XXIII
Matthew had turned and started for the library. He had glanced at the reception room. He would not have been human not to be impressed. He was going to be a member of the Congress of the United States. He was going to be the first Negro congressman since the war. No—really the first; all those earlier ones had been exceptions. He was real power. Power and money. Sara should not fool him this time. He understood her. He would have his own funds. He would, of course, follow the machine. He must keep power and get money. But he would have some independence—more and more as time flew. Until—He squared his shoulders, opened the door, and closed it behind him. The room was dimly lighted save the circle under the reading-light on the table. He looked about. No one was there. But there were voices in the hall. He waited.
Then slowly shame overwhelmed him. He was paying a price for power and money. A great, a terrible price. He was lying, cheating, stealing. He was fooling these poor, driven slaves of industry. He had listened to their arguments all this afternoon. He had meant now to meet the delegation brusquely and tell them railingly that they were idiots, that he could do little—something he’d try, but first he must get into Congress.
But he couldn’t find the words. He walked slowly over to the table and stood facing the door. It was all done. It was all over. He had sold his soul to the Devil, but this time he had sold it for something. Power? Money? Nonsense! He had sold it for beauty; for ideal beauty, fitness and curve and line; harmony and the words of the wise spoken long ago. He stood in his dinner jacket, sleek but careless, his shirt front rumpled, the satin of his lapel flicked with ash, his eyes tired and red, his hair untidy. He stood and looked at the door. The door opened; he dropped his eyes. He could not look up. He heard not the clumping tramp of a delegation, but the light step of a single person. He almost knew that it was the national president of the Box-Makers, come to make their last appeal. Somehow he had a desperate desire to defend himself before the merciless logic and wide knowledge of this official whom he had never met. She had never even written or answered his letters directly, but only through that dumpy stupid state president. She was to have been present this afternoon. She was not; only her pitiless written arraignment of his platform had been read. He had expected her tonight when he heard the delegation had arrived. But he could not look up. He simply took the paper which was handed to him, sensing the dark veil-like garments and the small hand in its cheap cotton glove. He took the paper which the woman handed him. On it was written:
“Our labor union, in return for its support, asks if you will publicly promise them that on every occasion you will cast your vote in Congress for the interests of the poor man, the employee, and the worker, whenever and wherever these interests are opposed to the interests of the rich, the employer, and the capitalist. For instance—”
Thus the paper began, and Matthew began slowly to read it. It was an absurd request. Matthew almost laughed aloud. He had thought to carry it off with a high hand, to laugh at these oafs and jolly them, insisting that first he must get to Congress, and then, of course, he would do what he could, Naturally, he was with them. Was he not a son of generations of workers? Well, then, trust him. But they had not come to argue. They were asking him to sign another paper, and to sign on the line. They could never be trusted to keep such a pledge silent. No, they would publish it to the world. Ha, ha, ha! What ghastly nonsense all this lying was! He stopped and went back to the paper and began reading it again. Something was gripping at him. Some tremendous reminder, and then suddenly the letters started out from the page and burned his gaze, they flamed and spread before him. He saw the strong beauty of the great curves, the breadth and yet delicate uplifting of the capitals, the long, sure sweep of the slurred links. Great God! That writing! He knew it as he knew his own face. His hand had started to his inner pocket—then he tried to whisper, hoarsely—
“Where—who wrote this? Who—” He looked up.
A dark figure stood by the table. An old dun-colored cloak flowed down upon her, and a veil lay across her head. Her thin dark hands, now bare and almost clawlike, gripped each other. They were colored hands. Quickly he stepped forward. And she came like a soft mist, unveiled and uncloaked before him. Always she seemed to come thus suddenly into his life. And yet perhaps it was he himself that supplied the surprise and sudden wonder. Perhaps in reality she had always come quite naturally to him, as she came now.
She was different, yet every difference emphasized something eternally marvelous. Her hair was cut short. All that long, cloudlike hair, the length and breadth of it, was gone; but still it nestled about her head like some halo. Her gown was loose, ill-fitting, straight; her hands, hard, wore no jewels, but were calloused, with broken nails. The small soft beauty of her face had become stronger and set in still lines. Only in the steadfast glory of her eyes showed unchanged the Princess. She watched him gravely as he searched her with his eyes; and then suddenly Matthew awoke.
Then suddenly the intolerable truth gripped him. He lifted his hands to heaven, stretched
