# Tales of the City Room/The Wife of the Candidate

​THE WIFE OF THE
CANDIDATE

### THE WIFE OF THE CANDIDATE

THE little convent chapel was brilliant with light and flooded with music. On the great altar hundreds of wax candles blazed, and on every side there were banks of tall lilies whose perfume mingled with the incense that added an oppressive element to the heavy sweetness of the air. The magnificently solemn chords of the Stabat Mater came from an organ hidden by a latticed screen.
The Dominican priest had finished his remarks, his voice softening and lingering over the final words. His eyes, whose expression had been calm almost to coldness, softened also as he turned them upon the white-robed figure at his feet. Their glance seemed to convey the last warning of the confessor and friend to this woman who was voluntarily giving up the world for the cell of a cloistered nun. He knew better than others what she was renouncing. He also knew better the ​battle she would have to wage before she could find the peace she sought. A tender sympathy for the woman so courageously entering upon this warfare crept into the austere calmness of the look he fixed upon her as he ended the remarks which were a part of the impressive ceremonies of her reception in the great conventual order.
Ruth Herrick, sitting in a pew well toward the front, saw the look and wondered. To her the sacrifice seemed a worse than needless one. Earlier in the afternoon, as she had wandered through the old convent garden and marked the contrast of its peace and quiet to the city's roar, it had seemed to her that one might rest here contentedly for a time. She had felt almost in sympathy with the young nun whose dramatic farewell to the world she had come to see. Then she had gone into the crowded chapel, and her mood had changed as the ceremonies went on. They had brought before her very vividly all that conventual life implied.
From the journalistic point of view she rejoiced in their pathos and impressiveness, which would lend color and interest to her ​special story for the Sunday "Searchlight." She mentally thanked anew the friend who had secured her admission and who was now crying softly at her side. Miss Van Orden was subject to gusts of emotion which she seemed to enjoy at the time and which invariably left her much refreshed. She was a close friend of the candidate for the veil, and to-day's attack was therefore justified. Miss Herrick, acutely conscious of her own want of harmony with the gloom about her, reminded herself that she was the only person present who was a stranger to the postulant, and also that she was there solely in her reporter's capacity. She was not, however, wholly unmoved by the spectacle. She had studied the calm and beautiful face of the central figure in the drama, and she felt that this well-poised woman of the world had not turned her back on life with out fully realizing the step she was taking. She was giving up wealth and position and friends. She was burying great beauty and many gifts. She was resigning all possibility of wifehood, motherhood, or any earthly love—for what? Miss Herrick, with her strictly ​practical views of life, could not answer the question. She felt sure that the nun had asked it of herself and had found the reply.
The reporter sank back in the pew and let her eyes rest again on the slender figure kneeling at the prie-dleu in front of the altar railing. The nun's face was buried now in her hands. The train of her white gown swept around her,—a billowy mass of silk and lace that was reflected in the gleaming surface of the polished floor. Her long veil and the orange-blossoms in her hair and on her bosom looked oddly out of place, symbolic though they were of her marriage to the Church. She was the only postulant, but the pomp of the function in her behalf was as great as though many others were taking the veil with her. Miss Herrick looked at the white-robed priests before the altar, listened to the melodious sighing of the organ and the sobs of the women around her, and felt dreamily that all this splendid ceremony was but a proper recognition of the oblation of one brilliant young life. How would it seem that night, she wondered, when the music had ceased and the lights had gone out ​and the great convent lay dark and lonely within its gray walls? Would the nun, in her stone cell, sleep in peace? Or might there not be, after the strain of the day and its last farewells, some haunting fears and doubts that raised their heads too late?
The postulant had risen, and her friends pressed forward. The last farewells were to be spoken in a small room adjoining the chapel. They were to be last farewells in very truth. Never again would Dolores Mendoza, now Sister Ethelbert, touch the lips or the hands of a friend in greeting. Once a year one might speak to her and get a glimpse of her face through the convent bars. But there could be no closer meeting.
They were weeping as they crowded around her in the anteroom, and Ruth Herrick, swept there by the energetic though still subdued Miss Van Orden, felt strangely out of place. She lingered in the background near a little open window that looked into the convent garden. The perfume of old-fashioned flowers filled the air, and she heard the cheerful buzzing of the bees among them. She tried to keep her professional eye not too ​closely observant of the partings around her. From time to time she heard the sound of Sister Ethelbert's voice, and she noticed that in all the leave-taking its rich contralto tones were the only ones that were perfectly steady. In the centre of the group of friends the new Dominican Sister stood, a little pale and with a patient sweetness in her brown eyes, but carrying herself with a noble dignity through the trying ordeal. They came to her one by one, and she kissed each friend twice, with a few murmured words that were full of affection. Then they turned from her sobbing and left the room.
"Are her relatives here?" asked Miss Herrick in a whisper, as the group grew gradually smaller. "I don t see any one who resembles her—or who could be compared to her, for that matter," she added.
"No," Miss Van Orden replied promptly, "these are only friends. Her father and mother are dead, and the only relative she has lives somewhere out West, I believe. They say they are not on good terms. Dolores never spoke of any living relatives. She had plenty of money and lived her own life abroad ​and here in the East. She is twenty-seven now and absolutely her own mistress. Come, I want you to meet her."
Before the newspaper woman could demur she found herself drawn by her friend toward the nun. Nearly everybody had gone, and the splendid figure in bridal attire was already moving toward the door. Miss Van Orden, spoiled and petted and a law unto herself, laid a detaining hand lightly on her arm.
"Before you go," she said, "I want my friend, Miss Herrick, to meet you. Miss Herrick thinks that what you are doing is all wrong, but she is full of admiration for the way you are doing it."
The worldly speech and the little laugh that accompanied it tempered the inopportuneness of the presentation. Sister Ethelbert's lips parted in a quick smile.
"I regret there is not time," she said brightly, "to convince Miss Herrick that what I am doing is wholly right." The serenity of the eyes, fixed on the reporter's face with a sweet, unfaltering gaze, went far toward confirming Miss Herrick in her opinion that this woman had her own mind ​very thoroughly convinced on the subject. After a slight pause the nun added quietly:—
"You must not carry away a false impression. Try to believe that there is happiness here for those who seek it in the right spirit."
She had retained the girl's hand in her own, and, as she finished speaking, on a gracious impulse bent her head and lightly kissed this stranger who doubted the wisdom of her course, first on one cheek, then on the other.
"Good-by," she said, with the same sweet gravity.
The long train of heavy white silk swept over the polished floor with a worldly rustle as she walked away. A moment more, and the last of the glistening fabric had vanished through an open door, which closed upon the stately figure. Sister Ethelbert had left the world.
Ruth Herrick drew a long breath and turned to Miss Van Orden.
"Do you realize," she asked, with brusque earnestness, "that that woman gave the last precious moments of her life in the world to ​me? I, a perfect stranger to her, had her last words and her last kiss. It does n't seem right. Why did you bring me forward?"
Miss Van Orden laughed and drew her young friend out into the quiet of the convent garden. She had recovered her equanimity and was prepared to look at all things in a cheerful and philosophic light.
"My dear girl," she said lightly, "don't be absurd. There is no one here who had a better right to her last moment than you. Of course we are all her friends, but we have only the claim and affection of friends. Dolores was one of the most brilliant and fascinating women I ever met. You see, I already use the past tense. She had insisted on burying herself, and we have harrowed our souls by attending her funeral. Everybody will now go home and eat dinner with a wholly normal appetite. It's the way of the world. One can't afford to mourn even as much as one ought to. I am going to get some of that pink lemonade the lay sisters are offering visitors in the reception-room, and bring it here to drink in this hallowed spot. Don't you want some?"
​"Thank you, yes," replied the younger woman, settling herself comfortably in the shadow of the fountain. The heat of the day was over, and the twilight hour in the scented garden was very grateful.
"I am sure there must be somebody," she mused, "who really loves that woman, and whose heart is the one that is pained most by the ceremony to-day. That is the person who ought to have had those very last words and that last caress which were given to me. But it was n't my fault."
More than a year later the country was in the throes of a great political campaign. It had been conclusively proven by the news papers that the opponent of the candidate whose cause they espoused was a man absolutely unfit, mentally and morally, for the high place he sought, and whose administration, were he elected, would stand forever as a black page in the nation's history. Local news was cut to pieces or pushed wholly aside to make room for the national questions of the day and their countless ramifications. On several occasions during the great ​struggle, Fame, passing by many who had worked and waited for its coming, paused beside some unknown, and, bringing him forward, gave him a place on the platform toward which the eyes of the country were turned.
When Fame laid such hands on the Honorable Robert Eddington and thrust him before the public's gaze, the Honorable Robert's wife was probably the one person in the land not acutely surprised. Mrs. Eddington admired her husband very much, and had long felt that the country would some day need his services. When the summons came she was therefore not wholly unprepared, and she was able to support her husband through the first painless shock of the experience. That was the beginning and the end of Mrs. Eddington's work in the campaign. She was but little more than twenty-eight, beautiful, and socially popular. She knew nothing about politics, and, beyond a serene confidence in her husband's election to the high office for which he had been nominated, cared nothing about it. She therefore permitted the Honorable Robert to manage his own campaign with the kind assistance of his friends. If she occasionally ​accompanied him on electioneering tours it was only to be with him; she preferred the quiet of her elegant home and the society of her little boy. She was enjoying both one October evening when Miss Herrick, who had been sent West by "The Searchlight" to write campaign specials, called to interview her on the position of American women in politics.
Mrs. Eddington knew nothing about the position of American women in politics, and frankly said so to the young reporter whom she received very graciously, coming as she did with a letter of introduction from a friend. The wife of the candidate placidly avowed that she held old-fashioned views on the woman question. She afforded the journalist, however, a very good two-column interview on "Woman in the Home," which made the copy-reader sniff contemptuously, and brought a flood of commendatory letters to the editor from the "Constant Readers" of the paper.
As Mrs. Eddington talked, Miss Herrick studied her face, and was impressed by its striking resemblance to one she had seen before. Those brown eyes with the peculiar ​glint in them when the woman laughed, the fashion in which the long lashes curled down on the cheek, the beautiful contour of the face, the waves of black hair coiled low on the neck, the turn of the head, a certain trick of speech, the very intonations of the voice—where had she met them all?
"You must not carry away a false impression," said her hostess, as the interview drew to a close, and her listener had the odd sensation of having heard her say this some time in the past. Mrs. Eddington, seeing the reporter's puzzled expression, smiled—and suddenly the rich tones of the library, lit up by the cheerful glow from the open grate, faded away, and a cold, bare room opening off a convent garden took its place. The white-robed figure standing there had said the same words with the same voice, the same gesture,—yes, the same smile. Miss Herrick remembered.
It was with a new thrill of interest that she looked again at the face before her. How vivid the resemblance was! But the interview was over and she closed her notebook. Her hostess, leaning back in her chair, was ​regarding her intently. Outside, a band played national airs as a delicate compliment to the candidate, who had just returned from a trip through the State, and there were already growing shouts for a speech from the enthusiastic townsmen who had assembled to welcome him home.
"If you don't mind," said Mrs. Eddington, with a slight foreign shrug, "I should like to know if there is any special reason for your looking at me so intently."
"Was I staring? I—I beg your pardon," stammered the newspaper woman. "I could n't help it. From the moment I saw you I 've been trying to recall where I could have seen a face like yours before, and it has just come to me. The resemblance is most extraordinary."
"Really," murmured the other woman, with wonder. She had bent down as if to speak to her little son, who stood at her knee, but there was a sudden flash of interest in her eyes.
"Yes," said Miss Herrick, thoughtfully, her eyes still fastened on the other. "It was a nun—the central figure of the most ​dramatic ceremony I ever witnessed. I saw her take the veil and enter a community of the most severely cloistered Dominican nuns a year ago. But I beg your pardon. I must not detain you any longer." She had risen and extended her hand in farewell, but her hostess, instead of taking it, motioned to her to resume her seat.
"Don't go, please, until you have told me all about that—nun," she said hastily, and with a strained note in her voice which the ear of the reporter instantly detected. "I—I should like to hear it. It must have been very interesting." She lifted her boy into her lap as she spoke, and the dancing flames of the open fire on the hearth touched his yellow head with brighter tints of gold. Outside the band was playing still, its softer tones almost drowned by the voices of the crowd.
"You 're quite sure it won't bore you?" asked the newspaper woman, sinking into her seat again. An idea had flashed into her mind and she felt her way cautiously.
"Quite," echoed her hostess. "Please tell me all about it. There must be something of ​more than usual interest in the character of a woman who gives up everything for a conventual life." She had regained her self-control and her voice and glance were steady, if hurried.
"She was one of the most beautiful women I ever saw," began Miss Herrick, quietly, "and I have been told she was brilliant and charming as well. I had never met her before, and I had only a moment with her then as she was saying a last good-by to her friends. She was so calm and strong through the whole dreadful ordeal that my heart went out to her. It is horrible to see such a woman burying herself alive. She could have done so much in the world if she had been content to remain there. But somehow I fancied that she had been unhappy. She seemed to have no relatives, and though a great many of her friends were there and they wept a good deal, they were all cheerful enough when it was over."
Miss Herrick paused, but there was no comment from her hostess. The room was growing dark. The firelight, falling on the two figures in the big chair, showed the ​mother's face buried in her little boy's soft curls.
"The friend who had taken me there," resumed the newspaper woman, "swept me into the room in which the farewells were going on; and when they were over and almost everybody was gone, she introduced me to the nun. We talked for a moment, and then to my surprise she kissed me good-by as she had kissed the others. She left the room immediately, and so it happened that I had her very last moment in the world and her last caress. I told Miss Van Orden afterward that it did n't seem right for a stranger to get such a precious thing when it belonged by every right to somebody who really loved her. Miss Van Orden laughed and seemed to think there was no one who would have appreciated it any more than I did."
A queer little quavering sound came from the big chair. Miss Herrick glanced at the woman there, and then turned her eyes toward the fire. The suspicion in her mind had become a certainty.
"There is not much more to tell," she said, "except that later we were permitted to ​look at her through the convent bars. She had changed her wedding-gown and orange-blossoms for the white serge habit of the Dominican Order. On her head she wore a long veil, and on that was pressed a crown of thorns. There were two gratings three or four feet apart and she was beyond the inner one. We could not so much as touch her finger. No friend ever can again, according to the rules of that particular branch of the Order. She was pale, almost ghastly, after the strain of the day, and her dark eyes looked very tired—but she was her royal self to the last."
"Her royal self. That is it. She was always that—my Dolores."
Low as the words were, Miss Herrick caught them and looked up. Mrs. Eddington was leaning forward, forgetful of her sleeping son, staring at the fire with unseeing eyes. Its light brought out in full relief her wet cheeks and the strong emotion in her face. The reporter rose quietly and took the sleeping child from his mother's lap. She rang the bell and gave him to the nurse who responded. Then she went back to her seat. ​Mrs. Eddington, looking up for the first time, met the other's dark gray eyes. The deep and quiet sympathy of their glance dispelled any lingering reluctance to laying bare her heart.
"We are sisters—twin sisters," she said, speaking rapidly and with an evident effort. "We adored each other, but we quarrelled. There is the whole story. We were both proud, and each refused to make the first advances, though both our hearts ached, I am sure. Think of it! We were all alone in the world, and yet we drifted apart. She went abroad and studied; I remained in this country and married. At long intervals I heard of her as she must have heard of me, but our paths did not cross. Our friends, our tastes, our environments, were all so different. The only thing we had in common was the memory of our dead parents and the affection for each other that still lived through all the pride and anger which tried to stifle it. If I had ever heard that she was unhappy or in trouble I would have written her at once, but the few reports that came to me represented her as living a full, rounded, brilliant, ​happy life. There has not been a day in which the thought of her has not been with me, an undercurrent in everything I did or said. When I have seen little children together I have thought of the days when Dolores and I played in childish love and happiness, and of the nights when one of us would creep out of her own little bed to go and sleep in the other's arms."
She stopped for a moment.
"Can you understand it?" she went on. "I cannot. It is one of those incredible things that happen in real life. A year ago, after I had lost trace of her for a long time, she wrote me. It was the first time since we were parted. The letter was dated from the convent. She had been staying there, it seems. She told me that she had decided to take the veil and that there was no longer any bitterness in her heart toward me; nothing but love. I wrote at once, imploring her to reconsider her decision and to come to me. I begged and entreated and humbled myself in the dust—to no effect. There was no reply. I feel now that they may not have allowed her to write—and perhaps she did ​not even receive my letter. But I was cut to the very heart by what I thought her cruel indifference at the time—and I, too, tried to forget. I have heard nothing of her since until to-day. You have brought me the end of the story. She is dead to me now indeed, and I have never realized until this moment how strong my hope has been that we should some day come together again—my sister Dolores and I."
Her face was buried in her hands as the nun Ethelbert's had been in the convent chapel. Tears trickled through her fingers, and lent a heartless brilliance to the rings that sparkled upon them.
There was a wild cheer from the street. The candidate had appeared in the balcony below, and now, in the silence that followed his greeting, he began to make a speech. A few of the sonorous, grandiloquent periods floated through the half-opened window. Mrs. Eddington did not hear them. The wife of the candidate was never less interested in politics than at that moment.
"If I could only feel that she is happy," she cried; "but I cannot think she is. Our ​natures were too much alike. Why should I have all and she nothing? Think of it—husband, child, home, love, all mine. And what has she?"
"She told me she knew that she was doing right," Miss Herrick said with quiet force, "and she said there was peace and happiness in the convent for one who sought it in the right spirit. And, pardon me, Mrs. Eddington, but let me say one thing before I go." She had risen again and was looking at the other woman with a very genuine and gentle sympathy. Mrs. Eddington rose too, regaining her self-control with a thoroughness which made Miss Herrick once more recall that other who had renounced husband, children, home, and human love.
"I am sadly conscious that it is not in my power to say anything that can fully cheer or comfort you," Miss Herrick said slowly. "But it seems to me that you and your sister are nearer to-day than you have been since your estrangement. There is no bitterness between you. She has told you so and you feel none. Each of you knows that there is a sister's love in the other's heart. You ​understand each other at last. You can write to her, or you can even see her and tell her so. And do you not see that there might never have been this reconciliation if she had remained in this great, busy world?"
She put out her hands. Mrs. Eddington grasped them and held them tightly pressed in her own. Their position recalled to her vividly a tender memory which swept away her self-control. She leaned forward, and, with quivering lips, kissed the newspaper woman on each cheek.
"I am sure," she said brokenly, "that Dolores kissed you good-by in that way, in our Spanish fashion. You do not mind if I seem to take that last caress of hers in this way, do you? You know you felt it belonged to me."