A Fountain Sealed | Page 7

and discomfort. For, under
everything, above everything, was the fact, and she felt herself now to
be looking it hard in the face, that Imogen had always, obviously,
emphatically, been fondest of her father. It had been from the child's
earliest days, this more than fondness, this placid partizanship. In
looking back it seemed to her that Imogen had always disapproved of
her, had always shown her disapproval, gently, even tenderly, but with
a sad firmness. Her liberation from her husband's standard was all very
well; she cared nothing for Imogen's standard either, in so far as it was
an echo, a reflection; only, for her daughter not to care for her, to
disapprove of her, to be willing that she should go out of her life,--there

was the rub; and the fact that she should be considering it over a
tea-table in Surrey while Imogen was battling with all the somber
accompaniments of grief in New York, challenged her not to deny
some essential defect in her own maternity. She was an honest woman,
and after her hour of thought she could not deny it, though she could
not see clearly where it lay; but the recognition was but a step to the
owning that she must try to right herself. And at this point,--she had
drawn a deep breath over it, straightening herself in her chair,--her
friends came in from their drive and put an end to her solitude.
For the first years of her semi-detached life Mrs. Upton had been as gay
as a very decorous young grass-widow can be. Her whole existence,
until her marriage, which had dropped, or lifted, her to graver levels,
had been passed among elaborate social conditions, and wherever she
might go she found the protection of a recognized background. She had
multitudes of acquaintances and these surrounding nebulæ condensed,
here and there, into the fixed stars of friendship. Not that such
condensations were swift or frequent. Mrs. Upton was not easily
intimate. Her very graces, her very kindnesses, her sympathy and
sweetness, were, in a manner, outposts about an inner citadel and one
might for years remain, hospitably entertained, yet kept at a distance.
But the stars, when they did form, were very fixed. Of such were the
two friends who now came in eager for tea, after their nipping drive:
Mrs. Pakenham, English, mother of a large family, wife of a
hard-worked M.P. and landowner; energetically interested in hunting,
philanthropy, books and people; slender and vigorous, with a delicate,
emaciated face, weather-beaten to a pale, crisp red, her eyes as blue as
porcelain, her hair still gold, her smile of the kindest, and Mrs. Wake,
American, rosy, rather stout, rather shabby, and extremely placid of
mien. Mrs. Pakenham, after her drive, was beautifully tidy, furred as to
shoulders and netted as to hair; Mrs. Wake was much disarranged and
came in, smiling patiently, while she put back the disheveled locks
from her brow. She was childless, a widow, very poor; eking out her
insufficient income by novel-writing; unpopular novels that dealt,
usually, with gloomy themes of monotonous and disappointed lives.
She was, herself, anything but gloomy.

She gave her friend, now, swift, short glances, while, standing before
her, her back to the fire, she put her hair behind her ears. She had
known Valerie Upton from childhood, when they had both been the
indulged daughters of wealthy homes, and through all the catastrophes
and achievements of their lives they had kept in close touch with each
other. Mrs. Wake's glances, now, were fond, but slightly quizzical,
perhaps slightly critical. They took in her friend, her attitude, her
beautifully "done" hair, her fresh, sweet face, so little faded, even her
polished finger-nails, and they took in, very unobtrusively, the
American letter on her lap. It was Mrs. Pakenham who spoke of the
letter.
"You have heard, then, dear?"
"Yes, from Imogen."
Both had seen her stunned, undemonstrative pain in the first days of the
bereavement; the cables had supplied all essential information. Her
quiet, now, seemed to intimate that the letter contained no harrowing
details.
"The poor child is well, I hope?"
"Yes, I think so; she doesn't speak much of herself; she is very brave."
Mrs. Pakenham, a friend of more recent date, had not known Mr. Upton,
nor had she ever met Imogen.
"Eddy was with her, of course," said Mrs. Wake.
"Yes, and this young Mr. Pennington, who seems to have become a
great friend. May Smith and Julia Halliwell, of course, must have
helped her through it all. She says that people are very kind." Mrs.
Upton spoke quietly. She did not offer to show the letter.
"Jack Pennington. Imogen met him when she went last year to Boston.
You remember old Miss Pennington, his great-aunt, Valerie."

"Very well. But