Matthew was uncomfortable. The demon of unrest was stirring drowsily away down in the half-conscious depths of his soul. For the long months since his incarceration he had been content just to be free, to breathe and look at the sunshine. He did not think. He tried not to think. He just lived and narrowed himself to the round of his duties. As those duties expanded, he read and studied, but always in the groove of his work. Sternly he held his mind down and in. No more flights; no more dreams; no more foolishness.
Now, as he felt restless and dissatisfied, he laid it to nerves, lack of physical exercise, some hidden illness. But gradually he began to tell himself the truth. The dream, the woman, was back in his soul. The vision of world work was surging and he must kill it, stifle it now, and sternly, lest it wreck his life again. Still he was restless. He was awakening. He could feel the prickling of life in his thought, his conscience, his body. He was struggling against the return of that old ache—the sense of that void. He was angry and irritated with his apparent lack of control. If he could once fill that void, he could glimpse another life—beauty, music, books, leisure; a home that was refuge and comfort. Something must be done. Then he remembered an almost forgotten engagement.
Soon he was having tea in Sara’s flat. He began to feel more comfortable. He looked about. It was machine-made, to be sure, but it was wax-neat and in perfect order. The tea was good, and the cream—he liked cream—thick and sweet. Sara, too, in her immaculate ease was restful. He leaned back in his chair, and the brooding lifted a little from his eyes. He told Sara of a concert he had attended.
“Have you ever happened to hear Ivanoff’s ‘Caucasian Sketches’?”
Sara had not; but she said suddenly, “How would you like to go to the legislature?”
Matthew laughed carelessly. “I wouldn’t like it,” he said and sauntered over to look at a new set of books. He asked Sara if she liked Balzac. Sara had just bought the set and had not read a word. She had bought them to fill the space above the writing-desk. It was just twenty-eight inches. She let him talk on and then she gave him some seed-cakes which a neighbor had made for her. He came back and sat down. He tested the cakes, liked them, and ate several. Then Sara took up the legislature again.
“You can talk—you have read, and you have the current political questions at your fingers’ ends. Your district will stand with you to a man. Old-timers like Corruthers will knife you, but I can get you every colored woman’s vote in the ward, and they can get a number of the white women by trading.”
“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.