uncle’s grief at her ingratitude was not untempered with sympathy for Mr. Clinch.
It is not surprising, therefore, that the Bishop’s warmest greetings were always reserved for Mrs. Fetherel; and on this occasion Mrs. Clinch thought she detected, in the salutation which fell to her share, a pronounced suggestion that her own presence was superfluous—a hint which she took with her usual imperturbable good humor.
II
Left alone with the Bishop, Mrs. Fetherel sought the nearest refuge from conversation by offering him a cup of tea. The Bishop accepted with the preoccupied air of a man to whom, for the moment, tea is but a subordinate incident. Mrs. Fetherel’s nervousness increased; and knowing that the surest way of distracting attention from one’s own affairs is to affect an interest in those of one’s companion, she hastily asked if her uncle had come to town on business.
“On business—yes—” said the Bishop in an impressive tone. “I had to see my publisher, who has been behaving rather unsatisfactorily in regard to my last book.”
“Ah—your last book?” faltered Mrs. Fetherel, with a sickening sense of her inability to recall the name or nature of the work in question, and a mental vow never again to be caught in such ignorance of a colleague’s productions.
“‘Through a Glass Brightly,’” the Bishop explained, with an emphasis which revealed his detection of her predicament. “You may remember that I sent you a copy last Christmas?”
“Of course I do!” Mrs. Fetherel brightened. “It was that delightful story of the poor consumptive girl who had no money, and two little brothers to support—”
“Sisters—idiot sisters—” the Bishop gloomily corrected.
“I mean sisters; and who managed to collect money enough to put up a beautiful memorial window to her—her grandfather, whom she had never seen—”
“But whose sermons had been her chief consolation and support during her long struggle with poverty and disease.” The Bishop gave the satisfied sigh of the workman who reviews his completed task. “A touching subject, surely; and I believe I did it justice; at least, so my friends assured me.”
“Why, yes—I remember there was a splendid review of it in the ‘Reredos’!” cried Mrs. Fetherel, moved by the incipient instinct of reciprocity.
“Yes—by my dear friend Mrs. Gollinger, whose husband, the late Dean Gollinger, was under very particular obligations to me. Mrs. Gollinger is a woman of rare literary acumen, and her praise of my book was unqualified; but the public wants more highly seasoned fare, and the approval of a thoughtful churchwoman carries less weight than the sensational comments of an illiterate journalist.” The Bishop lent a meditative eye on his spotless gaiters. “At the risk of horrifying you, my dear,” he added, with a slight laugh, “I will confide to you that my best chance of a popular success would be to have my book denounced by the press.”
“Denounced?” gasped Mrs. Fetherel. “On what ground?”
“On the ground of immorality.” The Bishop evaded her startled gaze. “Such a thing is inconceivable to you, of course; but I am only repeating what my publisher tells me. If, for instance, a critic could be induced—I mean, if a critic were to be found, who called in question the morality of my heroine in sacrificing her own health and that of her idiot sisters in order to put up a memorial window to her grandfather, it would probably raise a general controversy in the newspapers, and I might count on a sale of ten or fifteen thousand within the next year. If he described her as morbid or decadent, it might even run to twenty thousand; but that is more than I permit myself to hope. In fact, I should be satisfied with any general charge of immorality.” The Bishop sighed again. “I need hardly tell you that I am actuated by no mere literary ambition. Those whose opinion I most value have assured me that the book is not without merit; but, though it does not become me to dispute their verdict, I can truly say that my vanity as an author is not at stake. I have, however, a special reason for wishing to increase the circulation of ‘Through a Glass Brightly’; it was written for a purpose—a purpose I have greatly at heart—”
“I know,” cried his niece sympathetically. “The chantry window—?”
“Is still empty, alas! and I had great hopes that, under Providence, my little book might be the means of filling it. All our wealthy parishioners have given lavishly to the cathedral, and it was for this reason that, in writing ‘Through a Glass,’ I addressed my appeal more especially to the less well-endowed, hoping by the example of my heroine to stimulate the collection of small sums throughout the entire diocese, and perhaps beyond it. I am sure,” the Bishop feelingly concluded, “the book would have a wide-spread influence if people could only be induced to read it!”
His conclusion touched a fresh thread of association in Mrs. Fetherel’s vibrating nerve-centers. “I never thought of that!” she cried.
The Bishop looked at her inquiringly.
“That one’s books may not be read at all! How dreadful!” she exclaimed.
He smiled faintly. “I had not forgotten that I was addressing an authoress,” he said. “Indeed, I should not have dared to inflict my troubles on any one not of the craft.”
Mrs. Fetherel was quivering with the consciousness of her involuntary self-betrayal. “Oh, uncle!” she murmured.
“In fact,” the Bishop continued, with a gesture which seemed to brush away her scruples, “I came here partly to speak to you about your novel. ‘Fast and Loose,’ I think you call it?”
Mrs. Fetherel blushed assentingly.
“And is it out yet?” the Bishop continued.
“It came out about a week ago. But you haven’t touched your tea, and it must be quite cold. Let me give you another cup…”
“My reason for asking,” the Bishop went on, with the bland inexorableness with which, in his younger days, he had been known to continue a sermon after the senior warden had looked four times at his watch—“my reason for asking is, that I hoped I might not be too late to induce you to change the title.”
Mrs. Fetherel set down the cup she had filled. “The title?” she faltered.
