She shuddered. The thing did not seem silly to her any longer. She whispered:
"That's when it got me. It wouldn't move, that shadow, but I thought all that paper was moving, I thought it was rising very slowly off the floor, and it was going to come to my throat and I was going to drown. That's when I screamed. And, Peter, he didn't hear. He didn't hear it! Because the shadow didn't move. Then I seized my hat and coat and I ran. When I was running through the living room, I think he said: 'Why, Catherine, what time is it?--Where are you going?' Something like that, I'm not sure. But I didn't look back and I didn't answer--I couldn't. I was afraid of him. Afraid of Uncle Ellsworth who's never said a harsh word to me in his life! ... That was all, Peter. I can't understand it, but I'm afraid. Not so much any more, not here with you, but I'm afraid...."
Mrs. Keating spoke, her voice dry and crisp:
"Why, it's plain what happened to you, my dear. You worked too hard and overdid it, and you just got a mite hysterical."
"Yes ... probably ..."
"No," said Keating dully, "no, it wasn't that...." He was thinking of the loud-speaker in the lobby of the strike meeting. Then he added quickly: "Yes, Mother's right. You're killing yourself with work, Katie. That uncle of yours--I'll wring his neck one of these days."
"Oh, but it's not his fault! He doesn't want me to work. He often takes the books away from me and tells me to go to the movies. He's said that himself, that I work too hard. But I like it. I think that every note I make, every little bit of information--it's going to be taught to hundreds of young students, all over the country, and I think it's me who's helping to educate people, just my own little bit in such a big cause--and I feel proud and I don't want to stop. You see? I've really got nothing to complain about. And then ... then, like tonight... I don't know what's the matter with me."
"Look, Katie, we'll get the license tomorrow morning and then we'll be married at once, anywhere you wish."
"Let's, Peter," she whispered. "You really don't mind? I have no real reasons, but I want it. I want it so much. Then I'll know that everything's all right. We'll manage. I can get a job if you... if you're not quite ready or ..."
"Oh, nonsense. Don't talk about that. We'll manage. It doesn't matter. Only let's get married and everything else will take care of itself."
"Darling, you understand? You do understand?"
"Yes, Katie."
"Now that it's all settled," said Mrs. Keating, "I'll fix you a cup of hot tea, Catherine. You'll need it before you go home."
She prepared the tea, and Catherine drank it gratefully and said, smiling:
"I ... I've often been afraid that you wouldn't approve, Mrs. Keating."
"Whatever gave you that idea," Mrs. Keating drawled, her voice not in the tone of a question. "Now you run on home like a good girl and get a good night's sleep."
"Mother, couldn't Katie stay here tonight? She could sleep with you."
"Well, now, Peter, don't get hysterical. What would her uncle think?"
"Oh, no, of course not. I'll be perfectly all right, Peter. I'll go home."
"Not if you ..."
"I'm not afraid. Not now. I'm fine. You don't think that I'm really scared of Uncle Ellsworth?"
"Well, all right. But don't go yet."
"Now, Peter," said Mrs. Keating, "you don't want her to be running around the streets later than she has to."
"I'll take her home."
"No," said Catherine. "I don't want to be sillier than I am. No, I won't let you."
He kissed her at the door and he said: "I'll come for you at ten o'clock tomorrow morning and we'll go for the license." "Yes, Peter," she whispered.
He closed the door after her and he stood for a moment, not noticing that he was clenching his fists. Then he walked defiantly back to the living room, and he stopped, his hands in his pockets, facing his mother. He looked at her, his glance a silent demand. Mrs. Keating sat looking at him quietly, without pretending to ignore the glance and without answering it.
Then she asked:
"Do you want to go to bed, Peter?"
He had expected anything but that. He felt a violent impulse to seize the chance, to turn, leave the room and escape. But he had to learn what she thought; he had to justify himself.
"Now, Mother, I'm not going to listen to any objections."
"I've made no objections," said Mrs. Keating.
"Mother, I want you to understand that I love Katie, that nothing can stop me now, and that's that."
"Very well, Peter."
"I don't see what it is that you dislike about her."
"What I like or dislike is of no importance to you any more."
"Oh yes, Mother, of course it is! You know it is. How can you say that?"
"Peter, I have no likes or dislikes as far as I'm concerned. I have no thought for myself at all, because nothing in the world matters to me, except you. It might be old-fashioned, but that's the way I am. I know I shouldn't be, because children don't appreciate it nowadays, but I can't help it."
"Oh, Mother, you know that I appreciate it! You know that I wouldn't want to hurt you."
"You can't hurt me, Peter, except by hurting yourself. And that ... that's hard to bear."
"How am I hurting myself?"
"Well, if you won't refuse to listen to me ..."
"I've never refused to listen to you!"
"If you do want to hear my opinion, I'll say that this is the funeral of twenty-nine years of my life, of all the hopes I've had for you."
"But why? Why?"
"It's not that I dislike Catherine, Peter. I like her very much. She's a nice girl--if she doesn't let herself go to pieces often and pick things out of thin air like that. But she's a respectable girl and I'd say she'd make a good wife for anybody. For any nice, plodding, respectable boy. But to think of it for you, Peter! For you!"
"But..."
"You're modest, Peter. You're too modest. That's always been your trouble. You don't appreciate yourself. You think you're just like anybody else."
"I certainly don't! And I won't have anyone think that!"
"Then use your head! Don't you know what's ahead of you? Don't you see how far you've come already and how far you're going? You have a chance to become--well, not the very best, but pretty near the top in the architectural profession, and ..."
"Pretty near the top? Is that what you think? If I can't be the very best, if I can't be the one architect of this country in my day--I don't want any damn part of it!"
"Ah, but one doesn't get to that, Peter, by falling down on the job. One doesn't get to be first in anything without the strength to make some sacrifices."
"But ..."
"Your life doesn't belong to you, Peter, if you're really aiming high. You can't allow yourself to indulge every whim, as ordinary people can, because with them it doesn't matter anyway. It's not you or me or what we feel, Peter. It's your career. It takes strength to deny yourself in order to win other people's respect."
"You just dislike Katie and you let your own prejudice ..."
"Whatever would I dislike about her? Well, of course, I can't say that I approve of a girl who has so little consideration for her man that she'll run to him and upset him over nothing at all, and ask him to chuck his future out the window just because she gets some crazy notion. That shows what help you can expect from a wife like that. But as far as I'm concerned, if you think that I'm worried about myself--well, you're just blind, Peter. Don't you see that for me personally it would be a perfect match? Because I'd have no trouble with Catherine, I could get along with her beautifully, she'd be respectful and obedient to her mother-in-law. While, on the other hand, Miss Francon ..."
He winced. He had known that this would come. It was the one subject he had been afraid to hear mentioned.
"Oh yes, Peter," said Mrs. Keating quietly, firmly, "we've got to speak of that. Now, I'm sure I could never manage Miss Francon, and an elegant society girl like that wouldn't even stand for a
dowdy, uneducated mother like me. She'd probably edge me out of the house. Oh, yes, Peter. But you see, it's not me that I'm thinking of."
"Mother," he said harshly, "that part of it is pure drivel--about my having a chance with Dominique. That hell-cat--I'm not sure she'd ever look at me."
"You're slipping, Peter. There was a time when you wouldn't have admitted that there was anything you couldn't get."
"But I don't want her, Mother."
"Oh, you don't, don't you? Well, there you are. Isn't that what I've been saying? Look at yourself! There you've got Francon, the best architect in town, just where you want him! He's practically begging you to take a partnership--at your age, over how many other, older men's heads? He's not permitting, he's asking you to marry his daughter! And you'll walk in tomorrow and you'll present to him the little nobody you've gone and married! Just stop thinking of yourself for a moment and think of others a bit! How do you suppose he'll like that? How will he like it when you show him the little guttersnipe that you've preferred to his daughter?"
"He won't like it," Keating whispered.
"You bet your life he won't! You bet your life he'll kick you right out on the street! He'll find plenty who'll jump at the chance to take your place. How about that Bennett fellow?"
"Oh, no!" Keating gasped so furiously that she knew she had struck right. "Not Bennett!"
"Yes," she said triumphantly. "Bennett! That's what it'll be--Francon & Bennett, while you'll be pounding the pavements looking for a job! But you'll have a wife! Oh, yes, you'll have a wife!"
"Mother, please ..." he whispered, so desperately that she could allow herself to go on without restraint.
"This is the kind of wife you'll have. A clumsy little girl who won't know where to put her hands or feet. A sheepish little thing who'll run and hide from any important person that you'll want to bring to the house. So you think you're so good? Don't kid yourself, Peter Keating! No great man ever got there alone. Don't you shrug it off, how much the right woman's helped the best of them. Your Francon didn't marry a chambermaid, you bet your life he didn't! Just try to see things through other people's eyes for a bit. What will they think of your wife? What will they think of you? You don't make your living building chicken coops for soda jerkers, don't you forget that! You've got to play the game as the big men of this world see it. You've got to live up to them. What will they think of a man who's married to a common little piece of baggage like that? Will they admire you? Will they trust you? Will they respect you?"
"Shut up!" he cried.
But she went on. She spoke for a long time, while he sat, cracking his knuckles savagely, moaning once in a while; "But I love her.... I can't, Mother! I can't.... I love her...."
She released him when the streets outside were gray with the light of morning. She let him stumble off to his room, to the accompaniment of the last, gentle, weary sounds of her voice:
"At least, Peter, you can do that much. Just a few months. Ask her to wait just a few months. Heyer might die any moment and then, once you're a partner, you can marry her and you might get away with it. She won't mind waiting just that little bit longer, if she loves you.... Think it over, Peter.... And while you're thinking it over, think just a bit that if you do this now, you'll be breaking your mother's heart. It's not important, but take just a tiny notice of that. Think of yourself for an hour, but give one minute to the thought of others...."
He did not try to sleep. He did not undress, but sat on his bed for hours, and the thing clearest in his mind was the wish to find himself transported a year ahead when everything would have been settled, he did not care how.
He had decided nothing when he rang the door bell of Catherine's apartment at ten o'clock. He felt dimly that she would take his hand, that she would lead him, that she would insist--and thus the decision would be made.
Catherine opened the door and smiled, happily and confidently, as if nothing had happened. She led him to her room, where broad shafts of sunlight flooded the columns of books and papers stacked neatly on her desk. The room was clean, orderly, the pile of the rug still striped in bands left by a carpet sweeper. Catherine wore a crisp organdy blouse, with sleeves standing stiffly, cheerfully about her shoulders; little fluffy needles glittered through her hair in the sunlight. He felt a brief wrench of disappointment that no menace met him in her house; a wrench of relief also, and of disappointment.
"I'm ready, Peter," she said. "Get me my coat."
"Did you tell your uncle?" he asked.
"Oh, yes. I told him last night. He was still working when I got back."
"What did he say?"
"Nothing. He just laughed and asked me what I wanted for a wedding present. But he laughed so much!"
"Where is he? Didn't he want to meet me at least?"
"He had to go to his newspaper office. He said he'd have plenty of time to see more than enough of you. But he said it so nicely!"
"Listen, Katie, I ... there's one thing I wanted to tell you." He hesitated, not looking at her. His voice was flat. "You see, it's like this: Lucius Heyer, Francon's partner, is very ill and they don't expect him to live. Francon's been hinting quite openly that I'm to take Heyer's place. But Francon has the crazy idea that he wants me to marry his daughter. Now don't misunderstand me, you know there's not a chance, but I can't tell him so. And I thought ... I thought that if we waited... for just a few weeks... I'd be set with the firm and then Francon could do nothing to me when I come and tell him that I'm married.... But, of course it's up to you." He looked at her and his voice was eager. "If you want to do it now, we'll go at once."
"But, Peter," she said calmly, serene and astonished. "But of course. We'll wait."
He smiled in approval and relief. But he closed his eyes.
"Of course, we'll wait," she said firmly. "I didn't know this and it's very important. There's really no reason to hurry at all."
"You're not afraid that Francon's daughter might get me?"
She laughed. "Oh, Peter! I know you too well."
"But if you'd rather ..."
"No, it's much better. You see, to tell you the truth, I thought this morning that it would be better if we waited, but I didn't want to say anything if you had made up your mind. Since you'd rather wait, I'd much rather too, because, you see, we got word this morning that Uncle's invited to repeat this same course of lectures at a terribly important university on the West Coast this summer. I felt horrible about leaving him flat, with the work unfinished. And then I thought also that perhaps we were being foolish, we're both so young. And Uncle Ellsworth laughed so much. You see, it's really wiser to wait a little."
"Yes. Well, that's fine. But, Katie, if you feel as you did last night..."
"But I don't! I'm so ashamed of myself. I can't imagine what ever happened to me last night. I try to remember it and I can't understand. You know how it is, you feel so silly afterward. Everything's so clear and simple the next day. Did I say a lot of awful nonsense last night?"
"Well, forget it. You're a sensible little girl. We're both sensible. And we'll wait just a while, it won't be long."
"Yes, Peter."
He said suddenly, fiercely:
"Insist on it now, Katie."
And then he laughed stupidly, as if he had not been quite serious.
She smiled gaily in answer. "You see?" she said, spreading her hands out.
"Well ..." he muttered. "Well, all right, Katie. We'll wait. It's better, of course. I ... I'll run along then. I'll be late at the office." He felt he had to escape her room for the moment, for that day. "I'll give you a ring. Let's have dinner together tomorrow."
"Yes, Peter. That will be nice."
He went away, relieved and desolate, cursing himself for the dull, persistent feeling that told him he had missed a chance which would never return; that something was closing in on them both and they had surrendered. He cursed, because he could not say what it was that they should have fought. He hurried on to his office where he w
as being late for an appointment with Mrs. Moorehead.
Catherine stood in the middle of the room, after he had left, and wondered why she suddenly felt empty and cold; why she hadn't known until this moment that she had hoped he would force her to follow him. Then she shrugged, and smiled reproachfully at herself, and went back to the work on her desk.
XIII
ON A DAY IN OCTOBER, WHEN THE HELLER HOUSE WAS NEARING completion, a lanky young man in overalls stepped out of a small group that stood watching the house from the road and approached Roark.
"You the fellow who built the Booby Hatch?" he asked, quite diffidently.
"If you mean this house, yes," Roark answered.
"Oh, I beg your pardon, sir. It's only that that's what they call the place around here. It's not what I'd call it. You see, I've got a building job... well, not exactly, but I'm going to build a filling station of my own about ten miles from here, down on the Post Road. I'd like to talk to you."
Later, on a bench in front of the garage where he worked, Jimmy Gowan explained in detail. He added: "And how I happened to think of you, Mr. Roark, is that I like it, that funny house of yours. Can't say why, but I like it. It makes sense to me. And then again I figured everybody's gaping at it and talking about it, well, that's no use to a house, but that'd be plenty smart for a business, let them giggle, but let them talk about it. So I thought I'd get you to build it, and then they'll all say I'm crazy, but do you care? I don't."
Jimmy Gowan had worked like a mule for fifteen years, saving money for a business of his own. People voiced indignant objections to his choice of architect; Jimmy uttered no word of explanation or self-defense; he said politely: "Maybe so, folks, maybe so," and proceeded to have Roark build his station.
The station opened on a day in late December. It stood on the edge of the Boston Post Road, two small structures of glass and concrete forming a semicircle among the trees: the cylinder of the office and the long, low oval of the diner, with the gasoline pumps as the colonnade of a forecourt between them. It was a study in circles; there were no angles and no straight lines; it looked like shapes caught in a flow, held still at the moment of being poured, at the precise moment when they formed a harmony that seemed too perfect to be intentional. It looked like a cluster of bubbles hanging low over the ground, not quite touching it, to be swept aside in an instant on a wind of speed; it looked gay, with the hard, bracing gaity of efficiency, like a powerful airplane engine.