"Yes; he really does. When the funds for the window were so
mysteriously placed at his disposal, just as he had begun to despair of
raising them, he assured me that he could not help connecting the fact
with his denunciation of your book."
"Dear uncle!" sighed Mrs. Fetherel. "Did he say that?"
"And now," continued Mrs. Gollinger, with cumulative rapture--"now that
you are about to show, by appearing at the ceremony to-day, that there
has been no break in your friendly relations, the dear Bishop's
happiness will be complete. He was so longing to have you come to the
unveiling!"
"He might have counted on me," said Mrs. Fetherel, still smiling.
"Ah, that is so beautifully forgiving of you!" cried Mrs. Gollinger,
enthusiastically. "But then, the Bishop has always assured me that your
real nature was very different from that which--if you will pardon my
saying so--seems to be revealed by your brilliant but--er--rather
subversive book. 'If you only knew my niece, dear Mrs. Gollinger,' he
always said, 'you would see that her novel was written in all innocence
of heart;' and to tell you the truth, when I first read the book I
didn't think it so very, _very_ shocking. It wasn't till the dear
Bishop had explained tome--but, dear me, I mustn't take up your time in
this way when so many others are anxious to have a word with you."
Mrs. Fetherel glanced at her in surprise, and Mrs. Gollinger continued,
with a playful smile: "You forget that your face is familiar to
thousands whom you have never seen. We all recognized you the moment
you entered the train, and my friends here are so eager to make your
acquaintance--even those"--her smile deepened--"who thought the dear
Bishop not _quite unjustified_ in his attack on your remarkable novel."
V
A religious light filled the chantry of Ossining Cathedral, filtering
through the linen curtain which veiled the central window, and mingling
with the blaze of tapers on the richly adorned altar.
In this devout atmosphere, agreeably laden with the incense-like aroma
of Easter lilies and forced lilacs, Mrs. Fetherel knelt with a sense of
luxurious satisfaction. Beside her sat Archer Hynes, who had remembered
that there was to be a church scene in his next novel, and that his
impressions of the devotional environment needed refreshing. Mrs.
Fetherel was very happy. She was conscious that her entrance had sent a
thrill through the female devotees who packed the chantry, and she had
humor enough to enjoy the thought that, but for the good Bishop's
denunciation of her book, the heads of his flock would not have been
turned so eagerly in her direction. Moreover, as she had entered she
had caught sight of a society reporter, and she knew that her presence,
and the fact that she was accompanied by Hynes, would be conspicuously
proclaimed in the morning papers. All these evidences of the success of
her handiwork might have turned a calmer head than Mrs. Fetherel's; and
though she had now learned to dissemble her gratification, it still
filled her inwardly with a delightful glow.
The Bishop was somewhat late in appearing, and she employed the
interval in meditating on the plot of her next novel, which was already
partly sketched out, but for which she had been unable to find a
satisfactory denouement. By a not uncommon process of ratiocination,
Mrs. Fetherel's success had convinced her of her vocation. She was sure
now that it was her duty to lay bare the secret plague-spots of
society, and she was resolved that there should be no doubt as to the
purpose of her new book. Experience had shown her that where she had
fancied she was calling a spade a spade she had in fact been alluding
in guarded terms to the drawing-room shovel. She was determined not to
repeat the same mistake, and she flattered herself that her coming
novel would not need an episcopal denunciation to insure its sale,
however likely it was to receive this crowning evidence of success.
She had reached this point in her meditations when the choir burst into
song and the ceremony of the unveiling began. The Bishop, almost always
felicitous in his addresses to the fair sex, was never more so than
when he was celebrating the triumph of one of his cherished purposes.
There was a peculiar mixture of Christian humility and episcopal
exultation in the manner with which he called attention to the
Creator's promptness in responding to his demand for funds, and he had
never been more happily inspired than in eulogizing the mysterious gift
of the chantry window.
Though no hint of the donor's identity had been allowed to escape him,
it was generally understood that the Bishop knew who had given the
window, and the congregation awaited in a flutter of suspense the
possible announcement of a name. None came, however, though the Bishop
deliciously titillated the curiosity of his flock by circling ever
closer about the interesting secret. He would not disguise from them,
he said, that the heart which had divined his inmost wish had been a
woman's--is it not to woman's intuitions that more than half the
happiness of earth is owing? What man is obliged to learn by the
laborious process of experience, woman's wondrous instinct tells her at
a glance; and so it had been with this cherished scheme, this
unhoped-for completion of their beautiful chantry. So much, at least,
he was allowed to reveal; and indeed, had he not done so, the window
itself would have spoken for him, since the first glance at its
touching subject and exquisite design would show it to have originated
in a woman's heart. This tribute to the sex was received with an
audible sigh of contentment, and the Bishop, always stimulated by such
evidence of his sway over his hearers, took up his theme with gathering
eloquence.
Yes--a woman's heart had planned the gift, a woman's hand had executed
it, and, might he add, without too far withdrawing the veil in which
Christian beneficence ever loved to drape its acts--might he add that,
under Providence, a book, a simple book, a mere tale, in fact, had had
its share in the good work for which they were assembled to give thanks?
At this unexpected announcement, a ripple of excitement ran through the
assemblage, and more than one head was abruptly turned in the direction
of Mrs. Fetherel, who sat listening in an agony of wonder and
confusion. It did not escape the observant novelist at her side that
she drew down her veil to conceal an uncontrollable blush, and this
evidence of dismay caused him to fix an attentive gaze on her, while
from her seat across the aisle, Mrs. Gollinger sent a smile of unctuous
approval.
"A book--a simple book--" the Bishop's voice went on above this flutter
of mingled emotions. "What is a book? Only a few pages and a little
ink--and yet one of the mightiest instruments which Providence has
devised for shaping the destinies of man . .. one of the most powerful
influences for good or evil which the Creator has placed in the hands
of his creatures..."
The air seemed intolerably close to Mrs. Fetherel, and she drew out her
scent-bottle, and then thrust it hurriedly away, conscious that she was
still the center of an unenviable attention. And all the while the
Bishop's voice droned on...
"And of all forms of literature, fiction is doubtless that which has
exercised the greatest sway, for good or ill, over the passions and
imagination of the masses. Yes, my friends, I am the first to
acknowledge it--no sermon, however eloquent, no theological treatise,
however learned and convincing, has ever inflamed the heart and
imagination like a novel--a simple novel. Incalculable is the power
exercised over humanity by the great magicians of the pen--a power ever
enlarging its boundaries and increasing its responsibilities as popular
education multiplies the number of readers....Yes, it is the novelist's
hand which can pour balm on countless human sufferings, or inoculate
mankind with the festering poison of a corrupt imagination...."
Mrs. Fetherel had turned white, and her eyes were fixed with a blind
stare of anger on the large-sleeved figure in the center of the chancel.
"And too often, alas, it is the poison and not the balm which the
unscrupulous hand of genius proffers to its unsuspecting readers. But,
my friends, why should I continue? None know better than an assemblage
of Christian women, such as I am now addressing, the beneficent or
baleful influences of modern fiction; and so, when I say that this
beautiful chantry window of ours owes its existence in part to the
romancer's pen"--the Bishop paused, and bending forward, seemed to seek
a certain face among the countenances eagerly addressed to his--"when I
say that this pen, which for personal reasons it does not become me to
celebrate unduly--"
Mrs. Fetherel at this point half rose, pushing back her chair, which
scraped loudly over the marble floor; but Hynes involuntarily laid a
warning hand on her arm, and she sank down with a confused murmur about
the heat.
"--When I confess that this pen, which for once at least has proved
itself so much mightier than the sword, is that which was inspired to
trace the simple narrative of 'Through a Glass Brightly'"--Mrs.
Fetherel looked up with a gasp of mingled relief and anger--"when I
tell you, my dear friends, that it was your Bishop's own work which
first roused the mind of one of his flock to the crying need of a
chantry window, I think you will admit that I am justified in
celebrating the triumphs of the pen, even though it be the modest
instrument which your own Bishop wields."
The Bishop paused impressively, and a faint gasp of surprise and
disappointment was audible throughout the chantry. Something very
different from this conclusion had been expected, and even Mrs.
Gollinger's lips curled with a slightly ironic smile. But Archer
Hynes's attention was chiefly reserved for Mrs. Fetherel, whose face
had changed with astonishing rapidity from surprise to annoyance, from
annoyance to relief, and then back again to something very like
indignation.
The address concluded, the actual ceremony of the unveiling was about
to take place, and the attention of the congregation soon reverted to
the chancel, where the choir had grouped themselves beneath the veiled
window, prepared to burst into a chant of praise as the Bishop drew
back the hanging. The moment was an impressive one, and every eye was
fixed on the curtain. Even Hynes's gaze strayed to it for a moment, but
soon returned to his neighbor's face; and then he perceived that Mrs.
Fetherel, alone of all the persons present, was not looking at the
window. Her eyes were fixed in an indignant stare on the Bishop; a
flush of anger burned becomingly under her veil, and her hands
nervously crumpled the beautifully printed program of the ceremony.
Hynes broke into a smile of comprehension. He glanced at the Bishop,
and back at the Bishop's niece; then, as the episcopal hand was
solemnly raised to draw back the curtain, he bent and whispered in Mrs.
Fetherel's ear:
"Why, you gave it yourself! You wonderful woman, of course you gave it
yourself!"
Mrs. Fetherel raised her eyes to his with a start. Her blush deepened
and her lips shaped a hasty "No"; but the denial was deflected into the
indignant murmur--"It wasn't _his_ silly book that did it anyhow!"