________________________________________________
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!"
THE END.
EXPIATION, by Edith Wharton.
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