with Claire. His eyes were brilliant, and sparkling, and smiling, now. I, who knew him so well, who understood every line of his face, I saw that he was happy. He seemed to have come out of a heavy nightmare, which his existence for the last months had been, and to breathe life again, and as before to be young, strong, beautiful, oh! too beautiful!

I watched Claire, also. She loved Henry. It was not a mere flirt for 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 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 happy, and strong, and glorious. Leave suffering to those that cannot help it. You must smile at life... And never think about those that cannot. They are not worthwhile."

"Yes... you are right... Everything finished well. It could have broken the life of one of us. I am so happy it did not!"

"Yes, Henry, it did not..."

We were silent. Then he said: "Farewell, Irene... We shall never meet on this earth again..."

"Life is not so long, Henry." I trembled when I said this, but happily he did not understand. "Who knows?" I added quickly. "We shall meet, perhaps... when we are sixty."

He smiled. "Yes, perhaps... and then we shall laugh at all this."

"Yes, Henry, we shall laugh..."

He bent his head and kissed my hand. "Go now," he whispered, and added, in a very low voice: "You were the greatest thing in my life, Irene." He raised his head and looking into my eyes: "Will you not say something to me... for the last time?" he asked.

I looked straight into his eyes. All my soul was in my answer: "I loved you, Henry."

He kissed my hand again. His voice was a very faint whisper when he said: "I shall be happy. But there are moments when I wish I would never have met that woman... There is nothing to do... Life is hard, sometimes, Irene."

"Yes, Henry," I answered.

He took me in his arms and kissed me. His lips were on mine; my arms — around his neck. It was for the last time, but it was. And no one can deprive me of it now.

He went with me outside. I called a taxi and entered it. I looked through the window: he was standing on the steps. The wind blew his hair and he was immobile like a statue. It was the last time I ever saw him.

I closed my eyes and when I opened them — the taxi was stopped before the station. I paid the driver, took my bag, and went to the train.

Gerald Gray was waiting for me. He had a brilliant traveling costume, a radiant smile, and a gigantic bouquet of flowers, which he presented to me. We entered the car.

At ten-fifteen there was a crackling, metallic sound, the wheels turned, the car shook and moved. The pillars of the station slipped faster and faster beyond us, then some lanterns, on corners of the dark streets, some lights in the windows. And the town remained behind us... The wheels were knocking quickly and regularly.

We were alone in our part of the car. Mr. Gray looked at me and smiled. Then he smiled again, as though to make me smile in answer. I sat motionless. "We are free and alone at last," he whispered and tried to put his arm around me. I moved from him.

"Wait, Mr. Gray," I said coldly. "We shall have time enough for that."

"What is the matter with you, Mrs. Stafford... Miss Wilmer, I mean?" he muttered. "You are so pale!"

"Nothing," I answered. "I am a little tired."

For two hours we sat, silent and motionless. There was nothing but the noise of the wheels around us.

After two hours' ride, there was the first station. I took my bag and rose. "Where are you going?" asked Mr. Gray, surprised. Without answer, I left the train. I approached the open window of the car where he sat looking at me anxiously, and I said slowly: "Listen, Mr. Gray: there is a millionaire in San Francisco waiting for me. You were only a means to get rid of my husband. I thank you. And don't ever say a word about this to anybody — they will laugh at you terribly."

He was stricken, furious and disappointed, oh, terribly disappointed- But as a perfect gentleman, he did not show it. "I am happy to have rendered you that service," he said courteously. The train moved at this moment. He took off his hat, with the most gracious politeness.

I remained alone on the little platform. There was an immense black sky around me, with slow, heavy clouds. There was an old fence and a wretched tree, with some last, wet leaves... I saw a dim light in the little window of the ticket office.

I had not much money, only what was left in my pocketbook. I approached the lighted window. "Give me a ticket, please," I said, handing over all my money, with nickels and pennies, all.

"To which station?" asked the employee shortly.

"To... to... That is all the same," I answered.

He looked at me and even moved a little back. "Say..." he began.

"Give me to the end of the line," I said. He handed me a ticket and pushed back some of my money. I moved from the window, and he followed me with a strange look.

"I shall get out at some station or other," I thought. A train stopped at the platform and I went in. I sat down at a window. Then I moved no more.

I remember it was dark beyond the window, then light, then dark again. I must have traveled more than twenty-four hours. Perhaps. I don't know.

It was dark when I remembered that I must alight at some station. The train stopped and I got out. On the platform I saw that it was night. I wanted to return to the car. But the train moved and disappeared into the darkness. I remained.

There was nobody on the wet wooden platform. I saw only a sleepy employee, a dim lantern, and a dog rolled under a bench, to protect himself from the rain. I saw some little wooden houses beyond the station, and a narrow street. The rails glittered faintly and there was a poor little red lantern in the distance.

I looked at the clock: it was three A.M. I sat on the bench and waited for the morning.

All was finished... I had done my work... Life was over...

I live in that town now. I am an employee in a department store and I work from nine to seven. I have a little flat — two rooms — in a poor, small house, and a separate staircase — nobody notices me when I go out or return home.

I have no acquaintances whatever. I work exactly and carefully. I never speak. My fellow workers hardly know my name. My landlady sees me once a month, when I pay my rent.

I never think when I work. When I come home — I eat and I sleep. That is all.

I never cry. When I look into a looking glass — I see a pale face, with eyes that are a little too big for it; and with the greatest calm, the greatest quietness, the deepest silence in the world.

I am always alone in my two rooms. Henry's picture stands on my table. He has a cheerful smile: a little haughty, a little mocking, very gay. There is an inscription: "To my Irene — Henry — Forever." When I am tired, I kneel before the table and I look at him.

People say that time rubs off everything. This law was not for me. Years have passed. I loved Henry Stafford. I love him. He is happy now — I gave him his happiness. That is all.

They were right, perhaps, those who said that I bought my husband. I bought his life. I bought his happiness. I paid with everything I had. I love him... If I could live life again — I would live it just as I did....

Now three long years have passed. Three years of void and nothingness. Three years without Henry. It seems like three centuries. But now...

Henry! The inconceivable. The truly impossible. A thing I can not comprehend or grasp in any aspect.

Henry! He is here. At my house. He is looking directly at me.

I simply cannot believe it. I think it is all a dream. Clearly now I am a mad woman — a person with absolutely no sense or understanding. What planet do I even live on?

"Hello, Irene..." a mysterious being says softly, with the world's gentlest smile. I am speechless. My mind is entirely a blank.
 But beyond a doubt Henry Stafford is not in my home nor is he speaking to me. So I look with curiosity at this strange person addressing me.
It certainly looks a lot like my Henry!  

"It wasn't easy finding you, you know," he says with pretend irritation. "It took me almost a month with private detectives. An unbearable month..."

His look is exactly the same as I remembered it. I marvel at this, as if my memory was somehow letter-perfect — or capable of creating him anew.

"Of course I deserve any loneliness and misery I suffered waiting. That and much more. Perhaps you hate me, and haven't the slightest interest in seeing me now."

"Henry..." My voice is almost inaudible.

He looks at me attentively, patiently. But my voice is quite unavailable.

"I realize now that you never really loved Gerald Grey. Perhaps you just fell out of love with me, as I did with you. But in three years you never found another. My detectives made that quite clear."

"No," I said, as if a dream. "Not another."

"And so I thought — I hoped, at least, perhaps..."

My eyes were too big for my head. I exerted every possible human effort not to cry.

"I love you, Irene. I don't love Claire. I thought I did. But I guess..."

I didn't dare to think...or believe...or hope. But I had to know.

"But Henry," I whispered. "She was so elegant and refined and stunningly beautiful. And you...you seemed so happy with her. So very very happy..."

"Yes. She was. And I was. For a while..."

"What happened?" It was barely a murmur.

He paused a bit to think. Perhaps trying to understand it himself.

"Our happiness, at first, may have been real. Our first year together was, perhaps...almost fabulous." Henry paused speculatively. His perspective, and wounds, seemed fresh.

"But after that, I became restless. Something was missing from my life. My sense of direction. The focus of my life...something. And I couldn't stop thinking of you. Not matter where I went, no matter what I did. My mind always came back to you. All those years we had together, and the sheer delight we took in each other's presence back then."

Hope came into my heart.

"Finally, about six months ago, I had enough. Claire was fed up with me by then too. She even cheated on me, I think. So we got divorced. And then I thought of you even more, if that's possible."

As I looked at him, my heart was about to break. His perceptive eyes noticed this. And just like that, Henry took me into his arms and kissed me. With all my powers I kissed him back. So passionate was I that he had to break the embrace and push me away a bit.

Henry looked at me in amazement. "Well, now...!" We stared at each other in utter silence. How much time passed, I can not say.

Henry murmured "I think you missed me more than you realized...! And that's exactly how I missed you." There was a long, slow, deliberate pause between us. My heart ached beyond all description. Then, finally, slowly...

"Oh, Henry..." There was a final moment of mutual appraisal and hesitation. Then...we both smiled at each other with a kind of transcendent bliss – a joy incomprehensible. And we both knew, with full certainty, that this time it was forever.

* * * * *

(first 24 pages by Rand; final 2/3rds of a page by Rand omitted;

last 1 and 1/2 pages by Zantonavitch; October 2019)