“I don’t want the notoriety.”
“But you want money—power—ease.”
“Yes—I want money, but this will take money, and I have none.”
“I have,” said Sara. And she added, “We might work together with what I’ve saved and what we both know.”
Matthew got up abruptly, walked over and stared out the window. He had had a similar idea, and he thought it originated in his own head. He had not noticed Sara much hitherto. He had not noticed any woman, since—since—But he knew Sara was intelligent and a hard worker. She looked simple, clean, and capable. She seemed to him noticeably lonely and needing someone to lean on. She could make a home. He never had had just the sort of home he wanted. He wanted a home—something like his own den, but transfigured by capable hands—and devotion. Perhaps a wife would stop this restless longing—this inarticulate Thing in his soul.
Was this not the whole solution? He was living a maimed, unnatural life—no love, no close friendships; always loneliness and brooding. Why not emerge and be complete? Why not marry Sara? Marriage was normal. Marriage stopped secret longings and wild open revolt. It solved the woman problem once and for all. Once married, he would be safe, settled, quiet; with all the furies at rest, calm, satisfied; a reader of old books, a listener to sad and quiet music, a sleeper.
Sara watched him and after a pause said in an even voice:
“You have had a hard shock and you haven’t recovered yet. But you’re young. With your brains and looks the world is open to you. You can go to the legislature, and if you play your cards right you can go to Congress and be the first colored congressman from the North. Think it over, Mr. Towns.”
Towns turned abruptly. “Miss Andrews,” he said, “will you marry me?”
“Why—Mr. Towns!” she answered.
He hurried on: “I haven’t said anything about love on your side or mine—”
“Don’t!” she said, a bit tartly. “I’ve been fighting the thing men call love all my life, and I don’t see much in it. I don’t think you are the loving kind—and that suits me. But I do think enlightened self-interest calls us to be partners. And if you really mean this, I am willing.”
Matthew went slowly over and took her hand. They looked at each other and she smiled. He had meant to kiss her, but he did not.
IX
It was a grand wedding. Matthew was taken back by Sara’s plans. He had thoughts of the little church of his district—and perhaps a quiet flitting away to the Michigan woods, somewhere up about Idlewild. There they might sit in sunshine and long twilights and get acquainted. He would take this lonely little fighting soul in his arms and tell her honestly of that great lost love of his soul, which was now long dead; and then slowly a new, calm communion of souls, a silent understanding, would come, and they would go hand in hand back to the world.
But nothing seemed further from Sara’s thought. First she was going to elect Matthew to the legislature, and then in the glory of his triumph there was going to be a wedding that would make black Chicago sit up and even white Chicago take due notice. Thirdly, she was going to reveal to a gaping world that she already owned that nearly new, modern, and beautifully equipped apartment on South Parkway which had just been sold at auction. There was a vague rumor that a Negro had bought it, but none but Sara and her agent knew.
“How on earth did you—” began Matthew.
“I’m not in politics for my health,” said Sara, “and you’re not going to be, after this. It’s got three apartments of seven rooms with sleeping porches, verandas, central heating, and refrigeration. We’ll live in the top apartment and rent the other two. We can get easily three thousand a year from them, which will support us and a maid. I’ve been paying for a car by installments—a Studebaker—and learning to drive, for we can’t afford a chauffeur yet.”
Matthew sat down slowly.
“Don’t you think we might rent the whole and live somewhere—a little more quietly, so we could study and walk and—go to concerts?”
But Sara took no particular notice of this.
“I’ve been up to Tobey’s to select the furniture, and Marshall Field is doing the decorating. We’ll keep our engagement dark until after the nomination in the spring. Then we’ll have a big wedding, run over to Atlantic City for the honeymoon, and come back fit for the fall campaign.”
“Atlantic City? My God!” said Matthew, and then stopped as the door opened to admit the Honorable Sammy Scott.
Sammy was uneasy these days. He was in hot water over this legislature business, and he vaguely scented danger to his power and machine beyond this. First of all he could only square things with Corruthers and his followers by a good lump of money, if Matthew were nominated; and even then, they would try to knife him. Now Sammy’s visible source for more money was more laxity in the semi-criminal districts and bribes from interests who wanted bills to pass the legislature. Sammy had given freer rein to the red-light district and doubted if he could do more there or collect much more money without inviting in the reformers. Big business seemed his only resort, but here he was not sure of Matthew. There might be a few nominees who were willing to pay a bit for the honor, but Matthew was not among these. Sara was managing his campaign, and she was too close and shrewd to cough up much. Then, too, Sammy was uneasy about Sara and Matthew. They were mighty thick and chummy and always having conferences. If he himself had been a marrying man—
“Say, Towns,” he said genially, “I think I got that nomination cinched, but it’s gonna take a pot of dough. Oh, well, what of it? You’ve got the inside track.”
“Unless Corruthers
