A Fountain Sealed | Page 5

had no anxiety. But the fever became higher and
higher and that night the doctor said that it was pneumonia.
"Dearest, dearest mother, these last days are still too much with me for
me to feel able to make you see them clearly. It is all a tragic confusion

in my mind. Everything that could be done was done to save him. He
had nurses and consultations--all the aids of science and love. I wired
for Eddy at once, and dear Jack Pennington was with me, too, so
helpful with his deep sympathy and friendship. I needed help, mother,
for it was like having my heart torn from me to see him go. He was
very calm and brave, though I am sure he knew, and once, when I sat
beside him, just put out his hand to mine and said: 'Don't grieve
overmuch, little daughter; I trust you to turn all your sorrow to noble
uses.' He spoke only once of you, dear mother, but then it was to say:
'Tell her--I forgive. Tell her not to reproach herself.' And then--it was
the saddest, sweetest summing up, and it will comfort you--'She was
like a child.' At the end he simply went--sleeping, unconscious. Oh,
mother, mother!--forgive these tears, I am weak.... He lies now,
up-stairs, looking so beautiful--like that boyish portrait, you remember,
with the uplifted, solemn gaze--only deeper, more peaceful and without
the ardor....
"Darling mother, don't bother a bit about me. Eddy and Jack will help
me in everything, all our friends are wonderful to us.--Day after
to-morrow we are to carry him to his rest.--After that, when I feel a
little stronger, I will write again. Eddy goes to you directly after the
funeral. If you need me, cable for me at once. I have many ties and
many claims here, but I will leave them all to spend the winter with you,
if you need me. For you may not feel that you care to come to us, and
perhaps it will be easier for you to bear it over there, where you have so
many friends and have made your life. So if I can be of any help, any
comfort, don't hesitate, mother dear.
"And--oh, I want to say it so lovingly, my arms around you--don't fear
that I have any hardness in my heart toward you. I loved him--with all
my soul--as you know; but if, sometimes, seeing his patient pain, I have
judged you, perhaps, with youth's over-severity,--all that is gone now. I
only feel our human weakness, our human need, our human sorrow.
Remember, darling, that our very faults, our very mistakes, are the
things that may help us to grow higher. Don't sink into a useless
self-reproach. 'Turn your sorrow to noble uses.' Use the past to light
you to the future. Build on the ruins, dear one. You have Eddy and me

to live for, and we love you. God bless you, my darling mother.
"IMOGEN."
This letter, written in a large, graceful and very legible hand, was being
read for the third time by the bereaved wife as she sat in the
drawing-room of a small house in Surrey on a cold November evening.
The room was one of the most finished comfort, comfort its main
intention, but so thoroughly attained that beauty had resulted as if
unconsciously. The tea-table, the fire, the wide windows, their chintz
curtains now drawn, were the points around which the room had so
delightfully arranged itself. It was a room a trifle overcrowded, but one
wouldn't have wanted anything taken away, the graceful confusion, on
a background of almost austere order, gave the happiest sense of
adaptability to a variety of human needs and whims. Mrs. Upton had
finished her own tea, but the flame still burned in waiting under the
silver urn; books and reviews lay in reach of a lazy hand; lamps,
candle-light and flowers made a soft radiance; a small griffon dozed
before the fire. The decoration of the room consisted mainly in French
engravings from Watteau and Chardin, in one or two fine black lacquer
cabinets and in a number of jars and vases of Chinese porcelain, some
standing on the floor and some on shelves, the neutral-tinted walls a
background to their bright, delicate colors.
Mrs. Upton was an appropriate center to so much ease and beauty. In
deep black though she was, her still girlish figure stretched out in a low
chair, her knees crossed, one foot held to the fire, she did not seem to
express woe or the poignancy of regret. The delicate appointments of
her dress, the freshness of her skin, her eyes, bright and unfatigued,
suggested nothing less than a widow plunged in remorseful grief. Her
eyes, indeed, were thoughtful, her lips, as