A Fountain Sealed | Page 4

gaze so long
and so reproachful upon her that the discontent gave way to an
affectionate compunction. "The truth is, Mary, that I'm jealous; I'm
petty; I'm horrid. I don't like sharing you. I like you to like me most,
and not to find other people wonderful."
"If you own that you are naughty, Rose, dear, and that you try hard to
be naughtier than you really are, I can't be angry with you. But it does
hurt me, for your own sake, to see you--really malicious, dear."
"Oh, dear! Am I that?"

"Really you are."
"Because I called Imogen Upton a saint in velvet?--and like her mother
so much, much more?"
"Yes, because of that--and all the rest. As for jealousy, one doesn't love
people more because they are wonderful. One is glad of them and one
longs to share them. It's one of my dearest hopes that you may come to
care for Imogen as I do--and as Jack does."
Rose listened, her head bent forward, her eyes, ambiguous in their
half-ironic, half-tender, meaning, on her friend; but she only said, "I
shall remain in love with you, Mary." She didn't say again, though she
was thinking it, that Jack was very foolish.

II
"Darling, darling Mother:
"I know too well what you have been feeling since the cable reached
you; and first of all I want to help you to bear it by telling you at once
that you could not have reached him in time. You must not reproach
yourself for that.
"I am shattered by this long day. Father died early this morning, but I
must hold what strength I have, firmly, for you, and tell you all that you
will want to hear. He would have wished that; you know how he felt
about a selfish yielding to grief.
"He seemed quite well until the beginning of this week--five days
ago--but he was never strong; the long struggle that life must always
mean to those who face life as he did, wore on him more and more; for
others' sakes he often assumed a buoyancy of manner that, I am
sure,--one feels these things by intuition of those one loves--often hid
suffering and intense weariness. It was just a case of the sword wearing
out the scabbard. A case of, 'Yes, uphill to the very end.' I know that
you did not guess how fragile the scabbard had become, and you must

not reproach yourself, darling, for that either. We are hardly masters of
the intuitions that warn us of these things. Death teaches us so much,
and, beside him, looking at his quiet face, so wonderful in its peace and
triumph, I have learned many lessons. He has seemed to teach me, in
his silence, the gentler, deeper sympathy with temperament. You
couldn't help it, darling, I seem to understand that more and more. You
weren't at the place, so to speak, where he could help you. Oh, I want to
be so tender with you, my mother,--and to help you to wise, strong
tenderness toward yourself.
"On Tuesday he worked, as usual, all morning; he had thrown himself
heart and soul, as you know, into our great fight with civic
corruption--what a worker he was, what a fighter! He was so wonderful
at lunch, I remember. I had my dear little Mary Colton with me and he
held us both spellbound, talking, with all his enthusiasm and ardor, of
politics, art, life and the living of life. Mary said, when she left me that
day, that to know him had been one of the greatest things in her
experience. In the afternoon he went to a committee meeting at the
Citizens' Union. It was bitterly cold and though I begged him to be
selfish for once and take a cab, he wouldn't--you remember his Spartan
contempt of costly comforts--and I can see him now, going down the
steps, smiling, shaking his head, waving his hand, and saying with that
half-sad, half-quizzical, smile of his, 'Plenty of people who need bread
a good deal more than I need cabs, little daughter.' So, in the icy wind,
he walked to the cable-car, with its over-heated atmosphere. He got
back late, only in time to dress for dinner. Several interesting men came
and we had a splendid evening, really wonderful talk, constructive talk,
vitalizing, inspiring, of the world and the work to be done for it. I
noticed that father seemed flushed, but thought it merely the interest of
the discussion. He did not come down to breakfast next morning and
when I went to him I found him very feverish. He confessed then that
he had caught a bad chill the day before. I sent for the doctor at once,
and for a little while