Matthew arose abruptly.
“I cannot accept,” he said harshly. “I am no longer interested.”
“I am sorry,” said the Japanese slowly. He paused and pondered, started to speak as Matthew’s heart hammered in his throat. But the Japanese remained silent.
He extended his hand. Matthew took it, frowning. They murmured polite words, and the visitor was gone.
Matthew threw himself on the couch with an oath, and through his unwilling head tramped all the old pageant of empire with black and brown and yellow leaders marching ahead.
XIII
Matthew was gray with wrath. Sara was quiet and unmoved.
“Yes,” she said. “I promised them your vote, and they paid for it—a good round sum.”
Matthew had been a member of the legislature of Illinois about six months. He had made a good record. Everybody conceded that. Nothing spectacular, but his few speeches were to the point and carried weight; his work on committees had been valuable because of his accurate information and willingness to drudge. His votes, curiously enough, while not uniformly pleasing to all, had gained the praise even of the women’s clubs and of some of the reformers, whom he had chided, while at the same time the politicians regarded Matthew as a “safe” man. Matthew Towns evidently had a political future.
Yet Matthew was far from happy or satisfied. Outside his wider brooding over his career, he had not gained a home by his marriage. The flat on South Parkway was an immaculate place which must not be disturbed for mere living purposes and which blossomed with dignified magnificence. At repeated intervals crowds burst in for a reception. There was whist and conversation, dancing as far as space would allow; smoking, cocktails, and smutty stories back in the den with the men; whispers and spiteful gossip on the veranda with the ladies; and endless piles of rich food in the dining-room, served by expensive caterers.
“Mrs. Matthew Towns’ exclusive receptions for the smarter set” (thus the society reporter of The Lash) were “the most notable in colored Chicago.”
And Sara was shrewd enough, while gaining this reputation for social exclusiveness, to see that no real person of power or influence in colored Chicago was altogether slighted, so that, at least once or twice a year, one met everybody.
The result was an astonishing mélange that drove Matthew nearly crazy. He could have picked a dozen delightful companions—some educated—some derelicts—students—politicians—but all human, delightful, fine, with whom a quiet evening would have been a pleasure. But he was never allowed. Sara always had good reasons of state for including this ward heeler or that grass widow, or some shrill-voiced young woman who found herself in company of this sort for the first time in her life and proclaimed it loudly; and at the same time Sara found excuse for excluding the “nobodies” who intrigued his soul.
Matthew’s personal relations with his wife filled him with continual astonishment. He had never dreamed that two human beings could share the closest of intimacies and remain unacquainted strangers. He thought that the yielding of a woman to a man was a matter of body, mind, and soul—a complete blending. He had never forgot—shamefaced as it made him—the way that girl in Harlem had twisted her young, live body about his and soothed his tired, harassed soul and whispered, “There, Big Boy!”
Always he had dreamed of marriage as like that, hallowed by law and love. Having bowed to the law, he tried desperately to give and evoke the love, But behind Sara’s calm, cold hardness, he found nothing to evoke. She did not repress passion—she had no passion to repress. She disliked being “mauled” and disarranged, and she did not want anyone to be “mushy” about her. Her private life was entirely in public; her clothes, her limbs, her hair and complexion, her well-appointed home, her handsome, well-tailored husband and his career; her reputation for wealth.
Periodically Matthew chided himself that their relations were his fault. He was painfully conscious of his lack of deep affection for her, but he strove to evolve something in its place. He proposed a little home hidden in the country, where, on a small income from their rents, they could raise a garden and live. And then, perhaps—he spoke diffidently—“a baby.” Sara had stared at him in uncomprehending astonishment.
“Certainly not!” she had answered. And she went back to the subject of the superpower bills. The legislature had really done little work during the whole session, and now as the last days drew on the real fight loomed. The great hidden powers of finance had three measures: first, to kill municipal ownership of streetcar lines; secondly, to unite all the street transportation interests of Chicago into one company with a perpetual franchise or “indeterminate permit”; thirdly, to reorganize, reincorporate, and refinance a vast holding company to conduct their united interests and take final legislative steps enabling them to monopolize electric and water power in the state and in neighboring states.
To Matthew the whole scheme was clear as day. He had promised to vote against municipal ownership, but he had never promised to support all this wider scheme. It meant power and streetcar monopoly; millions in new stocks and bonds unloaded on the public; and the soothing of public criticism by lower rates for travel, light, and power, and yet rates high enough to create several generations of millionaires to rule America. He had determined to oppose these bills, not because they were wrong, but because they were unfair. For similar reasons he had driven Casey’s gambling den out of business in his district; the roulette wheel and most of the dice were loaded.
But Sara was keen on the matter. Lines were closely drawn; there was strong opposition from reformers, Progressives, and the labor group. Money was plentiful, and Sara had pledged Matthew’s votes and
