“That thing? But, Matthew, dear, folks don’t have naked women in the parlor! I exchanged it for the big landscape there—it fits the space better and has a much finer frame.” Sara let the ugly Chinese god crouch in a dark corner of the library.
The nomination went through smoothly. The “election of Mr. Matthew Towns, the rising young colored politician whose romantic history we all know” (thus The Conservator) followed in due and unhindered course, despite the efforts of Corruthers to knife him.
So in June came the wedding. It was a splendid affair. Sara’s choice of a tailor was as unerringly correct as her selection of a dressmaker. They made an ideal couple as they marched down the aisle of the Michigan Avenue Baptist Tabernacle. Matthew looked almost distinguished, with that slight impression of remote melancholy; Sara seemed so capable and immaculate.
Sammy, the best man, swore under his breath. “If I’d only been a marrying man!” he confided to the pastor.
The remark was made to Matthew’s young ministerial friend, the Reverend Mr. Jameson, formerly of Memphis. He had come with his young shoulders to help lift the huge mortgages of this vast edifice, recently purchased at a fabulous price from a thrifty white congregation; the black invasion of South Side had sent them to worship Jesus Christ on the North Shore.
“Whom God hath joined together let no man put asunder,” rolled the rich tones of the minister. Matthew saw two wells of liquid light, a great roll of silken hair that fell across a skin of golden bronze, and below, a single pearl shining at the parting of two little breasts.
“Straighten your tie,” whispered Sara’s metallic voice, and his soul came plunging back across long spaces and over heavy roads. He looked up and met the politely smiling eyes of the young Memphis school teacher who once gave him fifteen cents. She was among the chief guests with her fat husband, a successful physician. They both beamed. They quite approved of Matthew now.
“ ’Tis thy marriage morning, shining in the sun,” yelled the choir, with invincible determination. The bridal pair stepped into the new Studebaker with a hired chauffeur and glided away. Matthew looked down at his slim white bride. A tenderness and pity swept over him. He slipped his arm about her shoulders.
“Be careful of the veil,” said Sara.
XI
In Springfield, Matthew was again thrust into the world. He shrank at first and fretted over it. Most of the white legislators put up at the new Abraham Lincoln—a thoroughly modern hostelry, convenient and even beautiful in parts. Matthew did not apply. He knew he would be refused. He did try the Leland, conveniently located and the former rendezvous of the members. He had dinner and luncheon there, and after he discovered the limited boardinghouse accommodation of colored Springfield, he asked for rooms—a bedroom and parlor. The management was very sorry—but—
He then went down to the colored hotel on South Eleventh Street. The hotel might do—but the neighborhood!
Finally, he found a colored private home not very far from the capitol. The surroundings were noisy and not pleasant. But the landlady was kindly, the food was excellent, and the bed comfortable. He hired two rooms here. The chief difficulty was a distinct lack of privacy. The landlady wanted to exhibit her guest as part of the family, and the public felt free to drop in early and stay late.
Gradually Matthew got used to this new publicity and began to look about. He met a world that amused and attracted him. First he sorted out two kinds of politicians. Both had one object—money. But to some Money was Power. On it they were climbing warily to dazzling heights—Senatorships, Congress, Empire! Their faces were strained, back of their carven smiles. They were walking a perpetual tight rope. Matthew hated them. Others wanted money, but they used their money with a certain wisdom. They enjoyed life. Some got gloriously and happily drunk. Others gambled, riding upon the great wings of chance to high and fascinating realms of desire. Nearly all of them ogled and played with pretty women.
On the whole, Matthew did not care particularly for their joys. Liquor gave him pleasant sensations, but not more pleasant and not as permanent as green fields or babies. He never played poker without visioning the joys of playing European politics or that high game of world races which his heart had glimpsed for one strange year—one mighty and disastrous year.
And women! If he had not met one woman—one woman who drew and filled all his imagination, all his high romance, all the wild joys and beauty of being—if she had never lived for him, he could have been a rollicking and easily satisfied Lothario and walked sweet nights out of State Street cabarets. Now he was not attracted. He had tried it once in New York. It was ashes. Moreover, he was married now, and all philandering was over. And yet—how curious that marriage should seem—well, to stop love, or arrest its growth instead of stimulating it.
He had not seen much of Sara since marriage. They had been so busy. And there had been no honeymoon, no mysterious romantic nesting; for Matthew had finally balked at Atlantic City. He tried to be gentle about it, but he showed a firmness before which Sara paused. No, he would not go to Atlantic City. He had gone there once—one summer, an age ago. He had been refused food at two restaurants, ordered out of a movie, not allowed to sit in a boardwalk pavilion, and not even permitted to bathe in the ocean.
“I will not go to Atlantic City. If I must go to hell, I’ll wait until I’m dead,” he
