Atlas Shrugged - Ayn Rand [211]
The woman who opened the door had graying hair and a poised, distinguished look of grooming; it took Dagny a few seconds to realize that her garment was only a simple cotton housedress.
“May I see Mr. William Hastings?” asked Dagny.
The woman looked at her for the briefest instant of a pause; it was an odd glance, inquiring and grave. “May I ask your name?”
“I am Dagny Taggart, of Taggart Transcontinental.”
“Oh. Please come in, Miss Taggart. I am Mrs. William Hastings.” The measured tone of gravity went through every syllable of her voice, like a warning. Her manner was courteous, but she did not smile.
It was a modest home in the suburbs of an industrial town. Bare tree branches cut across the bright, cold blue of the sky, on the top of the rise that led to the house. The walls of the living room were silver-gray; sunlight hit the crystal stand of a lamp with a white shade; beyond an open door, a breakfast nook was papered in red-dotted white.
“Were you acquainted with my husband in business, Miss Taggart?”
“No. I have never met Mr. Hastings. But I should like to speak to him on a matter of business of crucial importance.”
“My husband died five years ago, Miss Taggart.”
Dagny closed her eyes; the dull, sinking shock contained the conclusions she did not have to make in words: This, then, had been the man she was seeking, and Rearden had been right; this was why the motor had been left unclaimed on a junk pile.
“I’m sorry,” she said, both to Mrs. Hastings and to herself.
The suggestion of a smile on Mrs. Hastings’ face held sadness, but the face had no imprint of tragedy, only a grave look of firmness, acceptance and quiet serenity.
“Mrs. Hastings, would you permit me to ask you a few questions?”
“Certainly. Please sit down.”
“Did you have some knowledge of your husband’s scientific work?”
“Very little. None, really. He never discussed it at home.”
“He was, at one time, chief engineer of the Twentieth Century Motor Company?”
“Yes. He had been employed by them for eighteen years.”
“I wanted to ask Mr. Hastings about his work there and the reason why he gave it up. If you can tell me, I would like to know what happened in that factory.”
The smile of sadness and humor appeared fully on Mrs. Hastings’ face. “That is what I would like to know myself,” she said. “But I’m afraid I shall never learn it now. I know why he left the factory. It was because of an outrageous scheme which the heirs of Jed Starnes established there. He would not work on such terms or for such people. But there was something else. I’ve always felt that something happened at Twentieth Century Motors, which he would not tell me.”
“I’m extremely anxious to know any clue you may care to give me.”
“I have no clue to it. I’ve tried to guess and given up. I cannot understand or explain it. But I know that something happened. When my husband left Twentieth Century, we came here and he took a job as head of the engineering department of Acme Motors. It was a growing, successful concern at the time. It gave my husband the kind of work he liked. He was not a person prone to inner conflicts, he had always been sure of his actions and at peace with himself. But for a whole year after we left Wisconsin, he acted as if he were tortured by something, as if he were struggling with a personal problem he could not solve. At the end of that year, he came to me one morning and told me that he had resigned from Acme Motors, that he was retiring and would not work anywhere else. He loved his work; it was his whole life. Yet he looked calm, self-confident and happy, for the first time since we’d come here. He asked me not to question him about the reason of his decision. I didn’t question him and I didn’t object. We had this house, we had our savings, we had enough to live on modestly for the rest of our days. I never learned his reason. We went on living here, quietly and very happily. He