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 been roundly paid for it.
She and Sammy were having a conference on the matter and awaiting Matthew. Sara sensed his opposition; it must be overcome. Sammy was talking.
“Don’t understand their game,” said Sammy, “but they’re lousy with money.”
“I understand it,” said Sara quietly, “and I’ve promised Matthew’s vote for their bills.”
Sammy’s eyes narrowed.
Just then, Matthew came in.
“What have you promised?” he asked, looking from one to the other.
Sara quietly gathered up her papers.
“Come home to lunch,” she said, “and I’ll tell you.”
She knew that she had to have this thing out with Matthew, and she had planned for it carefully. Sammy whistled softly to himself and did a little jig after his guests had left. He thought he saw light.
“I didn’t think that combination could last long,” he said to his new cigar. “Too perfect.”
Sara steered her Studebaker deftly through the traffic, bowing to deferential policemen at the traffic signals and recognizing well-dressed acquaintances here and shabby idlers there, who raised their hats elaborately. Matthew sat silent, mechanically lifting his hat, but glancing neither right nor left. They glided up to the curb at home, at exactly the right distance from it, and stopped before the stepping-stone. Sara flooded the carburetor, turned off the switch, and carefully locked it. Matthew handed her down, and with a smile at the staring children, they entered the lofty porch of their house. They opened the dark oaken door with a latchkey and slowly mounted the carpeted stairs. Sara remarked that the carpet was a little worn. She feared it was not as good as Carson-Pirie had represented. She would have to see about it soon.
A brown maid in a white apron smilingly let them into the apartment and said that lunch was “just ready—yes’m, I found some fine sweet potatoes after you phoned, and fried them.” Matthew loved fried sweet potatoes. They had a very excellent but rather silent lunch, although Sara talked steadily about various rather inconsequential things. Then they went to the “library,” which Matthew never used because its well-bound and carefully arranged books had scarcely a volume in which he had the slightest interest. Sara closed the door and turned on the electric log.
“I promised the superpower crowd,” she said, “that you would vote for their bills.”
It was then that Matthew went pale with wrath.
“How dared you?”
“Dared? I thought you expected me to conduct your campaign? I promised them your vote, and they paid a lot for it. Of course, it was cloaked in a real-estate transaction, but I gave them a receipt in your name and mine and deposited the money.”
Matthew felt for the flashing of a moment that he could kill this pale, hard woman before him. She felt this and inwardly quailed, but outwardly kept her grip.
“I don’t see,” she said, “any great difference between voting for these bills and against municipal ownership. It is all part of one scheme. I hope,” she added, “you’re not going to develop a conscience suddenly. As a politician with a future, you can’t afford to.”
The trouble was that Matthew himself suddenly knew that there was no real difference. It was three steps in the same direction instead of one. But the first was negative and tentative, while the three together were tremendous. They gave a monopoly of transportation and public service in Chicago to a great corporation which aimed at unlimited permission to exploit the water power of a nation forever at any price “the traffic would bear.” Of course it was no question of right and wrong. It was possible to buy privilege, as one bought votes; he himself bought votes, but—well, this was different. This privilege could be bought, of course—but not of him. It was cheating mental babies whom he did not represent—whom he did not want to represent.
He was a grafting politician. He knew it and felt no qualms about it. But he had always secretly prided himself that his exchanges were fair. The gamblers who paid him got protection; prostitutes who were straight and open need not fear the police; workers in his district could not be “shaken down” by thieves. Even in the bigger legislative deals, it was square, upstanding give and take between men with their eyes open. But this—there was no use explaining to Sara. She knew the difference as well as he. Or did she? That rankling shaft about “conscience.” He was a politician who was directly and indirectly for sale. He had no business with a conscience. He had no conscience. But he had limitations. By God! everybody had some limitations. He must have them. He would sell himself if he wished, but he wouldn’t be sold. He was not a bag of inert produce. He refused to be compelled to sell. He was no slave. He must and would be free. He wanted money for freedom. Well, he’d been sold. Where was the money? He wanted money. He must have it. There and there alone lay freedom, and his chains were becoming more than he could bear.
“Where is the money you got?” he said abruptly.
“I’ve invested it.”
“I want it.”
“You can’t get it—it’s tied up in a deal, and to disturb it would be to risk most of our fortune.”
“I’ve put some money in our joint account.”
“That’s invested too. What’s the use of money idle in a savings bank at four percent when we can make forty?”
“How much are we worth?”
“Oh, not so much,” said Sara cautiously. “Put the house minus the first mortgage at, say, fifty thousand—we may have another ten or fifteen thousand more.” Thus she figured up.
“Matthew,” she added quickly, “be sensible. In a couple of years you’ll be in Congress—the greatest market in the land, and we’ll be worth at least a hundred thousand. Oppose these bills, and you go to the political ashpile. Sammy won’t dare to use you. My mortgagees will squeeze me. The city will come down on us for violations and assessments, and first thing we know we’ll be penniless and saddled with piles of brick and mortar. As a congressman you can ignore petty graft and get in ‘honestly,’ as people say, on big things; in less than ten years, you’ll be rich and famous. Now for God’s sake, don’t be a fool!”
Matthew Towns voted for the traction group of bills, but they were defeated by an aroused public opinion which neither Republicans nor Democrats dared oppose. Matthew at the same time saved from defeat at the last moment four bills which the Progressives and Labor group were advocating. They were not radical but were entering wedges to reduce the burden on working mothers, lessen the hours of work for women, and establish the eight-hour day. One bill to restrict the power of injunctions in labor disputes failed despite Matthew’s efforts.
The result was curious. Matthew was commended by all parties. The machine regarded him as safe but shrewd. The Farmer-Labor group regarded him as beginning to see the light. The Democrats regarded him as approachable. Sara was elated. She determined to begin immediately her campaign to send Matthew to Congress.