iARET 
 
 vIUN
 
 SUPPORT
 
 BY 
 
 MARGARET ASHMUN 
 
 TOPLESS TOWERS. A ROMANCE OF MORNING- 
 BIDE HEIGHTS. 
 
 MODERN SHORT STORIES. 
 STEPHEN'S LAST CHANCE. 
 ISABEL CARLETON'S YEAR. 
 MARION FREAK'S SUMMER. 
 ISABEL CARLETON'S FRIENDS. 
 ISABEL CARLETON AT HOME. 
 ISABEL CARLETON IN THE WEST. 
 THE HEART OF ISABEL CARLETON. 
 SUPPORT
 
 SUPPORT 
 
 BY 
 
 MARGARET ASHMUN 
 
 gotft 
 
 THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 
 1922 
 
 All rights reserved
 
 PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OT AMEBJCA 
 
 COPYRIGHT, 1922, 
 BY MARGARET ASHMUN 
 
 Set up and electrotyped. Published September, 1922. 
 
 Press of 
 
 J. J. Little & Ives Company 
 New York, U. S. A.
 
 To 
 BLANCHE DUNBAR NORDVI 
 
 2134070
 
 SUPPORT 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 RAIN had fallen earlier in the day; but as the 
 train sped north and west, the sky grew clearer and 
 the sun brighter. Now, at five o'clock on this 
 October afternoon, the heavens showed a radiant 
 pale blue, and the low cirrus clouds bore touches of 
 gold and pink. 
 
 Constance Moffatt, crowded close to the window 
 of the Pullman car, searched the landscape with 
 eyes which showed an avidity of recognition. They 
 scanned the fields falling dull in the shadows from 
 encircling firs and poplars. Corn shocks made long 
 rows radiating from the center of vision. Crows 
 flew in high black groups against the sky. 
 
 One little town after another flashed into view, 
 its straight wide main street running at right angles 
 to the railroad. Farmers' wagons and Ford cars 
 stood at the curbs. The red brick schoolhouse and 
 one or two squat-spired churches asserted themselves 
 above the huddle of shingled roofs. Then the town 
 disappeared, to give place presently to the next. 
 To Constance these villages were dear and familiar, 
 
 i
 
 2 SUPPORT 
 
 not sordid or austere. She sighed, feeling a joy of 
 relaxation, after the miseries of the last months 
 the bitterness of self-pity, the humiliation of defeat. 
 
 She gave herself up to the traditional ecstasy of 
 going home. The idealized scene before her melted 
 into anticipations still more beatific. She forgot, 
 or at least ignored, the irritations of the time pre- 
 ceding her marriage, six years before; the annoy- 
 ances and bickerings of her one visit at home, two 
 years later. She remembered only that she had been 
 weary and hurt and desolate, and that now, close 
 at hand, was a refuge, where love and welcome made 
 a place for her. There she could hide and make the 
 best of what was left. She thought with tenderness 
 of her mother, and with at least tolerance of her 
 father. "Poor Poppy! Life hasn't treated him so 
 very well," she reflected. And there was Rose, the 
 younger sister, so pretty, so eager; a bit selfish, per- 
 haps, though she had doubtless improved during 
 the last few years. "I believe that Rose and I can 
 have some happy times together, when I get 
 adjusted to life in Blanchard," murmured Constance. 
 There were ways in which she could find diversion, 
 pleasant activity, solace of a kind. It was good, 
 Constance told herself anew, that she was not com- 
 ing home without money. An assured income would 
 make everything easier, and temper the reproach 
 of her return. 
 
 "Blanchard the next station," called the porter, at 
 her elbow. "Shall I brush you off, Miss?" Con- 
 stance mechanically submitted to be flicked on
 
 SUPPORT 3 
 
 skirt and shoulders by the porter's whisk broom. 
 As she stood in the aisle, she was conscious of the 
 glances of the men in the car. She was tall, and 
 carried herself well. Though she knew herself not 
 so attractive as Rose, yet she could not deny that 
 she shared the good looks which ran in the family. 
 Constance Moffatt, born Fenton, was thirty. She 
 did not look younger, but she was a pleasing picture 
 of maturity and sophistication in her tailored suit 
 and smart hat from New York. 
 
 The train was passing through the outlying dis- 
 tricts of the town, where a plow factory covered 
 gloomy acres, and a modern candy factory stretched 
 itself along the tracks. Workingmen's houses stood 
 in grayish rows. The railroad yards came next, and 
 then the train was slipping into the new station, 
 where a long concrete platform took the place of 
 the wooden one which Constance remembered. 
 
 In the corridor, she bent to the window, looking 
 for some member of her family. Rose would be 
 there, she thought. She caught glimpses of one or 
 two girls who looked like Rose; yet in four years 
 Little Sister must have changed. Constance had 
 descended the steps before she recognized her 
 sister's face. She heard a call, "Whoo-hoo!" Rose 
 ran up, put her hands on Constance's shoulders, 
 and gave her a kiss. In the younger woman's look 
 and caress there was something of pity, as for one 
 suffering from a great physical distress ; and wonder, 
 too, as for one who has unaccountably survived a 
 disaster which ought to have been fatal.
 
 4 SUPPORT 
 
 The sisters stared at each other, suddenly self- 
 conscious. An awkwardness came between them. 
 "Dear Rose," murmured Constance, standing back 
 to let her eyes rest on the girl's bright cheeks, the 
 sensitive lips and delicate chin, outlined against the 
 bit of fur about her throat. 
 
 "Nice Constance," Rose returned. "You're just 
 the same." Her surprise gave intimation that she 
 had expected to see her sister bowed or disfigured 
 with pain. 
 
 There were a few moments devoted to the lug- 
 gage, and the engaging of a taxicab. Inside the cab, 
 Constance began inquiring for the family. "How's 
 mother?" 
 
 "Fine," was Rose's answer. "She thought you 
 wouldn't expect her to come down." 
 
 "Oh, no. And father?" Father always came last. 
 
 "About as usual. Says he has a pain in his back. 
 What a 0ooc?-looking hat!" 
 
 "Do you like it?" To Constance the hat, even in 
 its smartness, was negligible. 
 
 "It's stunning. You're looking splendidly, really." 
 Again there was a flavor of surprise in the girl's 
 tone. 
 
 "Didn't you think I should be?" 
 
 "Well I didn't know after so much " 
 
 Rose's voice sank into uncertainty. 
 
 "I mean to forget it," Constance brought out with 
 decision. 
 
 "Of course." Rose looked uncomfortable, as if 
 she were wondering how anyone could forget such a
 
 SUPPORT 5 
 
 thing, any more than one could ignore the absence 
 of a severed limb. 
 
 A pause ensued. Constance looked out of the 
 window, seeking a topic of conversation. "The 
 Woodfords have been doing something to their 
 house," she remarked. 
 
 "Yes ; a new roof it needed it and a veranda on 
 the side." 
 
 "It looks nice." 
 
 "It does look better. Our house needs something 
 done to it." In Rose's forehead a line of discontent 
 was showing. 
 
 "I dare say it does." The idealization of home 
 began to fade in the mind of Constance. She nerved 
 herself for what she should meet. The house had 
 been shabby when she had last seen it. Now it 
 must be considerably worse. "The Woodfords must 
 be prospering," she forced herself to say. 
 
 "Yes. Carey made a lot of money during the 
 war." 
 
 The taxicab turned into a street overhung with 
 towering elms. Old cream-colored brick houses were 
 set far back among shrubs and green spaces of lawn. 
 The cab stopped before one of them, and the two 
 women got out. 
 
 The front lawn of the Fenton home was not so 
 well kept as the lawns on either side. The fence 
 and the gate were almost destitute of paint. Bright 
 salvia bushes straggled about the narrow veranda 
 upon which French windows opened. Constance 
 paid the chauffeur, and she and Rose went up the
 
 6 SUPPORT 
 
 walk. The front door opened, disclosing a thin 
 elderly woman, whose face was still fine and beau- 
 tiful. Constance set down her bag, and yielded to 
 her mother's embrace. "My poor child!" The older 
 woman was shedding tears. The words and the pity 
 which they expressed gave Constance a twinge of 
 distaste, an impulse of rebellion against the patron- 
 age of sympathy, even from her mother. It was 
 gone again in an instant, and she felt her own tears 
 starting. Her mother held her off and gazed. 
 "You're looking better than I expected to see you, 
 after " 
 
 "I'm feeling splendidly, mother," cried Constance, 
 with forced cheerfulness. "In fact, I never felt 
 better." 
 
 "So brave!" murmured Mrs. Fen ton. "My poor 
 child!" 
 
 She was prepared to weep again, but Constance 
 interrupted her with, "Where's Poppy?" 
 
 "In the study," Mrs. Fenton replied. "He had 
 such a pain in his back that he thought he wouldn't 
 come out." 
 
 Rose had been taking off her fur neckpiece and 
 jacket at the small mirror in the hatrack. She and 
 her mother followed Constance through the sitting- 
 room to the smaller room beyond, where old-fash- 
 ioned high glass bookcases filled the walls. 
 
 An old man with a yellowish gray beard was sit- 
 ting in a deep chair, clutching at the arms and lean- 
 ing forward. Constance ran to him with an aimless 
 "Hello, Poppy! Here you are. Well, well!" She
 
 SUPPORT 7 
 
 bent and kissed him. He held her hand in a hard 
 grasp. 
 
 "Well, well," he repeated. "We're glad you've 
 come home." 
 
 "Yes, isn't it fine?" 
 
 There was a pause, a vacant interval when every- 
 body seemed to be trying to think of something 
 to say. 
 
 "Was the train on time, Connie?" asked the old 
 man. 
 
 "Yes. Perhaps five minutes late." 
 
 "It seemed quite a while that Rose was gone." 
 The old man looked inquiringly at his younger 
 daughter. 
 
 "It was only half an hour, Poppy," Rose remon- 
 strated with irritation. 
 
 "It seemed longer than that." 
 
 "Well, it wasn't. I went right down in the street- 
 car, and the train came in, and we came up in a 
 taxi." 
 
 "It must have been three-quarters of an hour," 
 Mr. Fenton persisted. 
 
 Rose sighed hopelessly. The others stood about, 
 frowning. Then Mrs. Fenton said, "You'll want to 
 go up to your room, Connie. It's the same one. 
 Rose, you go up with her, and I'll look after the 
 dinner." 
 
 They went back into the sitting-room. Constance 
 recalled the faded places in the green wall paper, 
 the nondescript color of the carpet, the limp lace 
 curtains. There were some good pieces of old ma-
 
 8 SUPPORT 
 
 hogany mixed with cheaper modern oak. "Things 
 look just the same," said Constance. 
 
 "Only worse." Rose's nostrils quivered with a 
 grimace. The sisters climbed the stairs in silence. 
 In her room, Constance stood before the glass to take 
 off her hat. She drew a long breath. "Tired?" 
 asked Rose from the doorway. 
 
 "A little. I never sleep much on the train." Con- 
 stance drooped with a sense of depression. She had 
 not realized how ugly and annoying things were 
 likely to be. But here was home, she reassured her- 
 self. Here they loved her. She could mean some- 
 thing here begin over again. She blinked to keep 
 back the tears. 
 
 Rose did not notice. "This room is stuffy," she 
 was saying. She walked across the room to open a 
 window. The catch was broken, and she had to prop 
 the window up with a stick lying on the sill. "Any- 
 thing I can do for you?" she asked. 
 
 Constance was taking off her suit jacket and hang- 
 ing it in the clothes-closet. "Not a thing," she said 
 heartily. "I'm dirty and hungry. After a wash, I'll 
 be ready to eat." 
 
 "Dinner will be ready immediately. I'll go down." 
 Rose turned, and then came back. "It's simply won- 
 derful to have you home, Connie." Her tone sug- 
 gested that perhaps this thing should be definitely 
 said. 
 
 "Thanks. It's great to be here." When Rose was 
 gone, Constance leaned her head against the window 
 frame and looked out upon the neglected garden
 
 SUPPORT 9 
 
 at the side of the house, where the dusk had already 
 fallen. "It is wonderful," she repeated aloud, lest 
 a doubt creep in unawares. "It may be a little hard 
 to get used to things, after a different sort of life; 
 but it's going to be a real comfort to be back here 
 in Blanchard at home among my own people." 
 
 They had dinner presently in the dismal dining- 
 room, where the dark "grained" woodwork framed 
 panels of reddish wall paper. A plate rail on each 
 wall held a collection of articles: plates, vases, 
 bowls, little framed pictures. 
 
 Mrs. Fenton carved, anxiously consulting each 
 one as to preferences. Mr. Fenton, who had hobbled 
 in with repressed exclamations, now sat tapping ab- 
 stractedly on the arm of his chair. His hands were 
 yellow and shrunken, and older than his face. Rose 
 had lapsed into a silence which she broke only with 
 evident effort. Constance talked rapidly about her 
 trip, the new candy factory, the new station. 
 
 "Your train must have been late," Mr. Fenton 
 made comment, as if the subject had not been 
 broached. "Rose was gone a long time." 
 
 "It was only half an hour," Rose reiterated 
 wearily. 
 
 "I'm sure it was three-quarters." The old man 
 spoke with calm insistence. 
 
 Constance, alarmed, recalled certain similar argu- 
 ments from the past, and remembered her father's 
 dislike of having his women folk out of the house.
 
 10 SUPPORT 
 
 She hastened to devise new topics of conversation. 
 "Did you make this bread, mother?" she asked. 
 "It's awfully good." 
 
 "No," Mrs. Fenton made reply. "Rose got it at 
 the Woman's Exchange. I tell her it's extravagant, 
 but she thinks we have enough to do." 
 
 "When you consider the gas and the time and the 
 work, it's cheaper to buy it," Rose expostulated 
 hotly. 
 
 "I haven't figured out whether it is or not," Mrs. 
 Fenton said in a worried way. "Of course we have 
 to consider every penny." 
 
 Rose moved in her chair and sighed loudly, with- 
 out more speech. 
 
 Mrs. Fenton, handing the currant jelly, fixed an 
 inquiring eye upon Constance. "What did you do 
 with your preserves when you broke up?" she 
 asked. 
 
 "I didn't have a great deal left," Mrs. Moffatt 
 responded. "I didn't make a great deal last fall. 
 I was too I didn't make much, anyhow. And 
 what I had left I gave away to the woman in the 
 next apartment, Mrs. Beebe. She had been good 
 to me in lots of little ways." 
 
 "It seems too bad to give it away," Mrs. Fenton 
 said. "But I suppose that was best." 
 
 "It would have been impossible to ship it on from 
 New York." Constance's mind was not on her lost 
 preserves. So they had to consider every penny. It 
 was a good thing that she had not come home un- 
 provided for. What she could put in toward the
 
 SUPPORT 11 
 
 family expenses would be even more useful than she 
 had supposed. 
 
 She did not know exactly what the family income 
 was. Something came in, she knew, from certain 
 mortgages which her father had bought in his days 
 of prosperity in the insurance business. It was 
 almost a miracle that these investments had sur- 
 vived the decadence of the family fortunes. How- 
 ever, there could not be much coming in from them 
 not more than a few hundreds at the most. Then 
 Wilbur, the only son and the eldest of the family, 
 sent home a check every month. And a well-to-do 
 sister of Mrs. Fenton sent something intermittently. 
 Altogether, the resources which could be counted 
 on did not amount to a great deal. Prices had been 
 terrific; coal and food and clothing and labor had 
 been prohibitive, almost. Rose had been going to 
 the State College, situated in Blanchard, and must 
 have a thousand demands upon her for money. It 
 was a marvel how they had got along. Constance 
 wished that she had given them more. She had 
 sometimes sent things to Rose ; but Rose was fussy, 
 and took dislikes to perfectly harmless articles of 
 apparel. There was not much satisfaction in send- 
 ing her anything. Perhaps if she could choose for 
 herself it would be different. 
 
 Constance was roused by her father's saying that 
 in Blanchard she would find things dull, miss the 
 New York theaters and restaurants. "The lights 
 the gaiety," he mumbled, reaching for his coffee cup 
 with an unsteady hand.
 
 12 SUPPORT 
 
 "I haven't been to them much lately," Constance 
 replied. "Of course it's nice to feel that they're 
 there, and you can go at any time." There would 
 be some social life for her in Blanchard, she thought, 
 some stimulus and diversion. She did not conjec- 
 ture what it would be that could make up to her 
 for the lost amusements of New York. 
 
 Her mother brought in the dessert. There were 
 sliced peaches for Mr. Fenton. "He doesn't like 
 caramel pudding," his wife explained. 
 
 Constance remembered. There were so many 
 things that Mr. Fenton did not like. 
 
 After dinner Constance wiped the dishes for her 
 mother. "Rose, you go on," she said, tying on an 
 apron. "You have your studying to do." 
 
 "Later," said Rose briefly. "A man's coming in 
 for a while." 
 
 "Oh," Constance did not ask any questions; but 
 she said to her mother in a low voice, "Is it any 
 man in particular?" 
 
 Mrs. Fenton hesitated. "Yes, it has been for quite 
 a long time," she said, her fine brows contracting. 
 "I didn't feel like writing you about it." 
 
 "Girls will be girls," Constance responded with 
 a casual air. Rose was twenty-one. "They will 
 have their train of college boys. You remember that 
 I always did." 
 
 "He isn't one of the college boys." Mrs. Fenton's
 
 SUPPORT 13 
 
 frown did not relax. "He's an older man nearly 
 thirty, I should say." 
 
 "An aged gentleman." Constance'laughed. "Who 
 is he, anyhow?" 
 
 "His name is Schelling. His family have moved 
 here since you left. They aren't much. He's in 
 some garage, or automobile concern I don't know 
 exactly what his connection with it is. Will you go 
 into the parlor when he's here?" 
 
 "No, not to-night." Constance shrank from meet- 
 ing strangers. "I suppose he'd wonder who I am." 
 
 "Perhaps Rose has told him about you. I never 
 talk to him myself," Mrs. Fenton replied. 
 
 Constance stood with a dish-towel in her hand, 
 not conscious of what she was doing. She was facing 
 the thought that people even those whose families 
 weren't "much" would have to be told about her, 
 as if she were queer or disabled or insane. Worse 
 yet, there might be an attempt to ignore her experi- 
 ence, to carry it off without explanation, with 
 wretched awkwardnesses resulting. Latent misgiv- 
 ings were becoming insistent in her mind. Perhaps 
 she had made a mistake to come home. Perhaps 
 there would have been some other way. She had 
 wanted her own people so pitifully; but she would 
 have got over that longing if she had waited, and 
 would have found some way of making herself happy 
 in New York. 
 
 Well, it couldn't be helped. She was here. She 
 had broken up her own home in the city if a city 
 apartment can ever be called a home. She had
 
 14 SUPPORT 
 
 come on to Blanchard-in-the-Middle-West. Her 
 trunks would come up to-morrow. Other belongings 
 were arriving by express. Her bridges were burned, 
 or at least they were smoldering. She roused her- 
 self. "There are those old dishes that were Grandma 
 Crane's," she said with simulated enthusiasm. "I 
 had forgotten how pretty they were." 
 
 "Yes, we use them sometimes when there's any- 
 one in for tea," answered Mrs. Fenton. "I always 
 meant you to have some of them. It's just as well 
 now." Each woman knew that the other was not 
 thinking about Grandma Crane's dishes. Constance 
 felt that her mother was aching to ask her a ques- 
 tion. At last it came out. "Where's Frank?" said 
 Mrs. Fenton, scouring the Sheffield bread-tray. 
 
 "I don't quite know." Constance's reply was 
 prompt and needlessly nonchalant. "He was out at 
 White Plains or Scarsdale during the summer com- 
 muting, you know. Somebody I knew used to see 
 him on the train. I haven't seen him for months." 
 Her fingers were unsteady as she put away the 
 tumblers. 
 
 "Nor heard from him?" 
 
 "No. Only through his lawyer. I get my allow- 
 ance, of course." 
 
 "I should think you might." Mrs. Fenton spoke 
 sharply. She splashed the rinsing water with a reck- 
 less hand. 
 
 "It's very generous," faltered Constance, as if she 
 were somehow defending Frank from the sharpness 
 hi Mrs. Fenton's voice.
 
 SUPPORT 15 
 
 "You mean, considering what he earns." 
 
 "Yes, that's what I mean. He has other de- 
 mands on him." 
 
 "How can you speak in that way?" Mrs. Fenton 
 looked curiously at her daughter. 
 
 How could she? Constance herself was not quite 
 sure. She turned resolutely from the subject in 
 hand. "How has father been?" she asked abruptly. 
 
 "Just so-so." Mrs. Fenton took her cue from Con- 
 stance, and made no further reference to Frank Mof- 
 fatt. "He complains a good deal. Of course, he's 
 getting old seventy, his last birthday. That's 
 pretty old, you know." 
 
 "Not so horribly old. Ever so many men are 
 active and useful at seventy," protested Constance. 
 "He gave up five or six years ago. It seems strange." 
 
 "Wait till you get old, and then you'll see." Mrs. 
 Fenton spoke with almost passionate reproach. 
 
 Constance devoted herself to putting away the 
 dishes, and said nothing. A few minutes later she 
 went into the study, where her father was sitting. 
 He looked at her over his glasses. "I'm glad you're 
 going to be here with us," he said. "There's plenty 
 of room." 
 
 "Yes. It will be fine to be here and to get ac- 
 quainted with everyone over again," Constance 
 answered absently. 
 
 Mr. Fenton was tapping his glasses on the pages 
 of his book. "Don't go out too much," he said 
 quickly. "Don't get involved. Stay at home with 
 your family."
 
 16 SUPPORT 
 
 "Perhaps I shall. Of course I'll be at home a 
 great deal," his daughter replied. There was no one 
 that she really wanted to see, she reflected, except 
 Sally Rath von, and perhaps one or two others: 
 Sally particularly. Of course she would gradually 
 get interested in people again. Six years she had 
 been away, with that one break when she was at 
 home four years ago. Now she was to be here per- 
 manently that sounded better than forever and 
 she ought to make a business of forming associa- 
 tions, meeting old friends, seeking out new ones. 
 It would all develop in due time. 
 
 She was unutterably weary, all at once. She 
 wanted to go up to her room and compose herself, 
 and rest. In the hall she encountered a wide-shoul- 
 dered man hanging up his coat, while Rose stood 
 with her hand on the newel-post. The hall light, in 
 a red glass lantern, gave only a vague idea of the 
 caller. He had a good contour, Constance thought, 
 though he was, in fact, too solid for his height. 
 Constance was passing the two, with a feeling of 
 embarrassment, but Rose detained her with an ex- 
 clamation of forced gaiety. "You don't get by us 
 as easily as that," she cried. "Constance Mrs. 
 Moffatt this is Mr. Schelling Mr. Herman 
 Schelling." 
 
 "With the accent on the Herman." The man 
 spoke with an assurance almost aggressive. It was 
 as if he looked for antagonism and sought to disarm 
 it. He had no real trace of the German in his 
 tongue, though his manner and speech lacked culti-
 
 SUPPORT 17 
 
 vation. Constance made a vague sound of acknowl- 
 edgment. "You've just got here?" said Schelling 
 jovially. 
 
 "Yes, only this evening before dinner." 
 
 "Before dinner is a good time to come," the man 
 laughed. Constance saw that his face was wide and 
 red, though not unpleasing. 
 
 "It surely is," she answered in a friendly tone. 
 His voice was agreeable, though his jocular air might 
 easily become too familiar. On the whole, she had 
 no basis of judgment for the man. The fact that 
 he did not please Mrs. Fenton was not entirely 
 against him. He might be good enough, in his way, 
 in spite of that. Constance had an instinct to con- 
 demn him as not a native American. Her associa- 
 tions had been chiefly among the dwindling New 
 England stock which her own family represented. 
 She had taken it for granted that Rose's friendships 
 would be placed there, too. However, if this man 
 were desirable in himself, his ancestry might be for- 
 given. She wouldn't be too hasty in her estimate 
 of his value. Anyhow, she was too tired to bother 
 about him to-night. 
 
 In her room she busied herself in putting away 
 the contents of her suitcase, and in writing one or 
 two necessary notes. Her mother came in for a 
 little while and then left her, confessing to weari- 
 ness. "You work too hard, mother," said Constance. 
 "I'm glad I've come home to help." 
 
 "I do work hard," Mrs. Fenton answered, lin- 
 gering at the threshold. "But you know I have a
 
 18 SUPPORT 
 
 woman who comes in and does the heavier work. 
 Wilbur and Rose insisted on that." 
 
 "Of course. You should have. We aren't any of 
 us used to heavy work," Constance agreed. "Well, 
 I hope it will be easier now. I don't want you to 
 make a slave of yourself." She was really glad that 
 she had come home, she told herself. With her 
 strength and her allowance from Frank, she could 
 help in numberless ways to make things at home 
 easier and happier for them all.
 
 CHAPTER II 
 
 IN the morning there was a good deal to be done. 
 Constance insisted on helping with the housework; 
 and then her trunks came up, and had to be un- 
 packed. 
 
 Rose went away before nine o'clock, to her classes. 
 In the study, Mr. Fenton read the paper minutely, 
 relentlessly. Now and then he gave a suppressed 
 groan, audible to anyone who happened to be in 
 the next room. It made Constance wince, not so 
 much at the implication of suffering, as at the parad- 
 ing of it before others the immodesty of it, as it 
 were. 
 
 "Is he really ill?" she asked her mother in a low 
 tone. 
 
 "Not very," her mother answered. "The doctor 
 says it's nothing alarming. I dare say his back hurts 
 him a little. He has a touch of rheumatism most of 
 the time." 
 
 "He's having a doctor, then?" 
 
 "Yes, quite often. It makes him feel better to 
 have the doctor tell him he's all right. I suppose 
 it's worth it but it makes an awful expense." 
 
 "Of course it does," Constance assented. "Do 
 you can you " 
 
 19
 
 20 SUPPORT 
 
 Mrs. Fenton shook her head. "There's quite a 
 big bill now that I haven't been able to pay." 
 
 "I'll pay it," said Constance with promptitude. 
 
 "No no, I don't want you to do that," cried Mrs. 
 Fenton. Yet she looked relieved. 
 
 "I'll see about it in a day or two. I must start 
 an account in the State Bank, so that I won't have 
 to give checks on a New York bank." 
 
 "It doesn't seem as if you ought to pay that bill," 
 her mother reiterated apologetically, but with no 
 conviction. 
 
 "Never mind. I want to help out," said Con- 
 stance. "Mother, how do you get on financially, I 
 mean?" 
 
 "It's been terribly hard," Mrs. Fenton replied with 
 a worried look. "We don't have much. Wilbur does 
 the best he can for us, but you know, Connie, he 
 doesn't get a very big salary, and he has his own 
 home to keep up." 
 
 "I know, mother. I think it's wonderful of him 
 to do anything." Constance felt somehow con- 
 science-stricken, and eager to do all that she could, 
 now that she had come home. Helping out with 
 the family expenses would be in a way an atone- 
 ment for the humiliation of her divorce. Her mother 
 had felt it keenly, and it was good of her to say 
 so little about it, to accept her daughter's home- 
 coming so much as a matter of course. "I hope 
 things won't be so hard, now," Constance said hope- 
 fully. Her mother brightened, knowing what she
 
 SUPPORT 21 
 
 meant. "I think it's really marvelous that you've 
 got along at all." 
 
 "It's meant a lot of scrimping and planning," re- 
 plied Mrs. Fenton. "And of course most of it has 
 come on me. I hope you won't find it too depress- 
 ing, Connie. You aren't used to this sort of thing." 
 
 "Oh, I think I'll be all right." Constance wished 
 to disclaim any evidences of depression. "I want 
 to see Sally Rathvon, mother right away." 
 
 "I forgot to tell you" Mrs. Fenton bridled with 
 
 her news "Sally is " She gave a significant 
 
 nod and glance at Constance. 
 
 "Oh is she?" Constance spoke blankly. "I 
 hadn't heard of it; she writes so seldom." 
 
 "A woman with a home and children can't spend 
 her time in writing letters," said Mrs. Fenton with 
 a slight coolness of reproval for a woman who had 
 no home and no children. 
 
 Constance, adjusting the bit of news in relation 
 to Sally, felt, in an undefined way, vexed and 
 cheated. She had counted, as she now discerned, 
 on seeing a good deal of Mrs. Rathvon on making 
 her a companion and confidante. She and Sally had 
 been such good friends in the old days, before either 
 of them was married. Now here was an unexpected 
 intrusion. Sally would not be quite the same 
 would be preoccupied, "not going out." It was an- 
 noying, to say the least. "Of course it's not my 
 affair," Constance said to herself. "And Sally is 
 Sally, in spite of everything." 
 
 But she remembered that she had heard the un-
 
 22 SUPPORT 
 
 married complain that those who are married and 
 absorbed in the details of family life are never the 
 same to their old friends. She herself had smiled 
 at such remarks, in a superior way, or had weakly 
 protested; now she had to admit that there was 
 something in them. She saw that she could only 
 make the most of Sally, take what her former friend 
 had to give, not expect too much, not reach out 
 and snatch and cling and strangle. She must guard 
 against being a bore. Injured wives were likely to 
 be a horrid nuisance. She remembered one, a Mrs. 
 Sawyer, who used to come to her apartment in 
 Yonkers and tell the story of her woes over and 
 over until her unwilling listener was ready to scream. 
 
 The thoughts of Constance had wandered so far 
 that it was with an instant's bewilderment that she 
 heard Mrs. Fenton saying, "You know Sally has 
 two already." 
 
 "Yes," Constance answered ; "the little boy Owen 
 was born about three years ago, wasn't he? It was 
 the first year we were in New York, I think, after 
 we left Yonkers." Two children a girl and a boy; 
 that would seem to be enough. It was too bad that 
 Sally had to have another. 
 
 Rose came home to lunch, and hurried away again. 
 Constance went out later, to order groceries and 
 other supplies for the house. She took satisfaction 
 in ordering a great deal and in adding a few lux-
 
 SUPPORT 23 
 
 uries for her father. "He always wants something 
 different from what's on the table," she said to 
 herself. 
 
 She came back, glad that she had not met anyone 
 that she knew. In the yard she stopped to pick 
 some late flowers, and to take a look at the house. 
 She was troubled to note the sagging verandas, 
 shabby for want of paint, the discolored and broken 
 fretwork about the eaves of the gabled brick wings- 
 "It needs a lot of improving," she admitted; "but 
 I can't see that I'm called upon to do it." 
 
 "Sally telephoned while you were out," her mother 
 announced. "She's coming over about four." 
 
 "Good ! We'll have tea." Constance went to take 
 off her wraps, her heart beating faster with antici- 
 pation. Sally had meant so much to her more 
 than anyone else, almost. Just after her graduation 
 from college, Sally Needham had "caught" young 
 Professor Rathvon, of the Psychology Department; 
 and now she had been married seven years longer 
 than Constance. Sally's letters had been scarce and 
 intermittent; she had been busy with the affairs of 
 her house. Constance knew little of her present life 
 and thought. Sally Needham had been "strong for 
 women," had belonged to suffrage leagues and things 
 of that sort. It would be interesting to see how 
 she had developed. Constance wondered what her 
 attitude would be toward her old friend whose mar- 
 ried life had turned out so disastrously. She did 
 not have much fear. Sally was liberal-minded, and 
 had some sense. The very fact that she was coming
 
 24 SUPPORT 
 
 over so soon proved that. Constance hummed a 
 tune as she got out the tea things and spread the 
 little table in the sitting-room. 
 
 Sally came in, glowing, her plump pink and white 
 face unaffectedly radiant with joy at meeting Con- 
 stance. She had always had a fresh, kind, sympa- 
 thetic way with her; it had become more gracious 
 with experience and maturity. "Connie, dear ! How 
 glad I am to see you!" The words were balm to the 
 heart of her friend. 
 
 "Sally, I'm so happy that you've come!" Con- 
 stance put her arm around Mrs. Rathvon and led 
 her into the room at the right of the hall. Mrs. 
 Fenton entered from the dining-room, and there was 
 a shower of feminine talk about Blanchard, the fall 
 weather, Sally's two children, Mr. Fenton's rheu- 
 matism, Grandma Crane's dishes, Constance's fine 
 handmade serviettes. 
 
 Not until the call was almost over was anything 
 said directly relating to Constance. "I don't know 
 how Connie'll make out, now that she's come back," 
 said Mrs. Fenton doubtfully. 
 
 "She'll get on," said Sally quickly. "She'll find 
 some old friends and make some new ones." 
 
 "I don't care much for mere social acquaintances," 
 Constance asserted. "It's difficult to make any 
 plans. I hope I sha'n't find things too hard." 
 
 Her stifled misgivings showed themselves in her 
 voice. 
 
 "Nonsense ! You'll be all right," Sally made haste 
 to say. "I want to have you over as much as I can
 
 SUPPORT 25 
 
 I mean, as much as you can come," she supple- 
 mented rather lamely. "Of course, I'm not going 
 
 out much " Constance nodded. "But you must 
 
 come over often, of course. You may not be crazy 
 to come. Our house isn't the calmest place in the 
 world, with two children ranting about. I haven't 
 much to offer you " 
 
 There was a vagueness, an incoherence, about 
 Sally's manner which faintly troubled Constance. 
 "Doesn't she really want me?" she asked herself. 
 "Of course she does. Perhaps it's her Griffith." 
 Constance had not seen much of Griffith Rathvon 
 since her own marriage, and she had never liked him 
 very well. 
 
 When Sally had gone, she cleared away the tea 
 things, thoughtfully. Her mother was absent- 
 mindedly straightening the articles on the mantel. 
 "I imagine that Professor Rathvon keeps a pretty 
 tight hold on Sally," Mrs. Fenton said with a show 
 of hesitation. "He doesn't like her mixing up with 
 outside people and affairs. She's dropped all her 
 clubs except the D. A. R. I see her there some- 
 times." 
 
 "She's busy, of course." Constance did not want 
 to be ungenerous. 
 
 "Yes, she's very fond of her family. But after 
 
 oil " 
 
 BU 
 
 Mr. Fenton had stayed in the study during Sally's 
 call. Now he began roaming restlessly about the 
 house. "It's time Rose came home," he muttered 
 now and again.
 
 26 SUPPORT 
 
 "Oh, no, father," Constance explained, "I heard 
 her say she had a class at four." 
 
 "At four? Why, she didn't have one at that time 
 yesterday," the old man answered irritably. 
 
 "No, but she has to-day a two-hour session. It 
 comes only once a week. It's a seminar, or some- 
 thing." 
 
 "They shouldn't put classes at such hours," re- 
 turned the old man, with a fretful scowl. "She ought 
 to be at home in the afternoon, giving some atten- 
 tion to her family. It seems as if her father and 
 mother had become a secondary consideration; en- 
 tirely a secondary consideration." 
 
 "College takes a lot of time." Constance tried to 
 be conciliatory. 
 
 "It shouldn't take a girl away from her home so 
 much." 
 
 "She won't be long now," said Constance. "Don't 
 you want to take a walk, father? It's really a glo- 
 rious day." 
 
 "No, no! I don't want to go out." 
 
 "Then don't you want to pick the grapes, father?" 
 the woman coaxed. "There are quite a lot on the 
 arbor. I can make some jelly." 
 
 "No, I don't feel well enough." The old man 
 put his hand to his back. "I wish Rose would come 
 home." 
 
 Constance, vexed and downcast, went out to pick 
 the grapes, in the .soft, cool dusk. She could not 
 feel gloomy for long, because the ripe clusters were 
 so smooth to her hand, and the sky was so dark
 
 SUPPORT 27 
 
 and far, between the yellow leaves. She found 
 herself humming again. It was a glorious day, 
 though nearly ended, and she was glad to be back 
 in Blanchard, picking grapes and kissing Sally Rath- 
 von in spite of everything. 
 
 When she went back to the house, she found her 
 mother parleying at the side door with a workman 
 of some sort. "What is it, mother?" she asked. 
 
 "The man has come with a chair I sent to be 
 mended," answered Mrs. Fenton. "He's asking so 
 much for it it seems too bad." 
 
 "How much is it?" 
 
 Her mother named a figure which seemed exor- 
 bitant. "I'll pay it. Don't bother," said Constance. 
 
 "Well, I'll let you have it again, out of the house- 
 keeping money," Mrs. Fenton parried. 
 
 "No, never mind. I don't want it." Constance 
 paid for the chair. "Such an awful price for such 
 an ugly old thing," she thought. "But I don't see 
 what else I could do. I'll have to get used to epi- 
 sodes of this kind. I suppose that's what my money 
 is for, and it certainly is a comfort that I have some." 
 
 Rose was moody at dinner, and then suddenly ani- 
 mated. She told some anecdotes of the classroom, 
 laughed a good deal, and sang snatches of a French 
 song. When she and Constance were alone in the 
 dining-room, Constance said, "Rose, tell me about 
 your man. Is he very nice?" 
 
 "Oh, he's pretty fair." Rose's cheek showed a 
 self-conscious flush, which she turned away to hide. 
 
 "He's not a college man, is he?"
 
 28 SUPPORT 
 
 "No," said Rose. "He went two years to the 
 State College, but he isn't a high-brow. He doesn't 
 go in for the intellectual." 
 
 "What sort of work does he do?" Constance took 
 a grape from the silver fruit basket on the side- 
 board, watching Rose with the turn of her eye. 
 
 "He's in a sort of automobile business." Rose 
 spoke vaguely and with a degree of unwillingness. 
 
 "Does he take you around a lot?" 
 
 Rose looked uncomfortable. "Not a great deal 
 except in his car," she said reluctantly. "It's just 
 as well," she went on in a constrained voice. "I 
 don't have much to wear, you know. I couldn't go 
 with the kind of set I wanted to go with. I refused 
 a sorority, I think I told you, because I didn't have 
 any money." 
 
 Constance cringed. She wanted Rose to have a 
 good time, to go with the right people, to make a 
 satisfactory marriage if she made any. But of course 
 a girl had to have good clothes and money to spend. 
 "I'm sorry," she faltered. 
 
 "You must meet Herman again sometime," said 
 Rose carelessly. 
 
 "Yes, I'd like to." Constance was wondering what 
 the situation really was. If Rose had said more it 
 would have meant less.
 
 ON Saturday, Wilbur "ran down" from Caryville, 
 thirty miles away, where he was the Superintendent 
 of Schools. He came partly to see Constance and 
 partly to order some supplies for his grade schools, 
 and to consult somebody in the Education Depart- 
 ment at the College about a weighty matter of school 
 discipline. 
 
 Wilbur was handsome hi an undistinguished way. 
 He had good features, adorning a face perhaps too 
 long. His shoulders stooped with a deceptive sug- 
 gestion of languor. His hair had a way of fringing 
 his ears, because he was negligent about having it 
 clipped. Constance and Wilbur had never got along 
 together, as the family said. And yet Wilbur was a 
 fairly good sort, Constance admitted. He sent money 
 home, when doing so meant a considerable sacrifice. 
 He had never given his parents any cause for anxiety 
 as to his behavior. He had worked hard at the State 
 College, for he was not brilliant, had acquitted him- 
 self creditably, and had forthwith accepted a posi- 
 tion to teach mathematics in the high school in a 
 neighboring town. When he had been promoted to 
 the principalship of the high school, he had mar- 
 ried. He had since become the Superintendent of 
 
 29
 
 30 SUPPORT 
 
 Schools in a town nearer home. There were no 
 children he couldn't afford any, Wilbur made it 
 known, as long as he had to give up a large fraction 
 of his earnings for the support of his father and 
 mother. 
 
 He greeted Constance warmly enough, after their 
 separation of four years. She inquired for Eleanor, 
 exclaiming sympathetically at the report of her fra- 
 gility of constitution and susceptibility to colds. 
 Then the family conversation became general, and 
 Constance found tasks which demanded her at- 
 tention. 
 
 It was late in the afternoon when Wilbur fol- 
 lowed her into the study, where she had gone in 
 search of the morning paper. Mr. Fenton was in 
 the sitting-room with Rose. "Well, Con," Wilbur 
 began, sitting sidewise on the edge of the table, "so 
 you thought you'd come home, did you?" 
 
 "Yes," Constance explained. "It seemed too bad 
 to be keeping up an expensive apartment for my- 
 self, and I I wanted to come home." It was hard 
 to set forth one's motives for Wilbur. 
 
 "A very good idea," her brother conceded, "as long 
 as things were as they were. You find conditions 
 here rather different from what they used to be 
 h?" 
 
 "Somewhat." Constance spoke thoughtfully, "I 
 hadn't realized that our circumstances were so 
 limited." 
 
 "What do you think?" inquired Wilbur with a 
 notably tolerant air. "Did you imagine that money
 
 SUPPORT 31 
 
 grew on trees, or that groceries were given away, 
 out here in the woolly West?" 
 
 "Of course not, but " Constance hardly knew 
 
 what to say. There was a pause. 
 
 Wilbur took up a paper-weight, and turned it 
 over in his long fingers. "H-m, I was sorry," he 
 said, "when I heard that you'd made a mess of things 
 with Frank." 
 
 Constance felt a sinking at her heart. In the two 
 days that she had been at home, no one had openly 
 condemned her, or even pointedly referred to her 
 divorce. "I don't know why you should assume 
 that I made all the trouble." Her spirit rose, but 
 she tried to keep the resentment out of her voice. 
 
 "The women usually do," Wilbur returned with a 
 disagreeable laugh. He was expressing himself with 
 humor, yet he meant what he said. 
 
 "I don't think most people would grant that." 
 Constance was unable to answer him dispassionately, 
 as she knew she ought. 
 
 "A good many would. I thought Frank was a 
 mighty nice fellow what little I saw of him," re- 
 sponded Wilbur. 
 
 "He is a nice fellow, in more ways than one." 
 Constance was folding and unfolding the news- 
 paper. 
 
 "I argue," said Wilbur, tapping the paper-weight 
 on the table to emphasize his remarks, "that when a 
 well-meaning chap like Frank takes to doing things 
 that aren't er quite desirable, there must be some 
 reason. Ten chances to one, his wife is to blame."
 
 32 SUPPORT 
 
 "Why, Wilbur, how unfair!" Constance began in- 
 dignantly. 
 
 Her brother was going on. "I don't mean to say 
 anything against you, Con. I know you're all right, 
 and I like you a lot, you know; but as I was just 
 saying, I feel that you've muddled things fright- 
 fully. You'll have to admit it yourself." 
 
 "I'll admit that things are or were muddled." 
 Constance did not permit the quiver in her throat 
 to get into her voice. "But I won't say that I was 
 the only one that made the trouble. I may .have 
 been to blame in some ways. I'm not perfect, of 
 course." 
 
 "When a woman says that, she means she is." 
 Wilbur laughed again, in good-natured tolerance for 
 a weaker sex. 
 
 Constance began shaking and stammering. "The 
 injustice" she blurted out "the shameful injus- 
 tice, judging when you don't know anything about 
 it your own sister, too!" 
 
 The man defended himself. "I don't suppose that 
 my own sister is any different from any other woman. 
 I only said that in affairs of this kind the woman is 
 usually either directly or indirectly to blame. Al- 
 most anyone will bear me out in that." 
 
 Constance had a cold feeling at her heart. She 
 saw the futility of trying to argue. She cared but 
 little, on the whole, for Wilbur or his opinion, but she 
 felt it unjust and cruel that he should be so hard 
 upon her, and so lenient with Frank. Wilbur really 
 didn't know anything about the situation at all.
 
 SUPPORT 33 
 
 Nobody could know except Frank and herself. She 
 stood twisting the newspaper between tremulous 
 hands. 
 
 Wilbur was continuing. "It's a good thing, any- 
 how," he stated judicially, that you've got something 
 to live on. I don't know what in time we'd do if 
 you hadn't." 
 
 "I could go to work," said Constance. She had 
 never considered how it would seem to be supported 
 by Wilbur. 
 
 "Maybe you could," was the cool answer. "Jobs 
 aren't any too numerous now. But you don't have 
 to. You have a good solid sum coming in every 
 month, without turning your hand to get it. I 
 shouldn't wonder if you could help out a little here." 
 Wilbur eyed her narrowly, as-if judging the extent of 
 her generosity. 
 
 "I'll do what I can." Constance would not say 
 more. 
 
 "I think you'd better." The brother assumed an 
 advisory tone. "It might make up to the old folks, 
 in a kind of way, for the the disappointment that 
 they've gone through. Eleanor says that there's 
 never been a divorce in her family, and it seems 
 queer to her to be married to a divorce, as you might 
 say. Eleanor's unnecessarily fussy about those 
 things, I suppose. She sort of thinks it's a point of 
 honor not to give anybody any cause for criticism." 
 
 "People don't always wait for a cause," said Con- 
 stance miserably. 
 
 "That's true. But if there is one, it's all the worse.
 
 34 SUPPORT 
 
 All this comes awfully hard on Eleanor, I don't mind 
 telling you, when she's naturally not strong." 
 
 Constance smiled mischievously in spite of her 
 hurt. "I don't know what I can do about it now," 
 she said, "to soothe Eleanor's feelings, unless I go 
 and get married again. Would that help any?" 
 
 Wilbur stared at her with hard blue eyes. "Not 
 much, I guess," he replied grimly. Constance knew 
 that even in Wilbur's mind there was no suspicion 
 of her feeling an interest in "another man." "I 
 suppose it's your own lookout, what you do. Elea- 
 nor says it isn't. She contends that one's duty is to 
 one's family, and not to oneself. She says a woman 
 ought to be willing to suffer everything, rather than 
 bring disgrace on her innocent relatives. She says 
 that what's the matter with a lot of women nowa- 
 days is that they're crazy over the idea of being 
 free just to sort of run wild, as if they had no 
 obligations, and no regard for the sacredness of their 
 vows " 
 
 "Wilbur, for heaven's sake," begged Constance, 
 "do let's stop this sort of talk. I can't stand it." 
 
 "Oh, well, if you're so touchy as all that," the 
 man glowered, shifting himself from the edge of the 
 table. "I don't see why you need to be so tempera- 
 mental about it. Eleanor says " 
 
 Constance walked out of the room, with the news- 
 paper twisted beyond recognition. She had been 
 looking for the church notices, with a half-hearted 
 resolve to go to church the next morning, meet some 
 of the people that she used to know, and face them
 
 SUPPORT 35 
 
 courageously at the beginning of her new life. 
 "There's no use," she thought. "I can't do it now. 
 I'll just stay away, and let things work out gradu- 
 ally." Her eyes were blinded with tears which she 
 resolutely forced back. 
 
 Rose followed her out into the hall. "What is it, 
 Connie?" she asked. 
 
 Constance stood quivering. "Isn't Wilbur too 
 awful for words?" she said. 
 
 Rose laughed. "He certainly is. I hope you 
 don't take him seriously." 
 
 "You can't help it if he tortures you." 
 
 "Don't be tortured," returned Rose cynically. 
 "Connie, for goodness' sake, don't torture yourself. 
 You can't stand it we can't any of us endure it." 
 There was a protesting kindness in her voice. 
 
 "I won't. I won't." Connie had had an impulse 
 to go upstairs and burst out crying. Now she turned 
 toward the dining-room. "I'll set the table," she 
 said. She got out some of the best silver and linen, 
 as if in honor of Wilbur's visit ; but they were really 
 an indefinite challenge to him. She wouldn't be 
 downtrodden or insulted by Wilbur, or by anyone 
 else, she told herself as she straightened the stiff 
 folds of the cloth. 
 
 Wilbur went the next noon. Rose was out with 
 Herman Schelling, motoring and having lunch. 
 Mrs. Fenton relapsed into a Sunday afternon stu-
 
 36 SUPPORT 
 
 por. Mr. Fenton went out and dug around the'chry- 
 santhemums in the side garden; his wife always 
 hated his working in the garden on Sunday. 
 
 Constance felt a thrill of expectation when the 
 telephone rang. Sally Rathvon was on the wire. 
 "Come over for a few minutes, can't you?" she said. 
 "Griffith's gone out with Gladdums. Come in for 
 a little while." 
 
 "I'd love to." Constance discerned that she was 
 not to stay after Griffith returned. She put on her 
 hat, and went around the back way to the house by 
 the Lake where the Rathvons lived. 
 
 Sally kissed her warmly. She felt a wave of the 
 old affection for Sally Needham. When they were 
 girls going to the State College together, Sally had 
 seemed like some higher and finer replica of herself. 
 "I can't get over seeing you look so well," said Sally, 
 as they sat down in the little chintz-hung sitting- 
 room, where an unnecessary fire languished on the 
 hearth. 
 
 "Didn't you think I should?" Constance inquired. 
 
 "I didn't know. One goes through so much." 
 
 "Oh, well, the worst was over quite a while ago." 
 Constance was not quite sure that this was true. 
 
 "Just what stage are you at now?" asked Sally 
 with her simple friendliness. "I don't know much 
 about that sort of thing." 
 
 "I've got my first decree." Constance spoke with 
 less constraint than she would have thought possible. 
 "In a few months more, I'm to get my second and 
 then it's over. Fini."
 
 SUPPORT 37 
 
 "So that's it? Well, it sounds easy." Sally 
 laughed comfortably. "I'll make tea. Emma's 
 out." She disappeared into the kitchen, and came 
 back with a tray. Her hair was ruffled around her 
 plump face. Her loose dark dress and long lace 
 fichu gave her a matronly look. She began pouring 
 the tea, saying in her vivacious way, "Mary Foster 
 was inquiring about you yesterday, and she was 
 delighted to hear that you've come home for a 
 while." 
 
 "For a while," repeated Constance. "Did she 
 know?" 
 
 "I don't think so." Sally handed her guest a 
 cup of tea. "She's been away in Minneapolis for 
 ever so long. But does it make any difference, Con- 
 nie? They've all got to know sometime." 
 
 "I suppose so," said the other. "It's just that I'm 
 sensitive at first." 
 
 "Why sensitive?" Sally was calmly drinking tea. 
 "You haven't done anything." 
 
 "I know. But it makes you feel queer to think 
 that people are talking." 
 
 "People are always talking." 
 
 "Yes, but not about me." 
 
 "You might as well take your turn at it. There 
 isn't anything to say, anyhow just that you've 
 come home." 
 
 "They always wonder who was to blame," brooded 
 Constance, "and they always think you must be. 
 The sympathy is always with the man." 
 
 "Not always."
 
 38 SUPPORT 
 
 "Pretty nearly always. I don't know that I'd have 
 come home if I had realized how it would be. I just 
 kept thinking," Constance explained herself, "how 
 
 good it would seem to be at home again " Her 
 
 voice shook. 
 
 "Yes." Sally frowned meditatively into her cup. 
 "It is great to get home." She did not meet her 
 friend's eyes. Connie wondered whether Sally were 
 thinking something satirical about the Fenton home. 
 But Sally was not likely to be satirical. "See here, 
 dear," Mrs. Rath von roused herself to admonish 
 her visitor "you've got to stop conjecturing, and 
 just lead a natural life, as you would under any other 
 circumstances." 
 
 "I know it. Natural not self-conscious." 
 Constance drank her tea, now getting cold. "I'll 
 have to have some sense, I can see that." 
 
 "You ought to thank your stars that you have 
 some financial backing that you don't come home 
 penniless, as a lot of women do. Your mother told 
 me " Sally looked speculatively at the prosper- 
 ous-appearing woman on the sofa, with her healthy 
 color and clear gray eyes. 
 
 "Yes, yes, it's a comfort. I'm not badly situated," 
 said Constance hastily. 
 
 Sally was about to say something more, but at 
 that moment the front door was heard to open and 
 shut, a man's step and a child's voice resounded 
 in the hall, and Professor Rathvon came in, followed 
 by the six-year-old girl, Gladys. Sally stared not 
 too cordially at the small dark man who was her hus-
 
 SUPPORT 39 
 
 band. "Why, Grif," she said, "I thought you were 
 going to take Gladdums for a long walk!" 
 
 "I'm sorry, dear," the professor explained; 
 "Gladdums broke her er stocking supporter her 
 'lastic, as she calls it and we had to come home." 
 
 "Gladdums, what in the world?" Mrs. Rath von 
 surveyed her daughter with tolerant annoyance. 
 
 "Well, moth-er, it just broke right in two, and 
 fath-er pinned it up, and the pin kept sticking me." 
 
 Professor Rathvon, after a perceptible hesitation, 
 stepped forward and shook hands with Constance. 
 She felt the blood mounting to her face. "How do 
 you do, Mrs. Moffatt?" he said. "I heard you were 
 in town." 
 
 "I've been at home for several days." Constance 
 strove to show that she was at her ease. 
 
 "You're looking well." The voice of Rathvon 
 gave a hint of the surprise with which everyone 
 made the same remark. Constance felt that he 
 would have taken a secret satisfaction in seeing her 
 with white face and hollow eyes. 
 
 "Will you have tea, Grif?" Mrs. Rathvon looked 
 up from her struggle with a safety-pin and the 
 broken 'lastic. "We didn't expect you, you know. 
 You'll have to get yourself a cup." 
 
 Rathvon went to the dining-room, and Constance 
 seized the opportunity to say, "I'd better be going, 
 Sally." 
 
 "Don't hurry. You haven't been here a minute," 
 Sally remonstrated. Yet there was a look in her 
 eyes which did. not serve to detain her friend.
 
 40 SUPPORT 
 
 "You're not going?" Rathvon had come back with 
 his cup and saucer. His voice politely covered 
 relief. 
 
 "I think I must. Father doesn't like us all to be 
 out on Sunday afternoon." Constance lingered, not 
 to make her departure coincide too pointedly with 
 Rath von 's return. 
 
 "Oh, moth-er!" Gladdums, her round cheeks red 
 with the excitement of recollection, was pulling at 
 her mother's sleeve. "The big dog over on the street 
 smiled at me through the fence. Look. He smiled 
 just like this." She half opened her mouth, pulling 
 her lips back over her teeth, her eyes staring with 
 the exertion. Constance felt her throat tighten. 
 The child was adorable. It would be delightful to 
 kneel and clasp the solid little body in one's arms 
 and hold it close. 
 
 Sally glanced at the youngster with an amused air, 
 as of one to whom such delicious antics were an old 
 story. "Yes, darling, he's a funny dog, isn't he?" 
 she said absently. "Did you hear how Mr. Starrett 
 is to-day, Grif?" She was pouring out tea for her 
 husband, mechanically adding the amount of cream 
 and sugar which she knew he liked. 
 
 "Why, Collier said he heard he was better," Rath- 
 von answered. "I didn't hear directly." 
 
 "I suppose he is, then. I thought your father 
 would be interested," Sally said to Constance. Her 
 eyes said, "Won't you go?" 
 
 Constance moved toward the door. "Here, 
 Chubby," Rathvon was saying, "come and sit on
 
 SUPPORT 41 
 
 my lap and have some biscuits." He took the child 
 on his lap beside the tea-table. He did not have 
 to rise to say good-by to the caller. 
 
 Constance went away with a constriction in her 
 throat, so tense that it seemed to stop her breathing. 
 Sally followed her to the door, but did not linger. 
 Constance knew that Sally was turning back to the 
 solidarity of the group before her hearth a compact 
 unit from which outsiders were excluded. As she 
 walked home, there was an unbearable hurt some- 
 where within her, almost physical in its reality. 
 "I thought I had gone through the worst," she cried, 
 "but there's always something else some new way 
 of suffering. I didn't believe I could ever lose Sally, 
 no matter what happened." She struggled for self- 
 control, lest people on the street should note her 
 anguished face. "Oh, well!" she drew a long breath. 
 "I can bear it. I can bear anything now, I think." 
 
 When she got back, her father was hi the sitting- 
 room. "You've been out a long time, Connie," he 
 said, laying down his book from the public library. 
 It was Stewart Edward White's "The Cabin." Mr. 
 Fenton had been a keen camper and hunter in his 
 day. 
 
 "Not so very long, father," she answered. "I was 
 just over, seeing Sally Rathvon." The ache of self- 
 pity was not yet gone, and she could with difficulty 
 control her speaking.
 
 42 SUPPORT 
 
 "It's strange how women always want to be out 
 of the house." The old man was in a querulous 
 mood. 
 
 Constance could have brought out some harsh 
 speech, about the disagreeable men in a house, who 
 drive the women out of it; but she merely said, 
 "Not so strange, considering the wonderful weather. 
 You ought to have gone for a walk this afternoon, 
 father. It's too nice to stay in." 
 
 "While I have a home, I prefer to stay in it," the 
 old man answered with dignity. "I may not al- 
 ways have one." 
 
 "Why, father! what a remark!" Constance stared 
 as she took off her hat. 
 
 "I don't know that it's so peculiar. Things like 
 that have happened. But there's always the poor- 
 house," the old man went on. "I've paid taxes many 
 a year, and now I have a right to expect shelter." 
 
 "Father! what nonsense! You don't need to talk 
 like that. You'll always have a home." 
 
 "I'm not so sure." 
 
 "Pooh!" Constance saw that her father was 
 working on her sympathy. "I guess the lot of us 
 can keep things together." 
 
 Mr. Fenton shook his head. "Wilbur has his own 
 interests, and he needs what he earns. Rose will 
 be marrying before she earns anything, and you'll 
 be marrying again." 
 
 "Don't." Constance turned away. She forgot 
 to tell her father about Mr. Starrett. She did not 
 even dwell on what the old man had said. She
 
 SUPPORT 43 
 
 put it away from her as too preposterous. As she 
 entered her room, she thought about Sally Rathvon's 
 home (that was better than thinking about Sally). 
 How delightful it was, without the elegance of great 
 expenditure! Its chintzes and prints and books 
 gave it charm. She thought of her own attractive 
 flat in Morningside Heights. Each thing in it had 
 meant something to her, had represented a discretion 
 of choice, a sincerity of affection. "I must do some- 
 thing to this room/' she said, and sat down, bowing 
 her head upon her hands. 
 
 After supper, she slipped out at the side door, and 
 stood looking off beyond the strip of garden to the 
 shadows of the elm branches against the arc lights. 
 She had put on her hat, with an undefined notion of 
 getting away for a walk by herself. She went softly 
 down the walk, and out at the gate. It was a moon- 
 less evening, crisp with a suggestion of hoar frost 
 before morning, but not unpleasantly cold. 
 
 Constance walked on, her thoughts inchoate. She 
 had been at home three or four days now, and was 
 making the beginning of her adjustment. It had 
 been hard in some ways. It would still be hard. 
 But she had courage; she could meet things (most 
 things) as they came. You couldn't expect to be in 
 any situation where you didn't have some annoy- 
 ances. The last year had been so excruciating that 
 the pin pricks which Wilbur and her father and
 
 44 SUPPORT 
 
 Griffith Rathvon were able to inflict upon her ought 
 to seem like nothing. They were nothing, really. 
 
 She wondered how she was going to feel about 
 meeting people. From one point of view, she should 
 be glad of meeting them, for they would give her 
 more to think about. She would not have an oppor- 
 tunity to dwell upon herself. 
 
 As she strolled along, she paid little attention to 
 the figures which she met or passed in the dimness. 
 But suddenly she had the feeling that the form that 
 was coming toward her was familiar. The man 
 moved forward, quite distinct under a hanging light, 
 his face darkened by the shadow of his hat. He had 
 almost passed before Constance knew him. At the 
 moment of her recognition, he turned to her. 
 
 "Oh pardon me it's Miss Fenton Mrs. Mof- 
 fatt, I mean." 
 
 "Yes." Constance responded to the hand which he 
 held out. "It's Mr. Sharland." 
 
 In the older days they had been Constance and 
 Alison to each other; but now uncertainty made 
 them take refuge hi the more formal address. Their 
 handclasp was friendly and natural. They were 
 striving in the dusk to see each other's faces, smiling 
 vaguely, pleased, and yet not sure of what their 
 individualities had become. It was six years since 
 she had seen Alison Sharland, Constance remem- 
 bered. He had not been in town when she had 
 visited in Blanchard four years ago. The interven- 
 ing time had changed the boyish shape of twenty- 
 six into the more settled outline of the man of
 
 SUPPORT 45 
 
 thirty- two; but there was the same suavity of fig- 
 ure and manner, the same sureness of touch, with 
 more restraint, a hint of hauteur. 
 
 His eyes sought hers inquiringly. "I heard you 
 were back," he said. 
 
 "Yes?" Constance wondered what he had heard. 
 "I've been here only a few days." 
 
 "Are you staying some time?" The question was 
 simply put. 
 
 "I think so." She tried to make her tone casual. 
 
 He hesitated, and made stock of the common- 
 places. "You found mighty fine weather when you 
 came." 
 
 "Beautiful. I love the fall in Blanchard. You 
 haven't been here all the time? You weren't in 
 town when I was here last." 
 
 "I'm not sure when that was. I've been here most 
 of the time. My father wanted me to stay." 
 
 "He's gone now?" Constance was trying to re- 
 call what her mother had written. 
 
 "Yes ; two years ago. I'm in the bank, of course." 
 
 "You would be. You were in the war, I suppose?" 
 
 "Oh, yes, for a year or so. But one forgets about 
 it." 
 
 "I dare say." They both knew that one did not 
 forget. 
 
 There did not seem to be much to say. "Well, I 
 mustn't keep you," said Sharland easily. "You're 
 staying at home?" 
 
 "Yes, the same old place." 
 
 "I'll call in if I may and talk over old times."
 
 46 SUPPORT 
 
 "Do." Constance found her voice cordial. "Tele- 
 phone me, so that I'll be sure to be in." 
 
 "I'll do that. Good-by." 
 
 "Good-by." Constance walked on, with a pleas- 
 urable excitement at having met one of the com- 
 panions of her college days. She and Sharland had 
 been friends almost more in the time when they 
 went, with a group of other young men and women, 
 to all the gaieties of Blanchard. Then, somehow, 
 she had married Frank Moffatt, who was an out- 
 sider. After she had gone East, she had thought, 
 with decreasing frequency, of Alison, and he had 
 occasionally found mention in the home letters. 
 Mr. Sharland the elder had been a friend of Mr. 
 Fenton; they had belonged to the same fraternal 
 order. The Sharlands had always been prosperous, 
 conservative people, not showy nor common, but 
 well-to-do. Mr. Sharland had had a lion's share 
 in the Citizen's Bank, and Alison had stepped into 
 his place in that institution. 
 
 Constance found her father and mother in the 
 sitting-room, her father still at his book, her mother 
 glancing over a church paper. "I met Alison Shar- 
 land as I was coming along." She sat down, with 
 her hat on, and put her elbow on the corner of the 
 table. 
 
 Mrs. Fenton smoothed the paper in her lap. "I 
 see him once in a while; hardly ever to speak to.
 
 SUPPORT 47 
 
 He's a nice-looking young man. Old Mr. Sharland 
 died a year ago or was it two years? Fred, when 
 did Mr. Sharland die? Was it last year or the year 
 before?" 
 
 "Uh?" Mr. Fenton kept his place in the book 
 with his finger. "Sharland? Let me see." He 
 took off his glasses and tapped with them on the 
 cover of the book. 
 
 "Alison said it was two years," Constance began. 
 
 Her father gave no heed. "It was the year we 
 had so many funerals in the Lodge. But we gave 
 him quite a send-off in spite of that; yes, quite a 
 fine send-off. It must have been three years 
 ago." 
 
 "I shouldn't have thought it was so long," Mrs. 
 Fenton peered around the reading-lamp at her hus- 
 band. "Are you sure, Fred? Wasn't that the time 
 that it rained so hard and hailed, and they couldn't 
 go to the cemetery for an hour, and everybody had 
 to sit around " 
 
 "No, no !" Mr. Fenton was testy in his assurance. 
 "That was the time that Henry Fairfield died. 
 You've got it mixed. Sharland died the year before. 
 You know he'd been ailing, and I went over to see 
 him, and he was propped up in bed. He says, Ten- 
 ton' like that Tenton, I'd like to get out of this ; 
 I'd like to get out of this.' And he did," Mr. Fenton 
 went on impressively. "The next day he died. 
 Don't you remember, when I came back Wilbur was 
 here had come unexpectedly and I was telling 
 him about it?"
 
 48 SUPPORT 
 
 "Oh, yes, yes!" Mrs. Fenton conceded her error. 
 "That must have been two years ago." 
 
 "Alison said two years," reiterated Constance 
 weakly. 
 
 "Two years. It was two years." Mr. Fenton 
 tapped meditatively. "Good fellow, Sharland. 
 Some peculiarities. He always used to carry a gold 
 pencil, I remember; and he had some special kind 
 of neckties sent on from New York or was it 
 London?" 
 
 Constance had listened with a mental recoil from 
 the conversation which had been going on. The relish 
 with which the word died was repeated gave her a 
 sensation of horror. She lapsed into her own 
 thoughts for a moment, and then heard her mother 
 talking again : "Yes, a good many of the old friends 
 have gone. We don't know when it will be our 
 turn." 
 
 "Goodness me, mother!" Constance could not help 
 protesting. "You're young yet only a little over 
 sixty." 
 
 Her mother shook her head angrily. "That's just 
 talk. Wait till you're as old as I am, and then see. 
 Only you won't have as hard a life as I've had. I've 
 had enough to make me old." Constance construed 
 this as a subtle reference to the divorce in the family. 
 "The trouble is that one is young such a short time, 
 and old such a long time." 
 
 That was true, Constance thought with a pang. 
 Why, a woman was considered old by the time she 
 was thirty-five or forty, and from then on, to the
 
 SUPPORT 49 
 
 time she was a hundred, she was old. Well, from 
 fifty on, anyhow. It was silly and cruel. One should 
 be young and energetic and useful and happy at 
 seventy, not harping on the note of decay and hope- 
 lessness and misery. 
 
 She came back again to what her mother was 
 saying. "The only consolation is to have the affec- 
 tion and reverence of one's children, so that they 
 soften the hardships of old age." 
 
 Constance felt an instinct of antagonism. "What 
 are the hardships of old age?" she said. "As far 
 as I can see, they consist of sitting by the fire and 
 reading, and getting other people to do what you 
 want them to." She took a perverse pleasure in 
 saying these things, partly, perhaps, because of the 
 cold fear in her heart: fear of the tune when she 
 would have to admit herself old. 
 
 "Constance! How can you talk like that? I 
 didn't suppose you were so hard-hearted." Mrs. 
 Fenton's face was shocked and reproachful. 
 
 "Well, mother, most old people live in that way. 
 Never mind. Let's not talk about it," Constance 
 replied. "I was thinking that I might help you to 
 get the bedding in order for the winter. I notice 
 that several of the sheets and quilts need atten- 
 tion." 
 
 "Yes, they do. I'd be awfully glad. I haven't 
 had time to get to them." Gratitude was replacing 
 irritation in the older woman's face. "There are the 
 sheets to turn and mend, and blankets to bind, and 
 comfortables to do over."
 
 50 SUPPORT 
 
 "I'll help you. Do you have the washerwoman to- 
 morrow?" 
 
 "Yes. Such a nice woman. I think you'll know 
 who she is. She was a Blake one of those Blakes 
 that used to live over on Clinton Street." 
 
 "Oh, yes." Constance remembered the Blakes 
 people who worked hard and behaved respectably, 
 and kept their children clean and well-mannered, 
 but who never seemed to get ahead. 
 
 Mr. Fenton, over his book, was muttering, "I 
 wish Rose would come home. I don't like to have 
 
 her out with that " The rest of the sentence 
 
 was an indistinguishable mumble.
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 
 ON Monday morning Rose had an eight o'clock 
 lecture, she said, and rushed off to it without eating 
 any breakfast. She tied her shoes with her foot on 
 the lower step of the stairs, as she was leaving the 
 house ; and she pinned on her hat when she was half- 
 way to the gate. 
 
 "That comes of being out with that " her fa- 
 ther was muttering. 
 
 "Mother, what's the matter with that man Schel- 
 ling? Is he really so undesirable?" Constance 
 asked in a low voice, as she put an egg on to boil for 
 her father. She fixed her eyes on the kitchen clock. 
 "Of course his name is German, but there are some 
 Germans who are not so bad and he seems some- 
 what Americanized." 
 
 "I don't know much about him," Mrs. Fenton 
 answered. She was clearly reluctant even to speak 
 of the man. "Your father doesn't like him. He 
 comes of a kind of low family, Constance. There's 
 an uncle who's a barber or something not here in 
 town," she added gratefully; "and the mother and 
 sisters are well, you know, sort of common." 
 
 "But how about the man himself?" 
 
 "I don't think he amounts to much. He isn't 
 
 51
 
 52 SUPPORT 
 
 worthy of Rose : he isn't, really. I don't say it just 
 because she's mine." 
 
 Constance rolled the egg over in the kettle. Her 
 brows contracted. "How did she get in with a man 
 like that, in the first place?" she asked incredulously. 
 
 "I don't know, Connie." Mrs. Fenton made a ges- 
 ture of despair. "Those things are beyond me. I 
 think she met him at a house party out at the Lake. 
 I begged her not to go there with the Nuttings. 
 They're not so objectionable themselves, but they 
 have a queer crowd around them. They're not our 
 sort. But Rose would go there's no restraining 
 her. You know how she is." 
 
 "I know." Constance's heart was heavy. She 
 remembered incidents of Rose's earlier years, in 
 which wild horses had not been able to hold her 
 back from rash performances. 
 
 "She met him there," Mrs. Fenton went on, "and 
 he began taking her out in his car, and coming to 
 the house." 
 
 "Did you protest?" 
 
 "Of course I did. But you know how Rose is. If 
 you try to persuade her not to do a thing, she'll 
 move heaven and earth to do it." 
 
 "I know," Constance repeated. She took the egg 
 out of the kettle and held it on a spoon while her 
 mother continued. 
 
 "I don't think she was really interested in him at 
 all, until your father began to make a fuss, and said 
 he never expected that a daughter of his would take 
 up with a low family like the Schellings. Rose got
 
 SUPPORT 53 
 
 furious, and went right to the telephone and called 
 him up, and told him she'd changed her mind she 
 found she could go motoring with him that after- 
 noon. From that time on, she was with him day 
 and night. Every time any of us said anything, 
 she'd start in fresh, as it were, and see more of him 
 than ever." 
 
 "Poor Rose!" sighed the elder sister. Why was 
 she so headstrong, so stubborn, so lacking in judg- 
 ment, so regardless of other people's wishes? 
 "Wasn't there someone else she could go with?" Con- 
 stance asked. 
 
 "Why, Connie, she could go with any one of a half 
 dozen young men," Mrs. Fenton answered mourn- 
 fully. "There was that splendid young fellow, Her- 
 bert Corden; one of the Cordens of Cordensville, 
 you know. His father is worth well on toward a 
 million, and Herbert is a fine, brilliant young man. 
 He finished the law course last year, and now he's 
 with old Judge Brent. He came here a good deal 
 for a while, and took Rose to some lovely parties. 
 But she got so that she wouldn't go out with him 
 said she didn't have the right kind of clothes." 
 
 Constance cringed. Rose was so viciously proud; 
 she couldn't bear to go out with that sort of man and 
 not be suitably dressed. "Poor Rose!" she sighed 
 again. "I must take this egg to father." 
 
 She went to serve her father's breakfast, her mind 
 full of the problems which her younger sister pre- 
 sented. If only Rose could be more sensible not 
 so sensitive and high -headed and unmanageable!
 
 54 SUPPORT 
 
 "Perhaps I can do something," she thought, not very 
 hopefully. She would sound Rose on the subject 
 of Schelling, try to talk things over with her, get at 
 her point of view; and then possibly she could im- 
 prove conditions to some extent. 
 
 "Mrs. Greening is at the back door," said Mrs. 
 Fenton. "It isn't unlocked yet." 
 
 Constance went to open the door, smiling at the 
 woman who entered, and saying "Good morning." 
 She remembered that Mrs. Greening had been a 
 Blake. 
 
 Mrs. Greening was a slight, worried-looking 
 woman, with hair showing premature streaks of 
 gray. She took off her black cape, with a remark 
 about the weather. "It's fine for drying," she said, 
 with a brightness that had in it a suggestion of 
 pathos. "You're Miss Constance, aren't you?" she 
 asked shyly. 
 
 "Yes, I'm Constance," answered Mrs. Moffatt. 
 
 "I don't believe you ever knew me," Mrs. Green- 
 ing remarked. "But you knew my cousin Honoria, 
 didn't you?" 
 
 "Yes, indeed, I knew Honoria Blake very well 
 We used to be in the grade school together." 
 
 "You would be. You're about of an age," nodded 
 Mrs. Greening. 
 
 "What has become of Honoria?" asked Constance, 
 willing to talk of the old days. "She was a sweet 
 girl, and I liked her so much."
 
 SUPPORT 55 
 
 Mrs. Greening's eyes filled with tears. "Why, 
 Honoria's dead. Didn't you know?" 
 
 Constance felt a shock of real regret at the news. 
 She and Honoria, in the truly democratic American 
 manner, had loved each other to distraction when 
 they had been little girls in pig-tails. "Oh, I'm so 
 sorry!" she cried. "Nobody ever told me." 
 
 "Honoria went more than a year ago," the other 
 woman said, her lips twitching. "I can't get used 
 to her being gone. She left a baby, Miss Constance 
 a dear little thing. Three years old it is now a 
 girl." 
 
 "Oh, did she?" said Constance. It was hard to 
 visualize Honoria Blake's little girl. 
 
 Mrs. Greening continued. "She was married four 
 years before she had any children. Then this little 
 one came. Its father died, and Honoria came home 
 to live with me. I didn't have much to offer her, 
 but she had to live somewhere. She didn't last long. 
 She just kind of gave up. Do you know, I think 
 that's the way a good many people die they just 
 naturally let go." 
 
 "I dare say it is," Constance replied. She re- 
 flected darkly, "It does take a fearful lot of courage 
 to live." 
 
 "It's an awfully nice little child," Mrs. Greening 
 said, with a return of her bright look. "She's a 
 lovely little thing." 
 
 "And you're taking care of her?" said Constance. 
 "It doesn't seem quite fair. You have children of 
 your own, haven't you?"
 
 56 SUPPORT 
 
 "Yes. Two. But what could I do? I loved 
 Honoria. She was younger than I was, and al- 
 ways looked to me for help. I couldn't put her 
 baby into a home, or any such place." 
 
 "Can't the husband's people do anything?" 
 
 "There's only an old mother, half out of her head, 
 and a son who's not much good. No, they've never 
 offered to do anything." 
 
 Constance considered. "I might do something for 
 the little girl," she thought. "Dear Honoria!" She 
 and Honoria had walked home from school together, 
 and had written notes in class, and she had helped 
 Honoria with her 'rithmetic. And now she was 
 gone, and the little girl left. 
 
 "Constance, what do you think about washing 
 this silk blouse of Rose's?" Mrs. Fenton had come 
 into the kitchen. "You don't think the stripe will 
 fade, do you?" 
 
 Constance gave her attention to the blouse, and 
 then went to order the groceries by telephone. She 
 soon forgot about Honoria Blake and her baby. 
 They recurred to her later in the day, when she and 
 her mother were sorting the bedding which needed 
 repairing. "Did you ever see the child that Mrs. 
 Greening has, that was Honoria Blake's?" she asked 
 her mother. 
 
 "What child?" said Mrs. Fenton with a patent 
 lack of interest. "Oh, the Greening or Blake child, 
 or whatever it is. No, I never saw it." 
 
 "I wonder what her name is?" murmured Con- 
 stance. "I must ask Mrs. Greening."
 
 SUPPORT 57 
 
 It was that evening, when Rose was getting ready 
 to go down to the drawing-room (Herman Schelling 
 was calling to take her out) that Constance pro- 
 pounded her questions. Rose was "revising" her 
 hair, as she said ; securing the heavy dark coils with 
 extra pins, and replacing the fine net which she 
 habitually wore. Constance began, conscious at the 
 same moment that she might not be choosing her 
 words wisely, "Rose, what is it that you like about 
 this man Schelling?" 
 
 Rose looked sidewise over her arm as she placed 
 a hairpin carefully in a loosened lock. "About Her- 
 man Schelling?" she said vaguely, as if to gain time. 
 
 "Yes. Why does he appeal to you so much?" 
 
 "Did you hear me say that he did?" queried Rose 
 coolly. 
 
 "No." Constance was rather taken aback. "But 
 I judge by what mother says." 
 
 "So mother has been setting you against him?" 
 Rose interpolated, with an angry glance. 
 
 "I can judge by your actions, if you want me to. 
 You accept his attentions such as they are and 
 go out with him for hours at a time." Constance 
 could not refrain from the little stab "such as they 
 are"; Rose herself admitted that he never took her 
 to any festivity that counted. 
 
 Rose went on putting hairpins into her hair an 
 appalling number, Constance reflected subcon- 
 sciously. The younger woman's face was pale; her
 
 58 SUPPORT 
 
 nostrils were thin and pinched. "I don't know that 
 it's anybody's business what I do, or where I go 
 with Herman," she said at last. 
 
 "Oh, it is, too!" Constance tried to make her voice 
 atone for her ill-judged remark. "You know we all 
 want you to do so well. We're so interested in your 
 prospects." 
 
 "Prospects!" Rose turned and faced her sister. 
 Her tone was so bitter that Constance was start- 
 led. "What prospects can I have? We're abso- 
 lutely without money, except just enough to scrape 
 along on, and I can't have any decent clothes, or go 
 with the kind of set that I'd like to I hate grinding 
 along with nothing!" 
 
 Constance kept her countenance, though her 
 heart was sore. "But that doesn't really explain 
 " she began. 
 
 "Perhaps it does." Rose was sullen now. "If I 
 can't have what I want, I'll have something. I'll 
 spite the world for going against me." 
 
 "Rose, dear, how foolish ! " Constance was aghast. 
 "The world isn't against you, any more than anyone 
 else." 
 
 "Well, it's against you, isn't it?" Rose was flip- 
 pant, almost to insolence. "You're in as bad a mess 
 as anyone needs to be, aren't you?" 
 
 Constance could not help wincing, but she held 
 
 herself in hand. "That may or may not be " 
 
 she replied. 
 
 "It's down on us all," the girl broke in wretch- 
 edly. Tears were in her eyes. "See what a muddle
 
 SUPPORT 59 
 
 we're in. We belong to a class that wants things, 
 and has to have them, to be happy. And we haven't 
 anything at all." Her voice shook. She took up a 
 buffer and began polishing her nails. "The only 
 thing to do is to defy fate, or whatever it is that 
 puts us into this condition not to care and just 
 let yourself go. It doesn't make any difference, any- 
 how." 
 
 "Oh, Rose!" 
 
 The younger woman's face showed for an instant 
 the hurt which she had suffered from deprivation, 
 humiliation, wounded love. "You see where I 
 stand," the girl muttered. 
 
 "It's so false." Constance spoke firmly, but with 
 the tenderness of pity. "You know it does make a 
 difference, and you can't not care." 
 
 Rose threw down the nail buffer, and turned with 
 a forced laugh. "Don't take it all so seriously, Old 
 Wet-Blanket," she said, as she dropped a kiss on the 
 cheek of her sister, to express her regret for the re- 
 mark about the "mess." "It's all right all right 
 all right." Humming a light air, she ran down the 
 stairs with a great show of gaiety. Constance was 
 left with a heavy sense of depression, and an aching 
 grief for the unhappiness of which her sister had 
 given her a glimpse. 
 
 In her own room, she sat down to think. She was 
 sick with sympathy for Rose. It was hard for a high- 
 spirited girl who loved the good things of life to be
 
 60 SUPPORT 
 
 cramped and crushed by poverty. Perhaps it would 
 have been better if Rose had not tried to go to col- 
 lege, if she had frankly taken a course at a business 
 school, and set out to earn her own clothes. She 
 would have had a little money to spend, anyhow, and 
 would not have been dependent on what the family 
 could scrape together. But that would not have 
 helped much, either. She could not have earned 
 enough to satisfy her desires, and her social oppor- 
 tunities would have been lessened, not increased, by 
 her taking an office position and settling down to 
 laborious tasks. It was not likely that Herbert 
 Corden of Cordensville would have sought her in 
 an office, if he had not pursued her more diligently 
 while she was at college. And it was not likely that 
 Rose would have been less proud as a stenographer 
 than she was as a college girl! It was undoubtedly 
 her "taking up" with Herman Schelling that had put 
 an end to Corden's attentions; and being in an office 
 would not have prevented the unwisdom to which 
 she had yielded, in her encouragement of the undesir- 
 able German. 
 
 It was baffling. Constance gave a sigh of misery. 
 She felt angry at Rose at her persistent destroying 
 of her own possibilities, her refusal to make the best 
 of what she had. Many girls would have been de- 
 lighted with the opportunity to go to college and yet 
 to stay at home. How unavailing it is, the woman 
 thought, to try to deal with morbid sensitiveness 
 which shows itself in recklessness and defiance ! She 
 did not see how anyone could awaken Rose to her
 
 SUPPORT 61 
 
 errors and make her turn from the course which bade 
 fair to ruin her life. 
 
 Constance reviewed her own situation. So far, 
 her sojourn in her old home had given her added wor- 
 ries, instead of the consolation for which she had 
 hoped. To begin with one of the smallest of her 
 troubles, the ugliness of the house annoyed her. 
 She had forgotten about it, or had failed to regard it, 
 because her mind had been centered on other things. 
 The house, of course, had grown shabbier in the six 
 years of her absence; there had been no money 
 for replacements or repairs. She saw, too, that her 
 standards of taste had been steadily develop- 
 ing. "I expected to come back the same person 
 that I went away," she thought; "and I'm not the 
 same person at all. Why" she paused in surprise 
 "I don't believe I knew myself in the least, and 
 now She and I are beginning to get acquainted." 
 She dwelt on this idea for a few illumined moments ; 
 then she returned to the problem of the house. 
 
 She contrasted it with her apartment on Morn- 
 ingside Heights. That had been a beautiful little 
 place. People had exclaimed over it when they 
 came in. There was something "so restful" about it, 
 they said. It was simple, and not expensively fur- 
 nished, but everything had been carefully selected 
 and placed. The few ornaments were choice, in 
 their way: they had been the result of study and 
 deliberation. Frank had laughed tolerantly (later 
 in their married life, derisively) at the seriousness 
 with which she had approached the selection of a
 
 62 SUPPORT 
 
 piece of furniture or bric-a-brac. He had sometimes 
 gone with her, wearing an assumption of martyrdom, 
 when she browsed about in shops, admiring or re- 
 jecting, choosing or relinquishing. Then she had 
 gone alone, and had spent fascinated hours at ex- 
 hibits, auction rooms, antique shops, the Metro- 
 politan Museum. 
 
 Once, toward the holidays, she had suggested that 
 she should take a position for a while in the shop of 
 an interior decorator whom she knew. It was the 
 winter that Frank was gone so much. He had been 
 openly scandalized. He guessed, he said, that his 
 wife didn't have to be a saleswoman in anybody's 
 store. 
 
 "It isn't that," she answered. "I should be seeing 
 something, learning something, having a good time." 
 
 But Frank had been obdurate, calling heaven to 
 witness that he could support his wife while he had 
 one. 
 
 "Support!" she had echoed bitterly; but Frank 
 had not heard. 
 
 When she had broken up her home, she had sold 
 the heavier pieces to a woman in the same house, 
 and had lent and stored the rest. The ornaments 
 and hangings she had brought with her, but most of 
 them were still in the boxes in which they had come. 
 She thought of some of them, and wondered whether 
 she could use them where she was. But she decided 
 that in her mother's house they would only be an 
 inharmonious element. 
 
 After all, were one's outward surroundings of so
 
 SUPPORT 63 
 
 much consequence? Constance 1 told herself that 
 they did not matter. Herself told Constance that 
 they mattered more than almost anything else. 
 "Why?" asked Constance, pondering. "Because," the 
 answer came, "they express the thought of one's 
 environment." 
 
 "Oh, well! I may get around to improve things 
 after a while," she said. She seemed likely to have 
 a long time to do it in. There were other matters 
 of importance to occupy her mind. 
 
 She let her thoughts dwell for a moment on her 
 father and mother: the depressing gloominess of 
 their old age, the narrowness and emptiness of their 
 lives. They had no real affection for each other, 
 she knew. The illusion of love had vanished, years 
 before. Their association was based on habit and 
 convention. They dwelt in a mental atmosphere 
 of dearth and worry, and the fear of death. "Shall 
 I grow to be like them if I stay here?" she asked. 
 She resolved to fill her mind full of better things than 
 they had found, lest she should be transformed into 
 their likeness. 
 
 As she so often did, she wondered about Frank 
 where he was and what he was doing. Thinking of 
 him no longer gave her a poignant hurt. He would 
 marry Mrs. Carmichael, after a while. They would 
 have to go to Connecticut or to some other place, 
 where the law w>as lenient. Constance let her re- 
 membrance linger on the early part of her married 
 life. Strangely enough, thinking of this period did 
 not make her suffer. It was as if she said to herself,
 
 64 SUPPORT 
 
 "I've had that much out of life, anyhow!" How 
 good-looking Frank had been, how solid, how re- 
 sponsive, how reliable. She had not asked much, 
 to be sure, but he had not failed her then. She liked 
 her little flat, enjoyed the housework which she did, 
 delighted in furbishing up her clothes, going out to 
 a restaurant with Frank, meeting his friends, filling 
 her days with duties and pleasures. They had taken 
 a motor trip through Massachusetts, that first spring 
 that they were in the East. How care-free they had 
 been, and how vital the loveliness of the landscape 
 had seemed to her! There had been one or two 
 small incidents which had marred their happiness; 
 and once or twice, even then, she had suspected that 
 there were fundamental oppositions of mind and 
 temperament between her and Frank. But, of 
 course, she had not counted on this. She had come 
 a long way since that time. She had heard people 
 speak of death as "passing on": she had passed on, 
 out of her old life, into this differing environment, 
 this perplexing conflict of ideas and personalities. 
 The change must mean, somehow, progress and in- 
 struction. Rose, Wilbur, Sally Rathvon they must 
 all have something to give her, even though she 
 received it with pain. She had faith to believe that. 
 She took up a book, and resolutely fixed her mind 
 upon it. She heard Rose's pretty laughter, down in 
 the hall, and the heavier tones of Herman Schelling's 
 discordant mirth.
 
 CHAPTER V 
 
 THE next day was happier. Sally Rathvon came 
 over, her own sane and simple self. Constance 
 had only a moment alone with her, but that moment 
 was comforting. She put her arms around Con- 
 stance's shoulder, and said in a low voice, "Connie, 
 you mustn't mind Grif. He you know it's just 
 that he cares for me so much, not that he has any- 
 thing against anyone else. It's all right, isn't it?" 
 
 Constance nodded, choking. The feeling of be- 
 reavement which she had had when she left the 
 Rathvon home on Sunday had not been quite healed. 
 She was not sure, in spite of Sally's protestations, 
 that Griffith cherished no personal antagonism, but 
 she let that pass. "I can't lose you, Sally," she 
 murmured, her arms tightening around her friend, 
 "I need somebody I need you." 
 
 "You'll always have me, Connie." Sally's honest 
 voice was assurance itself. "But I have to be fair 
 to to everybody, as nearly as I can." 
 
 "Yes, I know." Constance blinked back her tears. 
 "Good little Sally!" 
 
 Mrs. Fenton called, "Did someone come in, Con- 
 stance?" She came to the hall door. "Oh, it's you, 
 Sally. Do come in. How good to see you!" 
 
 65
 
 66 SUPPORT 
 
 There was no more private conversation, but Con- 
 stance felt eased. She was not going to lose Sally. 
 Even Griffith Rathvon could not take Sally away. 
 The long friendship of two women meant too much 
 to be rashly destroyed. 
 
 The week went on without further incident. Rose 
 was out at her classes. Mrs. Fenton toiled at the 
 housework. Mr. Fenton read incessantly, and pot- 
 tered about the garden, with his hand at his back. 
 The weather was perfect, but Constance did not go 
 out much. "Next week I'll begin," she said to her- 
 self. She helped her mother about the house, and 
 busied herself with the restoration of the bedding. 
 She had a fierce desire to keep herself as fully occu- 
 pied as possible. She dreaded idleness and too much 
 liberty to think. Even so, she did her sewing alone, 
 in the little room over the back stairs. 
 
 "Why don't you bring those things down, and be 
 with the family?" Mrs. Fenton urged. 
 
 "They're so big; they clutter up a room so," Con- 
 stance explained, "and get lint and thread all over 
 the carpet. Besides, the machine can't be moved 
 around. I need it for the long seams." 
 
 There was no reply for this; so she sat for two 
 hours every afternoon, working and thinking. She 
 was not always so unhappy as she had reason to 
 be. 
 
 It was a relief when, on Thursday, Alison Shar-
 
 SUPPORT 67 
 
 land called up on the telephone. "I'd like to come 
 over to-morrow evening," he said. 
 
 "Yes. Do come." She felt exhilarated at the 
 prospect of having a man caller again. 
 
 Constance put the large dim drawing-room in 
 order, trying to make the most of the better pieces 
 of furniture, and obscure the others. "I could make 
 a really handsome room of this, with not too much 
 effort," she thought; "just change the wallpaper and 
 take out the knickknacks, and put up some good in- 
 offensive curtains. Never mind. Alison won't care. 
 His mother's parlor was precisely like this, the last 
 time I saw it; it belongs to the same period." She 
 had been invited to the Sharlands', in times past, as 
 a part of Alison's set. Mrs. Sharland had been a 
 quiet, refined little woman, in process of being over- 
 whelmed by the aggressions of her two daughters, 
 Flora and Katherine. Flora was married now, and 
 lived in Chicago. Katherine, who was Constance's 
 age, was still at home. Constance wondered 
 whether Mrs. Sharland had been entirely over- 
 whelmed. 
 
 "It would be nice to have a little fire on the 
 hearth in the drawing-room," she said to Mrs. Fen- 
 ton. "Is there any wood?" 
 
 "Yes, a little, in the shed," Mrs. Fenton replied. 
 
 Constance laid the fire, and went to put on a light 
 dress. She did her hair low, with a tortoise-shell 
 comb at the side, and touched her cheeks with rouge. 
 She was conscious of looking well, and, for the hour,
 
 68 SUPPORT 
 
 not appreciably older than in the year of her mar- 
 riage. 
 
 Sharland was not in evening dress, but his busi- 
 ness suit was excellently made, and gave him a 
 sufficiently distinguished air. He was well-enough- 
 looking, too, though not handsome in the manner of 
 the clothing advertisements. His face was hard 
 harder than it had been a few years before. He was 
 naturally less boyish than he had been then. He 
 was quiet, like his mother, but in no danger, Con- 
 stance decided, of being browbeaten by Flora and 
 Katherine. 
 
 He exclaimed his satisfaction as he came into the 
 "parlor" and sat down by the fire. "It's great to 
 be here, and to see you again, after all this time," 
 he said, smiling. "How long is it? Oh, well, never 
 mind. There's no use in getting down to figures, 
 is there?" 
 
 "None whatever. It's kinder not to," Constance 
 assented. "I was back at home once, as I said, but 
 you were away, they told me." 
 
 "That was probably when I was up in North Da- 
 kota, just before the war our part of the war, I 
 mean." 
 
 "Yes, it probably was." 
 
 "I was up there in my uncle's bank, for a year," 
 said Sharland, settling himself more comfortably in 
 his chair. 
 
 "How did you like it up there?" asked Constance, 
 to make conversation. 
 
 "Not very well. I wanted to be back in this neck
 
 SUPPORT 69 
 
 of the woods. Then the war came on, and I enlisted, 
 and was gone more than a year nearly two." 
 
 "You were with the Army of Occupation?" 
 
 "Yes, for a while. Since I came back, I've been 
 establishing myself in my father's old place in the 
 bank." 
 
 "I seem to have known these facts vaguely," Con- 
 stance remarked. "Mother has sent me the News, 
 once in a while, and I've gleaned a good deal here 
 and there, about the doings of the old friends. I've 
 kept in touch more than I realized. I know pretty 
 well who's dead and who's married, and what busi- 
 ness everybody is in, but I confess I don't know 
 everybody's income, nor how many babies they 
 have." 
 
 "One can't expect everything," laughed Sharland. 
 "Some of those little details have escaped me, even 
 in my position." 
 
 "You do have a chance to guess at the incomes," 
 said Constance. She was glad that, years ago, a 
 business relationship had impelled Mr. Fenton to 
 carry his account at the State Bank, not the Citi- 
 zen's, in which the Sharlands were interested. It 
 would be humiliating to have Alison handling their 
 small affairs at present. "Now I must ask you about 
 some of the people in our old set," she went on. 
 "There are some that I don't know a thing about. 
 What has become of Tom Elwood?" 
 
 Alison reached into his pocket for a cigarette case. 
 "Do you mind if I smoke?" She shook her head. 
 "Why, Tom's out in the Philippines, I believe," he
 
 70 SUPPORT 
 
 replied to her question. "I don't hear from him my- 
 self." He offered her a cigarette ; she shook her head 
 again. "He was with a company dealing in agricul- 
 tural implements doing pretty well, I imagine." 
 
 "That's good. I always liked Tom." 
 
 "He's married, of course," said Sharland. "Tom 
 would be, you know. Let's see. I don't think you 
 were acquainted with his wife. She was Alice Grib- 
 ble. She visited her aunt, a Mrs. Hoxie, over on 
 Chandler Street." 
 
 "No, I don't remember her. And, oh, yes! I 
 wanted to ask about Lillian Brooks. We used to say 
 that she went on forever. Where has she gone on 
 to, now?" 
 
 "Lillian was an odd girl, wasn't she? She's mar- 
 ried and living in Tennessee or somewhere," an- 
 swered Alison. "I don't know anything about her, 
 any more." They went on talking about their former 
 acquaintances, and Alison grew animated and gay. 
 
 "It was too bad about Buford Clarke, wasn't it?" 
 said Constance. "I heard about his being killed in 
 the war." 
 
 Sharland did not answer. He had stopped laugh- 
 ing. His face grew pale and harder. He moved 
 nervously in his chair, holding his cigarette in his 
 hand, and staring at the end of it unseeingly. Then 
 he got up and walked about the room. He threw 
 his cigarette into thQ fire, and reached into his 
 pocket for another. Constance had known men who 
 had been in the war to be unwilling to mention its 
 casualties. She did not refer to Buford Clarke
 
 SUPPORT 71 
 
 again, but spoke of meeting some of the old college 
 friends on the street in New York. "I wish that 
 you had looked me up when you went to France," 
 she said. 
 
 "I intended to," he answered as if relieved. "I 
 got your address from your mother. But you were 
 in Yonkers then, I think; and my detachment was 
 ordered on board ship earlier than I expected." 
 
 The talk drifted to post-war conditions, the high 
 prices, the political situation, the European turmoil. 
 There was nothing showy or sparkling about Shar- 
 land, but he was far from dull or stolid. Constance 
 felt the stimulus of the quick give and take of easy 
 and impersonal conversation. She was grateful to 
 Alison for not asking questions, and for not making 
 an evident effort to avoid dangerous topics. His 
 talk was chiefly of the past, six years remote, or of 
 the immediate present. Of the time in between, and 
 of Frank Moffatt, he did not seem to think. 
 
 They spoke of the way in which Blanchard had 
 grown or spread out since Constance's departure. 
 "You must come out in my car," said Sharland, "and 
 see how the Belmont addition has improved. It's 
 strange that no one had thought of making that 
 strip of land into a park and home site." 
 
 "I'd like to go." Constance was overjoyed to be 
 asked. She wanted to get out, away from the irri- 
 tations at home to be away from women for a 
 while. Men (if they were not one's fathers and 
 brothers, she interpolated with a mental glint of 
 humor) were more interesting, less personal, more
 
 72 SUPPORT 
 
 companionable than women. It was good of Alison 
 to want to take her out. 
 
 "I remember how you used to read plays," said the 
 man. "It was a sort of fad or shall I say passion? 
 with you. Are you just as much interested in them 
 now?" 
 
 "Yes," she returned. "Of course when I was in 
 New York, I went to see a good many; but I always 
 liked to read them, too. I didn't always go to the 
 kind that I was most interested in." 
 
 "I have quite a collection. You got me started 
 at buying them, I think. I got a lot when I was 
 Across," he added. "Perhaps I have some that you 
 haven't read. I'd like to bring some over." 
 
 "I'd enjoy that immensely," Constance cried. He 
 did not seem afraid of her. Her heart warmed to- 
 ward him. 
 
 "I'll call up in a few days, and arrange to bring 
 over a volume or two. We can read them aloud," 
 he said; "that is, if you can stand my unemotional 
 rendering." 
 
 "I know your rendering," she smiled. "I can 
 stand it very well." She and Alison had often 
 taken a book with them when they had gone out on 
 a picnic together, in college times, or after. 
 
 They went on talking about matters of no great 
 importance. Sharland inquired about the elder Fen- 
 tons and Rose; touched easily and briefly upon the 
 health and diversions of his mother and sisters. At 
 ten o'clock, Constance brought in chocolate and 
 sandwiches. Sharland departed at a seemly hour.
 
 SUPPORT 73 
 
 It had been a quiet and non-significant evening, but 
 it comforted Constance to have this scrap of mas- 
 culine attention, after the neglect and humiliation 
 which she had suffered. Her acquaintance with Ali- 
 son, cautiously pursued to avoid misunderstanding, 
 would be a welcome relaxation, and would help her 
 toward a readjustment which she realized more and 
 more might be painful and difficult. 
 
 In the sitting-room, her father and mother were 
 reading, one on each side of the sputtering gas-lamp. 
 Her mother laid down her magazine. "Has Alison 
 gone?" she said. "He seems like a nice young man, 
 doesn't he?" 
 
 Constance assented, yawning. "I think he's im- 
 proved," she said casually. 
 
 "He doesn't seem to get married," Mrs. Fenton 
 went on. Marriage was, of course, the immediate 
 topic of interest in connection with a "nice" young 
 man. "He had an affair of some kind with a girl 
 who's moved away from here now. I don't think 
 you ever knew her Hilda Farrar, her name was." 
 Constance made a gesture of negation. "I never 
 understood just what the situation was. I only 
 heard vaguely about it. She committed suicide, I 
 think, after she left here. Or no ! maybe it was her 
 cousin who committed suicide. They had names 
 something alike. Fred, which one was it that killed 
 herself?"
 
 74 SUPPORT 
 
 "Eh?" Mr. Fenton tore himself away from his 
 paper. "What's that, Addie?" He took off his 
 glasses and peered around the lamp. 
 
 "I was asking who it was that committed suicide 
 was it that Hilda Farrar that moved away, or was 
 it someone else?" 
 
 Mr. Fenton frowned heavily. "Farrar Farrar 
 I don't know any Farrars," he began. 
 
 "Oh, yes, you do, Fred," Mrs. Fenton rejoined 
 with impatience. "They lived in that red brick 
 Colonial house in Gifford Place the one that Henry 
 Lowden built and then had to seil when he got into 
 that difficulty over the waterworks bonds. It went 
 so cheaply I forget what the sum was how many 
 thousands but you said then that you wished you 
 had the money to invest. Mr. Farrar bought it, 
 and he " 
 
 "Oh, Farrar! Oh, yes, yes! Of course I remem- 
 ber him. He had several girls in his family, didn't 
 he? They moved away about three years ago or 
 was it four? It may have been four " 
 
 Constance was grateful that her mother did not 
 debate the question of time. "Was it one of his 
 girls that committed suicide or was it that cousin 
 who used to live with them a thin, big-eyed kind 
 of girl?" 
 
 "Why, I don't know, Addie. I remember hearing 
 something of the sort, but I never got it straight, 
 and I haven't thought of it since. Queer duck, Far- 
 rar; red-haired fellow sort of self-important." Mr. 
 Fenton went back to his reading.
 
 SUPPORT 75 
 
 "Did you turn out the light in the parlor?" Mrs. 
 Fenton asked. 
 
 "Yes. I'm going upstairs." Constance felt sur- 
 prisingly little interest in Sharland's romance, if 
 such it had been ; but she resolved to ask Sally some- 
 time what she knew of a Farrar girl. It really didn't 
 matter, Constance told herself. Her regard for 
 Alison was merely superficial a present distraction 
 from her unsatisfying life here in her old home. 
 
 Having cautiously ascertained, over the telephone, 
 that Griffith Rathvon was occupied from four to six 
 with an experimental psychology seminar, Con- 
 stance went to call on Sally. She found callers there, 
 people whom she knew ; and was glad to be diverted 
 by their talk. She must be careful, she told herself 
 again, not to bore Sally with her troubles. That 
 evening Mary Foster came to call on Constance, and 
 the next day Professor and Mrs. Clarges came ; they 
 were old friends of the Fentons. Constance saw 
 almost nothing of Herman Schelling. "Rose keeps 
 him out of sight," Mrs. Fenton explained. "She 
 knows we don't want to see him." 
 
 Mrs. Greening had come to the house again, and 
 Constance had discovered that Honoria's little girl 
 was named Suzanne. "Lockwood, her last name is," 
 said Mrs. Greening; "but we hardly ever think of it. 
 I always think of her as a Blake." 
 
 Constance had arranged to give her mother a cer-
 
 76 SUPPORT 
 
 tain liberal sum "for board," as she said, but in 
 reality to pay the grocery bills for the family. From 
 time to time, other demands for money presented 
 themselves. Her desire to make the house more pre- 
 sentable had been held in abeyance. 
 
 One morning, Mrs. Fenton was sweeping the sit- 
 ting-room, and Constance paused at the door on her 
 way upstairs. The old carpet (Constance could not 
 figure just how old it was) looked scandalously 
 shabby. Accustomed to the freshness of her own 
 apartment, Constance felt a twinge of distaste every 
 time that she looked at the worn and faded rug. 
 "What a shame that we women care so much about 
 such things," she thought. "Men have a lofty dis- 
 regard of furnishings and fol-de-rols." 
 
 "Oh, dear!" murmured Mrs. Fenton, "there's an- 
 other rip in that seam. Those threads are worn 
 through." She put down her carpet sweeper and 
 went to get a needle and thread from her work- 
 basket. Constance watched her while she searched 
 for a thimble, put on her glasses, and knelt to mend 
 the rip. Her finely shaped hands, reddened with 
 kitchen work, fumbled at the gaping seam. The 
 daughter was moved with indignation and distress. 
 
 "Why do you bother with that, mother?" she said, 
 an impatient line showing in her forehead. 
 
 Her mother looked up over her glasses. "Why, I 
 have to bother with it," she answered wonderingly. 
 "I can't let it go ragged, can I?" 
 
 "It couldn't look much worse," was Constance's 
 reckless reply.
 
 SUPPORT 77 
 
 "It would look worse if it were in tatters." Mrs. 
 Fenton was laboriously taking stitches in the harsh 
 material of the rug. 
 
 "It's almost that now. Mother, listen," cried 
 Constance. "I'll get a new rug for this room." 
 
 "Oh, but, Connie" Mrs. Fenton, crouching on 
 the floor, stared up at her daughter "there's such 
 a lot to buy; you do so much." Her protest was 
 weak. 
 
 "A little more won't hurt me," Constance re- 
 turned. Even so, she was reluctant to spend the 
 money. She had a considerable sum accumulated 
 from the sale of her less valued furnishings, and 
 from her recent allowance from Frank. She had 
 hoarded it carefully and wanted to keep it by her 
 for some possible unexpected adventure, she did not 
 know what. And there were a good many things 
 that she wanted and needed. Besides, she longed to 
 get some new clothes for her sister. But a sitting- 
 room rug was the center of the household. Every- 
 body that came in trod upon it, noted it consciously 
 or unconsciously as an adornment or a detriment to 
 the appearance of the room. It signified out- 
 spokenly either poverty or prosperity, humiliation 
 or self-respect. "We'll have to have a new one," 
 Constance reiterated. "We positively can't go on 
 with this one; it's too disgraceful." 
 
 "I'm sorry, Constance." Mrs. Fenton's eyes filled 
 with tears. She sought vainly for a handkerchief, 
 till Constance stepped forward and supplied one. 
 "I'm sorry that you haven't a better home to come
 
 78 SUPPORT 
 
 to. It's too bad that you have to come back to a 
 shabby run-down place with no background for 
 
 you no " Her voice broke. She wiped her 
 
 eyes again, holding her glasses hi her hand. 
 
 "Mother, you know I didn't mean anything like 
 that." Constance felt the concealed reproach for 
 the circumstance which had brought her here when 
 she might be in a home of her own. "I merely meant 
 that it seemed more necessary to get the rug than 
 some other things. Come on, don't cry. Get up 
 and come with me." She pulled at her mother's 
 arm, and took the needle away, trying to laugh. 
 "Hurry up. We're going right down town and pick 
 out a rug now, this minute." 
 
 "Oh, Connie! Do you think you ought to?" Mrs. 
 Fenton staggered to her feet, looking doubtfully at 
 her daughter. 
 
 "Yes. I ought to." Constance was urgent. "Get 
 on your suit and we'll go." 
 
 With visible relief, Mrs. Fenton hastened away 
 to change her clothes. Constance was thinking as 
 she put on her hat and found a clean pair of gloves. 
 "It won't make so much difference in the long run. 
 I can make it up hi some other way, and the house 
 will look a lot better. I ought to have sent on my 
 sitting-room rug instead of selling it. I don't know 
 what I was thinking of. I'll really have to spend 
 some money on Rose. She must have a good-look- 
 ing evening coat. She can't have a good time with- 
 out it. If that young Corden should take to asking 
 her again maybe he will, if she hasn't completely
 
 SUPPORT 79 
 
 ruined her chances with him by going with. Herman 
 Schelling." 
 
 On the way down town she discussed with her 
 mother the color of the rug. At the same time, 
 Constance was wondering whether it would be 
 cheaper to buy a coat for Rose or to have one made. 
 In a window she saw just the right one dull-blue 
 velvet with a squirrel collar. It was exactly what 
 Rose ought to have. Well, she would see. 
 
 The rug cost more than she liked to spend, and 
 then it was hardly what she wanted. Still, it was 
 good and inoffensive; it would give neatness and 
 dignity to the room. Constance breathed more 
 easily when the rug had come and was lying on the 
 floor in the cheerful autumn sunshine. "This is 
 about the only big expense I'll have now, except 
 Rose's coat," she said. "I can do over her best even- 
 ing dress so that it will look like new." 
 
 But she had reckoned without King Winter. A 
 rumor and a murmur about the coal supply began 
 to reach her ears. Coal had to be bought tons of 
 it and the price was shocking. Mr. Fenton had a 
 little money from some interest which had come in ; 
 but it was not enough, by a long way. "It takes such 
 a lot, even for a few tons," Mrs. Fenton said fret- 
 fully. "Sister Claudia usually sends me a check at 
 this time, but she hasn't yet; and Wilbur always 
 sends something for coal " 
 
 "I suppose," thought Constance, "he's counting 
 on my being here. I'll make up the rest," she added 
 aloud.
 
 80 SUPPORT 
 
 "I hate to have you do that, Connie." Mrs. Fen- 
 ton made her usual protest. But as usual she looked 
 relieved. 
 
 Constance went to get her check-book. "It's a 
 good thing that I'm able to produce it," she mut- 
 tered ; "or that Frank is, rather." The thought came 
 to her: "When Frank married me, he didn't do it 
 so that he might have the privilege of paying coal 
 bills and buying rugs and groceries for my family." 
 She stopped with the check-book in her hand, her 
 brows wrinkled, her lips pursed. "It doesn't seem 
 fair, somehow. But I don't see what I can do. I've 
 got into this situation and I don't see how to get 
 out. The family have to have things." As she went 
 through the hall she found herself saying under her 
 breath, "Poor Frank!" 
 
 The coal bill was paid, but Constance had begun 
 to consider more carefully than she had ever done 
 the exact implications of a monthly check called 
 alimony. 
 
 She had been so occupied with family affairs that 
 she had not thought much about Alison Sharland. 
 He telephoned one evening, saying, "Do you want 
 to take a walk along the Lake shore this evening? 
 There's a full moon now, and it isn't cold." 
 
 "I'd love it," she said happily. 
 
 "It will be like old times, won't it? I'll call about 
 half past eight." 
 
 "I'll be ready." Constance let her mind dwell
 
 SUPPORT 81 
 
 upon the old days, seven or eight years before, when 
 she and her group had been constantly occupied with 
 outings and gaieties of one kind or another. She 
 and Alison had usually gone together. The group 
 had not been a sentimental one; each person in it 
 had been fairly well satisfied with the company of 
 any other. But it was convenient for each young 
 man to be definitely responsible for some individual 
 girl. Sally Needham had become increasingly an- 
 noyed that the others managed not to include her 
 professor in their set, and she began making ex- 
 cuses, so that she gradually ceased to belong to the 
 circle. Then one or another married or departed. 
 Alison and Constance had continued going about to- 
 gether in a desultory way. Then Frank Moffatt 
 had come to town, a young business man "repre- 
 senting" a firm which dealt in electrical supplies. 
 He had a hearty engaging way, a ringing laugh, a 
 stock of amusing stories. He and Constance had 
 liked each other; he had begun coming to the house 
 and taking her motoring and to the theater. 
 
 Probably everybody looks back with bewilderment 
 to the pre-matrimonial period. It is difficult, if not 
 impossible, to account for one's emotions and ac- 
 tions. It is a state of trance, a hypnotic condition 
 never afterward fully remembered, and assuredly 
 never accounted for. Why that particular often 
 inconsequent person should assume such gigantic 
 proportions on one's horizon, it is impossible to ex- 
 plain. Even when the marriage is not actually un- 
 happy, when the two people muddle along through
 
 82 SUPPORT 
 
 the storm and stress of married life with not too 
 much misery and not too active a dislike for each 
 other, there is still the secret question, "Why did 
 I imagine him [her] so different from everybody 
 else? What could have been the matter with me, 
 anyhow?" 
 
 Constance surveyed the past with this question- 
 ing frame of mind. "If Frank hadn't happened 
 along," she thought, "and Alison and I had gone on 
 liking each other, would it have turned out just the 
 same? Should we have found ourselves 'incompat- 
 ible/ got into complications, separated, been di- 
 vorced?" Marriage with any other man might not 
 have been any more successful than marriage with 
 Frank. She entertained a passing suspicion that 
 there might be in her some mental quality, not self- 
 comprehended, which made it impossible for her to 
 be wise or happy hi marriage. It was a humiliating 
 thought. 
 
 When Alison called, Rose and Schelling were in 
 the drawing-room; so there was nothing to do but 
 take Alison into the sitting-room where Mr. Fenton 
 was reading. Mrs. Fenton was upstairs for the 
 moment. 
 
 Mr. Fenton rose and shook hands with the caller. 
 There were mutual inquiries, a display of interest 
 and approbation on the one side, and of respect on 
 the other, which was a marked contrast to the way 
 in which Schelling behaved and was regarded. Con- 
 stance had a twinge of pity for Rose's foolishness, 
 and a corresponding impulse of satisfaction for her
 
 SUPPORT 83 
 
 own wisdom in bringing to the house such an unim- 
 peachable man. 
 
 When she had put on her wraps, she and Sharland 
 took a leisurely pace toward the Lake, talking of 
 the growth of the State College, the increased pros- 
 perity of Blanchard. The street lamps obscured the 
 moon until the strollers struck through the college 
 grounds and into the paths, edged with shrubbery 
 and dwarf spruces, which brought .them to the edge 
 of the Lake. Here the artificial lights were only 
 pale scattered sparks under the white brilliance of 
 the moon. 
 
 It was a night for romance and adventure, Con- 
 stance thought. But as an adventure, this stroll 
 was mild enough, for Sharland did not relax the 
 even, cool friendliness which had been his partis pris 
 from the first. Even so, the loneliness and the 
 wretchedness of the last year gave her a flattered 
 feeling in being chosen for a man's companionship. 
 It was silly, but one felt like that. Women had 
 always lived for men's attentions, though it was not 
 likely that they would continue to do so. They 
 were approaching a state where they were less de- 
 pendent on men for their success and happiness. 
 Constance smiled to think that she should be medi- 
 tating on the general status of woman while she wag 
 walking in the moonlight with an old flame. That 
 showed how far behind she had left her youth, and 
 how hard it was to get out of thinking of herself as 
 "an old married woman." 
 
 They stood looking out upon the silver track
 
 84 SUPPORT 
 
 which the moon left across the Lake. "It's a good 
 deal the same as it used to be," said Constance, in- 
 dicating the farther side of the curved bay, "except 
 in the middle, where it's built in. It used to be just 
 park there, you remember?" 
 
 "It's a very desirable section now. I own a lot in 
 it," he said. 
 
 "Oh, do you?" Constance felt it incumbent upon 
 her to be interested. 
 
 "I thought of putting a house up there," he con- 
 tinued. 
 
 Had he indeed? For Hilda Farrar? Constance 
 wondered. "It would have been a delightful situa- 
 tion for one," she said politely. 
 
 "It would," he answered. "But something hap- 
 pened and I changed my mind." 
 
 "One does." Constance kept her tone careless. 
 "Perhaps you may change it again and really build 
 this time." 
 
 "I may. I should like a place of my own," he 
 went on, after a pause. "Every little while I 
 threaten to build me a bachelor's hall and have a 
 Japanese man to take cafe of it. But then mother 
 objects so strenuously that I give it up." 
 
 "What does she object to the bachelor's hall or 
 the Japanese man?" 
 
 "Both, I should say. She wants me to stay on 
 with her and Katherine. I tell her that she can't 
 expect me to stay there forever. I may find a wife." 
 He laughed as at a mild piece of humor. 
 
 "And does she object to that, too?" Constance
 
 SUPPORT 85 
 
 caught herself as her foot slipped on a slight de- 
 clivity. 
 
 Sharland took hold of her arm to steady her. "I 
 think she could endure that," he replied, "because 
 it would seem more normal than setting up a place 
 by myself." 
 
 "I don't see why it should," said Constance. 
 "People often want homes of their own, even if 
 they aren't married." 
 
 "That's true." Sharland let go of her arm. "It 
 isn't very easy, living with your own family, after 
 you've grown to a state of mental independence, 
 is it?" 
 
 Constance had an impulse to give explosive as- 
 sent to his remark, but she checked herself. She 
 had a feeling that he might be sounding her to find 
 out how she got on with the Fentons. "It has its 
 drawbacks," she said. "But I should think that 
 since you're free to do as you like, you might go on 
 and build your house and let your family get recon- 
 ciled to it." 
 
 "You encourage me too much," he laughed. "I 
 shall probably go and do it. It would be a diver- 
 sion to build a house and furnish it." 
 
 "You aren't likely to need the diversion," she 
 replied. "Do you ever go to your fraternity house 
 any more?" 
 
 "Not very often. There are such a lot of cubs 
 and flappers there that they make me feel like 
 Father Time. I go to a dance there two or three 
 times a year, and that's about all. I like babies, and
 
 86 SUPPORT 
 
 I like grown folks, but I can't say I'm crazy over 
 the strange beings one sees nowadays in the inter- 
 mediate stage." 
 
 "Some of them are a shock to one's nerves," she 
 admitted. "They seem just as extreme here as in 
 the city." 
 
 "They're worse, I think," he answered. "They're 
 atrocious. But don't get me started on that topic." 
 There was a pause. Constance did not know what 
 his train of thought had been, to lead up to his 
 next subject of comment. "I've seen your sister 
 Rose once or twice recently," he said. "She was 
 only a little girl, fourteen or so, when I used to be 
 going to your house. She's grown to be a stunning 
 girl, hasn't she?" 
 
 "Yes, she's very good-looking," Constance agreed. 
 
 "Do you mind my asking who that heavy-looking 
 man is that I've seen her with? It isn't that Sch ell- 
 ing who has the garage down on Clinton Street, 
 is it?" 
 
 "I I think it is," Constance faltered. The cour- 
 teously restrained tone in which Sharland spoke 
 hinted at the extreme undesirability of Schelling. 
 
 "I thought it might be," he said, "but I couldn't 
 be sure." She knew he meant to say, "I couldn't 
 believe it." 
 
 "I don't know him at all," Constance responded. 
 "I've merely met him. Do you know him?" she in- 
 quired with an effort. 
 
 "Not in the least." Sharland's tone implied that 
 he and Schelling moved in different circles; it also
 
 SUPPORT 87 
 
 suggested that he was not going to say what he 
 thought. Constance dared not make any farther 
 comment concerning her sister's friendship with the 
 German. 
 
 She was disturbed by the reference to Rose and 
 by Sharland's unspoken condemnation. Her exhila- 
 ration was gone. Decidedly it was different from 
 the old days. There was neither the gay disregard 
 of all but the stimulation of the moment; nor the 
 sentimental consciousness that the touch of a hand 
 might exalt a quiet moonlight walk into romance.
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 1 
 
 CONSTANCE was getting more and more oriented 
 to her new life. She had gone to church and had 
 not suffered from the ordeal. A number of people 
 had spoken to her, and one or two had inquired 
 vaguely, "Are you staying long?" "Is Mr. Moffatt 
 with you?" She had replied, "Yes, quite a while, I 
 think." "No, he's still in the East." She was glad 
 that the experience had not been more embarrass- 
 ing; but as far as church itself was concerned, she 
 found it entirely wearisome. She had seldom gone 
 to church in New York. Frank always wanted a 
 late breakfast on Sunday with liver and bacon 
 and then there were other things to do. She re- 
 solved not to go oftener than she could help, here 
 in Blanchard. Rose didn't go unless she felt like 
 it. She was usually off with Schelling, her mother 
 explained miserably; they went motoring and took 
 a lunch along, or they went out to the Nuttings' 
 cottage on the far Lake (the Nuttings spent the 
 week-ends there till after Thanksgiving), or they 
 drove to some little town and had dinner there. 
 
 "These automobiles do an awful lot of damage," 
 Mrs. Fenton remarked. 
 
 88
 
 SUPPORT 89 
 
 "I dare say they do, in that way," assented Con- 
 stance. "They give people a laxness and freedom 
 that they've never had before." 
 
 Just because Rose was gone so much, Constance 
 felt it incumbent upon her to stay at home with 
 her father and mother. Mr. Fenton was fretful if 
 she went out. 
 
 "Wilbur says that he and Eleanor will be down 
 for Sunday," said Mrs. Fenton, folding her letter 
 nervously. There was an immediate air of tension 
 in the house. "Eleanor's so critical," the older lady 
 sighed. "She's an awfully good housekeeper, you 
 know, and of course she doesn't have anyone but 
 herself and Wilbur to do for. I wish I'd had the 
 blankets on the spare-room bed washed and the 
 doors scrubbed where the fingermarks show on the 
 paint, and some other things done. I don't feel as 
 if I could do them." 
 
 "Couldn't we get Mrs. Greening to come over for 
 a few hours?" Constance suggested. 
 
 "Perhaps we could." Mrs. Fenton looked hope- 
 ful. "But she hasn't any telephone. It's a nuisance." 
 
 "I'll walk over there to-night after dinner," Con- 
 stance said, "and perhaps she can come to-morrow 
 morning." 
 
 "I wish you would, but it's a bother for you, I 
 know," said Mrs. Fenton. 
 
 "I'd like the walk." Immediately after dinner, 
 Constance went over to West Thompson street, fol-
 
 90 SUPPORT 
 
 lowing her mother's directions, and sought for "the 
 third house from the corner of Birdsall Street, a kind 
 of small dingy gray house." 
 
 At her knock, a voice called, "Come in." 
 
 Constance turned the knob and walked into a 
 lighted sitting-room, where a tiny sheet-iron stove 
 was sending out too much heat. Mrs. Greening was 
 sitting beside a table, with little Suzanne on her 
 lap. "Oh, it's you, Mrs. Moffatt," she said, half 
 starting up. Constance waved her back. "I was just 
 undressing Suzanne, now that I've got the other 
 children to bed," Mrs. Greening said, looking at her 
 caller. "I like to hold her on my lap at night, so 
 that she'll feel she's got somebody. She's kind of 
 put upon during the day." Mrs. Greening was in 
 the habit of leaving Suzanne with a neighbor woman 
 while she was away at work. 
 
 Mrs. Moffatt stood looking down at the little girl 
 1 at the colorless face, and the halo of straw-colored 
 hair with the lamp-light shining through it. She 
 thought how she had longed to hold and hug Sally 
 Rathvon's daughter. Now she felt the same im- 
 pulse, though it was gentler, less greedy, because 
 this child was frailer and more elusive. She could 
 hardly restrain herself from catching up the little 
 thing in her arms. "I never felt quite like this be- 
 fore," she said to herself. Mrs. Greening went on, 
 taking off the child's dress over its head. Her work- 
 worn hands were tender in their touch. "Oh, let her 
 sit on my lap!" cried Constance. 
 
 Mrs. Greening looked dubious. "She doesn't take
 
 SUPPORT 91 
 
 to strangers. Do you want to go to this lady, Su- 
 zanne?" 
 
 Tugging at her stocking, the child stared thought- 
 fully at the "lady." 
 
 "Do you want to come to me, sweetheart?" Con- 
 stance found that she had not used the saccharine 
 tone usually employed in luring children, but a deep 
 and fervent voice which gave a sudden outpouring 
 of her own loneliness, her own quick passion for this 
 particular child. 
 
 Suzanne nodded. Constance lifted her and took 
 her on her knees. The three-year-old girl was too 
 small for her age. The cheek which she rubbed 
 against the visitor's fur neckpiece was not bright 
 enough; her hand, shell- white and delicately fin- 
 gered, was uncertain in its reach and in its grasp. 
 "She needs something," thought Constance. "Is she 
 well?" she asked in a low voice. 
 
 "Yes, usually," Mrs. Greening answered. "She 
 doesn't look very strong, but she's all right. It's 
 hard to make her eat enough." 
 
 Constance, her hand and arm around Suzanne's 
 warm body, felt a gush of joy in cherishing the little 
 thing. She went on undressing her, fumbling with 
 one hand at the white stockings, unbuttoning the 
 petticoat yoke. Mrs. Greening stood holding a 
 coarse gray flannelette nightgown. Constance let 
 her fingers slide over the fair translucent skin of the 
 slender legs and arms, the adorable line of the shoul- 
 der. The nightgown went on, was buttoned, cuddled 
 around the little girl's feet. "There!" Constance
 
 92 SUPPORT 
 
 gave a last softly convulsive pressure to the form 
 in her arms, and suffered Mrs. Greening to take the 
 baby back upon her lap. She told her errand briefly. 
 
 "I can come for two hours, anyhow," Mrs. Green- 
 ing consented. 
 
 Mrs. Moffatt rose. She nodded toward the child. 
 "Bring her along the next time you come I mean, 
 when you come on Monday," she said as carelessly 
 as she could. She scarcely wanted to reveal how 
 much she meant what she said. 
 
 Mrs. Greening looked pleased, but hesitant. "I 
 might do that if your mother if Suzanne wouldn't 
 be a bother." 
 
 "She wouldn't. I'd love to have her." Constance 
 could not speak for her mother. 
 
 "Well, I will." 
 
 Constance went away, under the stars, thinking 
 of Suzanne. She took pride in the fact that the 
 child had come to her. "She doesn't take to 
 strangers," Mrs. Greening had said. "I'm not a 
 stranger, really," Constance murmured, as she sur- 
 veyed the scene in retrospect. "This is Honoria 
 Blake's little girl." 
 
 Honoria Blake's little girl. 
 
 How she had liked Honoria! She remembered 
 the time that someone had given her a bag of pink 
 striped cinnamon candy sticks the brittle kind that 
 snaps and crunches. She had met Honoria, and 
 they had sat down on the edge of the sidewalk and 
 eaten it all, with their arms around each other, 
 snapping and crunching blissfully: a thing to re-
 
 SUPPORT 93 
 
 member. And another time, Honoria had made a 
 dress for Constance's doll a queer boggle of blue 
 silk and red braid. Constance had been thrilled at 
 it. She had kissed Honoria 
 
 She wished she didn't remember things so vividly. 
 Other people didn't seem to. 
 
 Life was an odd affair. Who would have 
 thought 
 
 Constance drew a long breath. There must be 
 some plan hi it: probably there was. When she 
 and Honoria had sat eating cinnamon candy, it was 
 already planned, somewhere in the universe, that 
 she should sit in a lamp-lighted room on this No- 
 vember evening, and put a nightgown on Honoria's 
 little girl. The thought gave one a sense of awe and 
 amazement; it was strange how things worked out 
 and fitted together. It made one wonder what was 
 planned that had not yet been unfolded. 
 
 Wilbur and Eleanor arrived on Saturday after- 
 noon. Eleanor was a slight young woman with light 
 hair fluffed out abnormally around a thin face. She 
 spoke in a high and penetrating voice. Her obvi- 
 ously home-made clothes excited for a moment the 
 contempt of Constance; until she recollected that 
 with the money that Wilbur sent home Eleanor 
 could provide herself with smarter suits and dresses. 
 
 Constance had seen little of her sister-in-law. 
 Wilbur, two years the elder, had married shortly
 
 94 SUPPORT 
 
 before his sister. She had gone East with Frank, 
 and had seen Eleanor only a few times during the 
 one visit at home. 
 
 Eleanor was cool to Constance, perceptibly less 
 than friendly. She made her disapproval evident, 
 and the martyrdom which she was enduring in being 
 "married to a divorce." She talked rapidly to Mrs. 
 Fenton most of the time, telling of the "parties" 
 which she had attended in Caryville. The women 
 there were "great on afternoon affairs," she said, 
 because they liked to be at home with their hus- 
 bands in the evening. 
 
 Mrs. Fenton was pathetically eager to keep things 
 pleasant, to conciliate Eleanor and avoid open fric- 
 tion. It was a relief when Wilbur and his wife went 
 to the moving pictures in the evening, taking Mrs. 
 Fenton along. Schelling was in the drawing-room 
 with Rose. Mr. Fenton, grumbling about people 
 who wanted to be gadding all the time, settled him- 
 self beside the sitting-room lamp. Constance, hav- 
 ing astutely dropped hints about not feeling well, 
 shut herself up in her room, and saw no obligation 
 to appear before the next morning. 
 
 Eleanor proclaimed her intention of taking Wil- 
 bur to the morning service. "You know I'm very 
 High Church," she said to Constance. 
 
 "Yes, so I've heard." Constance felt that Eleanor 
 would have liked to pursue the subject of religion, 
 but she turned the talk to food and recipes; and 
 then it naturally adverted to what Wilbur liked for 
 each meal, the state of Wilbur's digestion, and the
 
 SUPPORT 95 
 
 hypothetical connection between digestion and eye- 
 sight. 
 
 "Won't you go to church with them, Rose?" 
 begged Constance. 
 
 "I should say not," replied Rose promptly. "I'd 
 like a rest from that little prig for an hour or two." 
 
 "What a way of speaking of your sister-in-law," 
 Constance reproved, biting her lip. 
 
 "I never chose her. Wilbur may want her with 
 him, but the rest of us might be spared the 
 affliction." 
 
 "Come, now, Rose, we must be as nice to her as 
 we can," the elder sister remonstrated. "Wilbur has 
 done a lot for the family." 
 
 "I know he has," said Rose with contrition. "I'm 
 an ungrateful beast. But I do hate Eleanor," she 
 added, turning away. 
 
 So Wilbur and his wife went to church alone. 
 Rose "had to study," Constance was bent on help- 
 ing her mother with the dinner, and Mr. Fenton 
 frankly refused to stir. "Well, we'll pray for all of 
 you," said Eleanor in a reverential voice, as she put 
 on her white cotton gloves. 
 
 "Don't bother," called Rose from the study. 
 
 "I shall have to." Eleanor's tone had hi it the 
 patronage of virtue. 
 
 Constance, making lemon pie for dinner, consoled 
 herself with the thought that the visit was proving 
 "not so bad," and that it would soon be over, with 
 no actually painful results. 
 
 She had rejoiced too soon, however. She found
 
 96 SUPPORT 
 
 herself, after dinner, cut off with Wilbur in a corner 
 of the dining-room. Wilbur had a jovial air, quite 
 out of keeping with his usual solemnity. He spoke 
 in friendly wise of his sister's high color and becom- 
 ing gown. He praised the lemon pie, and expressed 
 surprise that anyone as artistic and intellectual as 
 Constance should know how to make a pie that was 
 fit to eat. "You always were a good cook, though, 
 if I remember rightly," he said with heartiness. 
 
 "I feel flattered," said Constance, knowing that 
 Wilbur usually reserved his commendation for 
 Eleanor's cooking. 
 
 "Con," Wilbur was going on, "you're a nice old 
 girl, if you do make a mistake now and then." 
 
 "I'm not the only one, I suppose?" Constance re- 
 turned with a wistful intonation. 
 
 "No. We all make mistakes. I've made a few, 
 myself." Wilbur spoke in an offhand and generous 
 manner. 
 
 Constance marveled at the admission. "For in- 
 stance?" 
 
 "Oh, I don't know. I could name several. Going 
 into teaching for one thing," answered Wilbur. 
 "There's no money in it." 
 
 "It's a steady, dependable job, and you have long 
 vacations." Constance had heard Wilbur advance 
 these arguments, and she now produced them me- 
 chanically. 
 
 "Yes, of course." There was a silence. Constance 
 knew that Wilbur was leading up to something; she 
 did not guess what. "But it's the small salaries
 
 SUPPORT 97 
 
 that make one mad. There isn't any other job where 
 a man works so hard that he doesn't get twice as 
 much," Wilbur explained. "And the demands on 
 one are terrific. One always has to dress well, and 
 his wife has to look well, in order to go with the 
 best people. That's one thing, you always get in 
 with the best people in town. Eleanor goes every- 
 where." 
 
 "That's nice, Wilbur. That's worth a great deal." 
 Constance spoke with as much ardor as she could 
 command. "It makes up to her for some other 
 things." 
 
 "I suppose so." Wilbur moved his hands ner- 
 vously in his coat pockets. "Say, Con," he burst 
 you, with elaborate casualness, "you haven't any 
 loose cash around, have you?" 
 
 "Cash?" answered Constance wonderingly. 
 
 "Yes; money. Have you any that you could 
 lend?" 
 
 "I why, I don't believe so." Constance tried, in 
 a confused way, to think how she could put him 
 off. 
 
 "You get a lot," argued Wilbur. "You get a good 
 round sum. Every month it comes in, as regularly 
 as clockwork. I tell you, you're pretty lucky to get 
 it that way, month after month, without turning 
 your hand over." He fixed her with his hard blue 
 eyes. 
 
 "Lucky!" The woman spoke with sudden bitter- 
 ness. "You haven't always given me credit for 
 being lucky in this particular matter."
 
 98 SUPPORT 
 
 Wilbur hedged. "Well, of course, it's too bad that 
 you and Frank didn't make a go of it. But as long 
 as you didn't, and things went as they did, it's a 
 good thing that you have something to fall back 
 on. I suppose you're managing to save up a good 
 deal." 
 
 "Why, you know, Wilbur," Constance answered, 
 as smoothly as she could, "it takes nearly everything 
 to keep things going here. I try to do something 
 for Rose and for mother, and I've bought the new 
 rug, and the new curtains for the dining-room, and 
 paid for most of the coal " 
 
 "Of course, of course," Wilbur responded gra- 
 ciously. "I realize that you've done a whole lot. 
 But you must be saving something, too. Why, you 
 get nearly as much as I do." 
 
 "I haven't saved much." Constance had a wry 
 face. She was hastily considering the matter of 
 lending her money. What she had saved would, 
 she knew, stand her in good stead in case she should 
 decide to break away and live her own life. "What 
 do you want it for?" she concluded. 
 
 "I'll tell you: There's a place at Caryville that 
 I could buy if I had two thousand dollars to pay 
 down. It's a dandy little place quarter acre of gar- 
 den, a garage (it's an old barn, but it can be fixed 
 over a little), trees around it, seven rooms we could 
 rent one, Eleanor thinks, and put the money toward 
 our living expenses. Eleanor wants the place the 
 worst way, and I feel as if we ought to be getting 
 something ahead. If you could let me have a few
 
 SUPPORT 99 
 
 hundred, I could make up the rest. Eleanor's father 
 will let me have a dollar or two. Now, Constance, 
 I'd pay it back as soon as you wanted it " 
 
 Constance did not hear. Her heart fluttered. A 
 little place like that! How she would love it. A 
 garden trees a vine over the porch. Every woman 
 wants just such a place. If she had two thousand 
 dollars, she could buy a house and lot. She could 
 have someone with her a little girl, perhaps; a 
 child about three years old. 
 
 "Well?" Wilbur was moving uneasily back and 
 forth between the two windows, gazing out without 
 seeing anything. 
 
 "I don't see how I can." 
 
 "You've got it, haven't you?" asked Wilbur, with 
 some sharpness. 
 
 "Y-yes, I have a little. I sold our furniture, you 
 know some of it and Frank said I could have the 
 money." 
 
 "Then " 
 
 "But I don't know that I ought to let anyone else 
 have it. I might want a place of my own." 
 
 Wilbur looked alarmed. "Don't do anything 
 silly," he said. "Women haven't an atom of sense 
 in making investments. If you let me have it, it'll 
 be perfectly safe. You'll know just where it is, get 
 good interest on it, and not fritter it away in some 
 get-rich-quick scheme, such as women are always 
 falling for." 
 
 "But I wouldn't do that," Constance interposed. 
 
 "You don't know what you'd do if some smooth-
 
 100 SUPPORT 
 
 tongued chap came along and put up a good story. 
 He'd get it out of you." 
 
 "He might not." 
 
 "Anyhow," Wilbur made answer, "you'd be a lot 
 safer to let me have it. Then you'd know it was all 
 right. I could take any amount that you have to 
 spare." 
 
 Constance ruminated. "I don't think I want to, 
 Wilbur," she said at last. 
 
 Wilbur sulked. "As much as I've done for the 
 family," he said harshly. "All these years, when 
 nobody else would do anything. I couldn't afford 
 it. Eleanor has to go without everything she wants. 
 And now she wants a home she needs a home " 
 
 Constance knew that he was agitating for sym- 
 pathy; but she also had to confess that what he had 
 said was true. He had sacrificed a great deal, and 
 so perforce had Eleanor. "I'll think it over," said 
 Constance. 
 
 "What's the good of thinking it over?" Wilbur 
 persisted. "You have the money, and you might as 
 well let me take it as to let it stay in the bank. Is 
 it on your open account?" 
 
 "Yes, some of it," Constance answered unwill- 
 ingly. She had intended getting a certificate of 
 deposit for it, but had been slow. 
 
 "And the rest?" 
 
 "It's in a few Liberty bonds small ones that I 
 invested some of my housekeeping money in; and 
 two that Frank gave me." 
 
 "Are they here?"
 
 SUPPORT 101 
 
 "Yes." Constance felt guilty in the confession. 
 "I haven't got a safe-deposit box. I suppose I've 
 been careless." 
 
 "Of course you have. They might have been 
 stolen at any minute." Wilbur looked properly hor- 
 rified. "That shows that women haven't any sense 
 about money." 
 
 "If I let you take those, that'll be enough, won't 
 it?" queried Constance, hoping that Wilbur would 
 be satisfied. 
 
 "Go and get them," said the other solemnly, in 
 the tone of one who saves another from a great 
 disaster. 
 
 Constance brought the bonds from under a box 
 on her closet shelf. "It wasn't likely that anyone 
 would have found them," she justified herself. 
 
 Wilbur received them gravely. "Now a check for 
 the rest," he said. 
 
 Constance held back; and then with a sudden 
 inner "What's the use?" she went and got her check 
 book, and made out a check for the sum which she 
 had set aside for her prospective plans. Wilbur took 
 the slip of paper with profuse expressions of satis- 
 faction. 
 
 "You won't regret this, Connie," he said. "And 
 you can have it back any minute that you really 
 need it. I can promise you that." 
 
 "All right," answered Constance. She stifled her 
 misgivings, and assumed a nonchalant air, as if 
 money were to her a matter of small importance.
 
 102 SUPPORT 
 
 The guests were to go that evening on a nine 
 o'clock train. There was a bustle of supper, and a 
 volley of parting adjurations. Eleanor went to pack 
 her toilet articles, and was coming out of the bed- 
 room with a brown bag in her hand, when she and 
 Constance met in the hall. 
 
 "Well, Constance," she began, "I suppose you'll 
 be here all winter." 
 
 "I expect to," said Constance, speaking with a 
 cordiality which the imminent departure of the other 
 woman made easier. 
 
 "You've got your divorce, I hear." Eleanor could 
 not refrain from using the ugly word before she 
 went. She was not going to ignore what had hap- 
 pened. 
 
 "Yes; almost, at least." Constance knew very 
 well that Eleanor was informed of her status. "I'm 
 expecting my second decree." 
 
 Eleanor laughed superciliously. "I'm afraid that 
 doesn't mean much to me," she said. "I know noth- 
 ing about such things. All I know is " a gleam 
 of conscious rectitude came into her eye "that it 
 says in the Bible, 'What God hath joined together, 
 let not man put asunder.' ' 
 
 "Yes, it does say that," Constance responded, 
 keeping her self-control. "But what is God?" 
 
 Eleanor turned a scandalized face to the speaker, 
 her eyes wide, her jaw dropping. "What is God?"
 
 SUPPORT 103 
 
 she cried. "Why, you ought to be ashamed to ask 
 such a question." 
 
 "I'm not so sure. What is He?" insisted Con- 
 stance. "You say, 'What God hath joined together.' 
 Now, just what do you mean by that?" Her limbs 
 were shaking; she was breathing hard. She knew 
 the folly of the argument, but she stood waiting 
 for her sister-in-law's answer. 
 
 "Why, the Church the minister " stammered 
 
 Eleanor, taken aback by the directness of the 
 question. 
 
 "Are the Church and the minister God?" 
 
 "They stand for God. God has appointed them 
 to act for Him," Eleanor made dignified reply. On 
 theological grounds she felt sure of herself, and she 
 was recovering from the shock of Constance's frank- 
 ness. 
 
 "How do you know?" asked the other calmly. She 
 felt like bursting out into laughter, and yet there 
 was some reason why she did not. 
 
 Eleanor took a step backward. "Have you no 
 respect for anything?" she cried. 
 
 "I have a great deal of respect for a good many 
 things," replied Constance, "but I haven't much for 
 forms of any kind." 
 
 "You speak in that way of the sacred marriage 
 service?" Eleanor looked as if the earth were 
 crumbling. 
 
 "The marriage service " began Constance, 
 
 wondering why she went on with this futile ex- 
 change of words.
 
 104 SUPPORT 
 
 At that moment Rose stepped out of her own 
 room. "Oh, Connie, don't get into an argument 
 like this," she intervened wearily. "You know it's 
 frightfully tiresome, and perfectly useless." 
 
 Constance let her hands fall at her sides. "I know. 
 It's been gone over again and again. I'm sorry. 
 But " She went down the hall trembling. 
 
 As she shut her door, she heard Eleanor saying, 
 shrilly, "Why, Rose, Rose, do you know what she 
 said? She doesn't even believe in God!" 
 
 Constance shut the door, and stood leaning against 
 it. A murmur of voices came from below, her 
 mother's voice, Wilbur's, and the staccato outcries of 
 Eleanor. Then came the hurried footsteps of de- 
 parture, the slamming of the front door, the dropping 
 down of silence in the house. Constance, her lips 
 shaping themselves into an ironical smile, drew a sigh 
 of relief. "Rose was right," she said. "I was an idiot 
 to get into a controversy. Eleanor's set in her views, 
 and it doesn't do any good to bang against them. 
 I'm sorry I answered her at all. It will only make 
 Wilbur worse." She regretted, with sudden rancor, 
 what she had done in letting Wilbur get hold of 
 her money. He had said that she "could have it 
 back at any minute," but would it be so easy to get 
 it back? She had been inexpressibly foolish to hand 
 it over to him. She saw, now that it was too late, 
 that she had been mesmerized by his appeals, by 
 his bullying, by her own sense of gratitude for what 
 he had done for the family. "I wish I had followed 
 my impulse, and taken time to think it over," she
 
 SUPPORT 105 
 
 lamented. "Well, I can't worry about it. I'll get it 
 back as soon as I can, and I hope that the next time 
 I'll have a little more sense." 
 
 She was confirmed in her regret by the horror 
 which Rose expressed when she heard of the loan to 
 Wilbur. "Great Caesar, Connie," she exclaimed, 
 "you don't mean to say that you let Wilbur have 
 your money?" 
 
 "Why, yes, I did," the other confessed, coloring 
 miserably. 
 
 "How did you come to do that?" Rose showed 
 an amazed curiosity. 
 
 How did she? Constance tried to think. "Well 
 he needed it to pay down on his house, and " 
 
 Rose stared and shrugged. "Then you are a fool, 
 Con. I should have thought you'd know better." 
 
 "And he worked on my sympathy, and he made 
 so much of what he's done for father and mother. 
 And anyhow, Wilbur isn't dishonest," concluded the 
 elder sister, justifying herself in her own mind. 
 
 "No, of course not." Rose wrinkled her forehead 
 reflectively. 
 
 "Then why should you insinuate that I can't trust 
 him with what little money I have?" 
 
 "I wouldn't trust any man with any woman's 
 money! '"Rose burst out. "There's something about 
 a man he thinks he knows so much about money, 
 and a woman doesn't know anything. He doesn't
 
 106 SUPPORT 
 
 mean to be dishonest, but he likes to feel his power, 
 and he likes to handle the money, and all at once 
 the woman finds that she has been left in the 
 lurch." 
 
 Constance shrank. Rose was, in some ways, 
 shrewd and cynical beyond her years. "Oh, Rose!" 
 she cried. 
 
 "Well, it's true," Rose was going on. "Look at 
 Aunt Claudia and Uncle Donald. She let him get 
 hold of her money, and she could hardly pry a cent 
 away from him with a crowbar. She had an awful 
 tune, until he died, and she got back what belonged 
 to her." 
 
 "Oh, Uncle Donald!" said Constance significantly. 
 
 "He was a nice man," argued the girl "nicer than 
 Wilbur. And look at Mrs. Clarges. She let Pro- 
 fessor Clarges handle the money that she got from 
 her people, and you know what he did with it, and 
 what a hard time she has to get her fingers on a 
 penny." 
 
 "Oh, dear, let's not talk about it any more." 
 Rose's intensity made Connie nervous. "It isn't 
 such a huge sum, anyhow." 
 
 Rose went back to her studying and Constance to 
 her sewing. But the heart of the rash lender was 
 constricted, partly with fear, and partly with vexa- 
 tion at her own weakness. 
 
 When Mrs. Greening came on Monday, Constance 
 had greeted her with disappointment. "You didn't 
 bring little Suzanne," she said. 
 
 Mrs. Greening looked disturbed. "I wasn't sure
 
 SUPPORT 107 
 
 that you really wanted her/' she said. "She might 
 be awfully in the way." 
 
 "I did mean it. I do want her," Constance as- 
 serted. "The next time you'll bring her, won't 
 you?" 
 
 "Yes, I honestly will, now that I'm sure you mean 
 it. I hate to leave her. She doesn't say anything, 
 but she keeps hold of my hand till the last minute, 
 and then keeps looking out of the window. Your 
 mother wants me on Thursday, so I can bring Su- 
 zanne then." 
 
 "Don't say I asked you," suggested Constance. 
 "Just say you didn't like to leave her. That's true, 
 isn't it?" 
 
 "It surely is." 
 
 Constance wondered at the eagerness with which 
 she looked forward to the child's coming. During 
 the two days which intervened, she found herself 
 planning for Suzanne's comfort and amusement. 
 She bought a remnant of gingham and a pattern, 
 and made a dress. She was quick with simple sew- 
 ing. It was a dear little dress, she thought, holding 
 it up and inspecting it. She could hardly refrain 
 from showing it to Rose; but she restrained herself. 
 Rose would not be entirely sympathetic. Constance 
 bought a few toys at the ten-cent store, so that she 
 would have something to amuse the child with ; and 
 she baked some thin sweet cookies. 
 
 When Mrs. Greening came to the side door, hold- 
 ing the small Suzanne by the hand, the heart of Con- 
 stance leaped. The tiny round face looked out so-
 
 108 SUPPORT 
 
 berly from under a blue velveteen bonnet lined with 
 coarse white niching. The brown coat, clumsily cut 
 down, the stubby black shoes and wrinkled stock- 
 ings gave the child a common and unalluring ap- 
 pearance. "How much nicer I could make her look!" 
 thought Constance. "Come on in, dear. Come with 
 me," she said. Suzanne obediently relinquished her 
 hold on Mrs. Greening's hand and went to Con- 
 stance. Mrs. Fenton looked on silently, her face 
 showing more than she supposed of disapproval. 
 Constance took the little girl up to her own room, 
 saying, "I'm glad you could come and visit me." 
 
 "Is this your house?" queried Suzanne, gazing 
 about with interest. 
 
 "Yes, this is where I live." 
 
 "It's a big house, isn't it?" 
 
 "It's pretty big." 
 
 "And it's a pretty house, too." Suzanne looked 
 admiringly at the furnishings. 
 
 "I'd hardly say that," smiled the woman. She 
 was untying the strings of the ugly bonnet. 
 
 "Have you got any little girls?" asked Suzanne. 
 
 "No. I haven't any at all. That's why I wanted 
 you to come and see me." Constance was studying 
 the face before her, searching for remembrances. 
 "Come now, off with your coat! There! Now 
 you'll feel better!" Gravely the child submitted to 
 having her wraps removed. Constance noted the 
 small head with its thin yellow hair; the slender 
 shoulders under the bulky underclothing and ill-fit- 
 ting dress. There was a fragility about the child,
 
 SUPPORT 109 
 
 and in her face were shadowlike reminders of the 
 dead Honoria. The gaiety of the lost playmate was 
 lacking, and in its place was an unnatural shyness 
 and gravity. Suzanne stood looking up at Mrs. 
 Moffatt with timid eyes, as if she were taking her 
 cue from the behavior of the woman, watching 
 perhaps for signs of an irascible temper. 
 
 "How dependent children are on older people's 
 whims or generosity!" thought Constance. The idea 
 made her heart ache. She knelt down and took the 
 child's body into her arms and held it close, as she 
 had wanted to hold the stocky form of Sally's 
 "Gladdums." Tears came into her eyes. 
 
 She set herself to the task of amusing her visitor. 
 She longed to try on the new frock, but was fearful 
 of rendering Suzanne self-conscious. "I think it's 
 just the right size," she murmured, peeping at it 
 as it lay in the dresser drawer. She got out the 
 blocks and toys which she had provided. The eyes 
 of the child widened, but she kept still. With en- 
 couragement, she came forward shyly, fingered the 
 gay blocks, looking up to see whether she were going 
 to be chidden for transgressing some mysterious 
 rule. "It's all right. They're for you." Constance 
 nodded and smiled her reassurance. The child began 
 diffidently to set one block upon another, and to 
 examine the pictures at the sides. 
 
 "Those folks kind of keep her down," Mrs. Green- 
 ing had said. That was her way of saying that the 
 baby's natural instincts had been suppressed. "She 
 isn't herself at all when she's with them."
 
 110 SUPPORT 
 
 "I want her to be herself," Constance whispered 
 passionately. Suzanne looked up at the sound and 
 dropped the block which she was holding. "It's all 
 right, dear. They're for you." There was an ache 
 in the woman's throat. How could anyone be harsh 
 with a little thing like that? She busied herself 
 about the room, so that Suzanne should not feel that 
 she was being watched. The child grew so absorbed 
 in her play that Constance felt free to leave her. 
 She went down and helped with the housework, lest 
 Mrs. Fenton should complain; but she ran back 
 now and then to peep into the room, and to see that 
 Suzanne was happy. At eleven o'clock she carried 
 up a glass of milk and some cookies on a tray, which 
 she took delight in setting out with fine linen and 
 polished glass and silver. 
 
 "Come, Suzanne. Something to eat." She used a 
 cheerful commonplace voice. Suzanne sat on her lap 
 and ate the cookies and drank the milk with satis- 
 faction, but with a grave face, as if eating were a 
 serious task, requiring concentration. When a rivu- 
 let of milk ran down upon her dress, she turned to 
 the woman such a face of dismay that Constance 
 shivered. "It's all right, dear. It doesn't matter," 
 she cried with haste. "See we'll wipe it off. It 
 doesn't matter at all. Oh, dear!" she was saying 
 to herself, "how can people make so much of trifles? 
 How can they hurt a child's feelings for something 
 so insignificant?" 
 
 She hesitated as to whether to have Suzanne eat 
 lunch in the dining-room or at the table in the
 
 SUPPORT 111 
 
 kitchen with Mrs. Greening. She decided not to 
 arouse the antagonism of her family ; but all through 
 the meal her mind vvas on the little girl in the 
 kitchen. 
 
 After lunch, she put Suzanne into her own bed. 
 When the child was asleep, Constance stood looking 
 down at her, fretting a bit over the whiteness of the 
 baby-like skin at neck and temple, the blue tinge 
 to the eyelids, the pale red of the lips. "She needs 
 something," pondered Constance "more joy, more 
 vitality, more love." 
 
 When Suzanne awoke, with a frightened whimper, 
 her new friend was there, ready to take her and con- 
 sole. She put on the new dress "to surprise Auntie," 
 fastening the buttons and adjusting the collar with 
 tender hands. She lifted Suzanne up to see herself 
 in the glass, and kissed her softly on the back of the 
 neck. 
 
 She let her go reluctantly, feeling an emptiness in 
 the house when the little girl had gone. "She's not 
 a pretty child, is she?" said Mrs. Fenton when the 
 door had closed on Suzanne and Mrs. Greening. 
 
 "Why, I think she looks well enough," Constance 
 replied. "I wouldn't want a child to look like a 
 Christmas card." 
 
 "She certainly doesn't look like that," answered 
 Mrs. Fenton, inclined to take offense. 
 
 "There's nothing common about her." 
 
 "N-no, I can't say that there is. But why did 
 Mrs. Greening bring her? Doesn't she have anyone 
 to stay with?"
 
 112 SUPPORT 
 
 "Yes, Suzanne usually stays with some people who 
 live near," said Constance. 
 
 "They're good to her, aren't they?" 
 
 "Good, perhaps," admitted Mrs. Moffatt, "but 
 they don't give her a chance to be herself." 
 
 "Well, a child of that age doesn't mind much." 
 Mrs. Fenton was evidently speaking with her 
 thoughts on other things. "People are pretty much 
 the same to them ; besides, she'll soon be old enough 
 to go to kindergarten." 
 
 "I suppose so," answered the daughter. "But I 
 
 wish " She was going to say, "I wish we could 
 
 have her here every day, while Mrs. Greening is out 
 at work." But she changed to the words: "I wish 
 Honoria Blake could have lived. I remember she 
 loved children so much." 
 
 "Yes?" said Mrs. Fenton. "Your father's wanting 
 the doctor again. Do you think I'd better call up?" 
 
 "I dare say you might as well," Constance as- 
 sented, "if it makes him feel better to be told that 
 there's nothing the matter with him." 
 
 "Oh, well, no doctor will exactly tell you that," 
 answered Mrs. Fenton seriously. "Dr. Britten just 
 tells him he's getting along all right, and gives him 
 some pellets or something." 
 
 "Can't father go to see him? It doesn't cost so 
 much," responded Constance, frowning. 
 
 "He thinks it's more dignified to have the doctor 
 come," Mrs. Fenton explained. 
 
 "Then you'd better call him, I suppose," said Con- 
 stance.
 
 CHAPTER VII 
 
 LATE one afternoon, Alison Sharland came over 
 and took Constance motoring. "I've been out of 
 town," he apologized, "and even to-day I couldn't 
 get away any earlier, because business was so press- 
 ing." They did not drive through the streets fre- 
 quented by their friends. "Do you mind if we drive 
 through these side streets?" he said. "I left my 
 gloves at the garage." 
 
 Constance did not mind, of course. It was only 
 when they were turning back in the dusk, after an 
 exhilarating burst of speed on a smooth and deserted 
 road, that the thought came to her that perhaps 
 Sharland had purposely avoided the main thorough- 
 fares. She dismissed the idea with humorous im- 
 patience. "What difference does it make?" she 
 asked herself. "I'm enjoying the drive, and it's good 
 to get away from home, and if he wants to prevent 
 having our names spoken in the same breath, he's 
 only doing the right and cautious thing. It pro- 
 tects me as well as him." 
 
 They did not talk much. Alison was not a fluent 
 talker, and Constance was happy to sink back into a 
 state of peace, after the irritations of an afternoon 
 
 113
 
 114 SUPPORT 
 
 with her father's grumbling. "We had a picnic over 
 there once, you remember," said Sharland, slowing 
 up his car near a promontory that overlooked the 
 Lake. 
 
 "Oh, yes," she answered laughing, "and one of the 
 men knocked a basket off the edge of the rocks, into 
 the water. It had all the cake and fruit in it, and we 
 were furious. Were you the one who got us into that 
 scrape?" 
 
 "No." Sharland smiled reminiscently. "I think 
 that was Tom Elwood. Wasn't that the day, too, 
 that Sally Needham lost something a ring or a 
 pin or a locket? We spent most of our time pawing 
 around in the grass, looking for it." 
 
 "I do remember something like that. It was 
 some trinket that her professor had given her. She 
 didn't want to come, anyhow, because he wasn't in- 
 vited, and she was sulky all day. It was so unusual 
 for her to be anything but good-natured, that we 
 teased her unmercifully." 
 
 "She'll never lose Rathvon," said Sharland, speed- 
 ing up his car. "He's got a grip on her like an octo- 
 pus. I never see her any more. We didn't care 
 much for each other at least she never liked me 
 very well; and now that she's so fearfully domestic, 
 it doesn't seem worth while to seek her out. I have- 
 n't seen her for a good while." 
 
 "Sally's still my best friend, I think I may say," 
 responded Constance. "I'm devoted to her." 
 
 "Yes?" Sharland was politely noncommittal. 
 
 "I had an idea that you and her cousin Buford
 
 SUPPORT 115 
 
 were good chums," she made reply. "I never knew 
 Buford Clarke quite as well as I did some of the 
 others." 
 
 "Yes, Buford and I were the best of friends," said 
 Alison slowly; "more after you left, I think." 
 
 "You must have felt it when he was killed," Con- 
 stance remarked sympathetically. 
 
 "I did." The car swerved as Sharland shifted his 
 hands at the wheel. 
 
 "It was in the Argonne, wasn't it?" 
 
 "Yes ; in the Argonne." The car swerved again. 
 
 "Did he were you ?" Constance began. 
 
 "Yes. We were in the same regiment. We were 
 both officers. I saw him once in a while and 
 after " 
 
 They were silent for a while. "Since I came back, 
 I haven't seen anything of Mrs. Rath von," Shar- 
 land said at last. 
 
 Constance inferred that his grief for Clarke had 
 been so keen that he could not bear to be reminded 
 of his friend even by social contact with that friend's 
 cousin. "He has more feeling than I thought," she 
 said to herself. 
 
 The talk turned to other things; the new houses 
 all along the Parkway, the attractions of the Bel- 
 mont Addition, the high taxes in Blanchard. Then 
 it became more personal. "It's tremendously nice 
 that you've come back," said Sharland impulsively. 
 "I don't know that I should say that," he corrected 
 himself. This was the first reference that he had 
 made to the reason for Constance's coming home.
 
 116 SUPPORT 
 
 "Of course I don't know how you feel about it," he 
 went on hastily, not giving her an opportunity for 
 comment. "But we were good friends in the old 
 days, and I missed you when you went away. I 
 really did, you know," he added, as she turned to- 
 ward him the humorously skeptical face with which 
 one is supposed to greet a complimentary remark. 
 
 "One always enjoys being missed," she remarked 
 demurely. "But I dare say you haven't failed to 
 find other friends since." In her mind, she inter- 
 polated, "Hilda Farrar, for instance." She went on 
 aloud. "Things crowd on so in life. One doesn't 
 have much time to worry over what's gone." 
 
 "N-no." His eyes were on the straight road be- 
 fore him. "It's a good thing, isn't it?" His tone 
 suggested that he had suffered in his way, as she had 
 in hers. Whether he meant to imply that this suf- 
 fering had come about through losing her, she could 
 not discern. Probably he referred to his father, to 
 Buford Clarke, perhaps to Hilda Farrar. There 
 were other things in his life, of which she knew noth- 
 ing. She knew him hardly more than a stranger, 
 she reflected, except that she naturally had some 
 knowledge of his background. Of what had gone on 
 in his life and in his mind during the last six years 
 she was densely ignorant. Men were mysteries, any- 
 how, if not in character, at least in the degree to 
 which the events of their lives were concealed. Even 
 without taking that occult side of his life into con- 
 sideration, Constance felt that Sharland offered a 
 subject for discovery. It would be interesting to
 
 SUPPORT 117 
 
 learn to know him over again more interesting 
 than meeting an entirely new man. 
 
 She realized that they had been quiet while the 
 car had covered a long space. But he was speaking 
 again. "It's not been all beer and skittles, as we 
 thought it was going to be, has it?" He glanced 
 around at her face, where an elusive veil fluttered. 
 
 "Hardly." She had determined that she would 
 never assume the cynical air of some injured wives, 
 who had a blatant way of advertising their injuries. 
 She was glad that she could keep the sneer out of 
 her voice, and that she could go on steadily. "Beer 
 and skittles might get monotonous. I haven't an 
 idea what skittles are." 
 
 "Nor I," he grinned. 
 
 "Anyway, too many of them in rapid succession 
 would be a surfeit." 
 
 "So you're glad you haven't had them?" 
 
 "Theoretically," she answered, smiling. "We 
 never like the bitter doses while we're getting 
 them." 
 
 "I'm sorry you've had any bitter ones," he said 
 in a low voice. "I hoped you'd be happy." 
 
 "It doesn't matter." A quick feeling of desola- 
 tion, of self-pity, of anguish, arose within her. His 
 tone had unnerved her. She had thought, too, that 
 she was going to be happy. She had been so sure 
 of it, so certain that her life was settled, completed, 
 compact with beauty and joy. Now here it was baf- 
 fled, broken, devastated. She drew her breath quiv- 
 eringly. He saw that she could not bear that he
 
 118 SUPPORT 
 
 should offer her compassion. They kept to com- 
 monplace talk during the rest of the way home. 
 
 She broached the subject of Sharland when she 
 took over a nut-cake to Sally a day or two later. 
 She thought Sally looked a bit odd or thoughtful 
 when his name was mentioned. But since she was 
 absorbed in giving young Owen his mid-forenoon 
 luncheon of bread and milk, it was hard to judge. 
 
 "Oh, Alison," said Sally, with a downward inflec- 
 tion. "Owen, never mind the cat. Eat your bread 
 and milk. You've been seeing something of him. 
 I never do not since Buford died. He used to 
 come here once in a while, before that. Owen, be 
 a good boy, and don't slobber. Of course, he was 
 away somewhere in the West, and then in the war; 
 so I haven't really seen much of him since he used 
 to be going round with you before you were mar- 
 ried." 
 
 "Did you know about " Constance was going 
 
 to say, "About someone named Hilda Farrar?" But 
 Owen, waving his spoon at the cat, spilled an ava- 
 lanche of milk and bread over the table and the rug. 
 Mrs. Rathvon spatted his hands. "I told you not 
 to do that, Owen." Owen began to whimper, and 
 then to roar. Emma came in crossly with a cloth. 
 Constance went home without asking her question. 
 "I don't think I'll ask it anyhow," she said. "What 
 I don't know won't hurt me. And I won't pry into 
 his affairs. I don't want anyone prying into mine."
 
 SUPPORT 119 
 
 During these early weeks at home, Constance had 
 been pondering her situation. Conditions were new 
 to her, she argued with herself, and she could not 
 judge of them so soon. They would improve. She 
 would get used to them. She must not condemn 
 others too easily must not condemn herself. She 
 must not expect too much, either; she should try to 
 content herself with what she had. Contentment 
 was a frame of mind, not a group of material sur- 
 roundings. 
 
 Yet underneath all this mental debate, she knew 
 with clear assurance that something was radically 
 wrong in the plight in which she had found herself. 
 Either her own personal character was painfully 
 lacking in strength and goodness, or she was errone- 
 ously trying to fit it to minds and individualities 
 among which she did not belong. Perhaps there was 
 truth in both explanations. In either case, there 
 must be some method of correcting the error, if one 
 could only find it. If one had a reasonable amount 
 of intelligence, one ought to be able to discover both 
 the disease and the remedy. She took heart and 
 hope in the prospect. 
 
 Sally Rathvon often called up on the telephone 
 for a few words of greeting when she and Constance 
 could not arrange to meet. One morning she said, 
 "I've got to go down to Mrs. Gilson's she's the 
 woman that sews for me. Won't you come out to 
 the library corner, and walk along with me?"
 
 120 SUPPORT 
 
 "I'd be delighted." Constance dropped the task 
 which she was at, took off her apron, and smoothed 
 her hair. She threw a dark blue cape over her 
 house-dress, and went out to the corner of the col- 
 lege library, where she saw Sally approaching. 
 Sally always rested one, even in looking at her, 
 thought Constance. She was calm, smiling, 
 friendly, yet not inane or undiscerning. Even with 
 the disadvantages of her present condition, she was 
 personable and attractive. They walked on, talking 
 of the fall sunshine, the thinning leaves on the elms, 
 and the secrets of autumn gardening. 
 
 "I'm having a few women in on Thursday," said 
 Sally, "just to sew and talk. Grif s going to be out 
 of town, giving some lectures in Milwaukee. I'm 
 asking Mary Foster and her aunt, that awfully suc- 
 cessful life insurance woman, you know. She's an 
 interesting person ; she's staying with the Fosters for 
 a week or so. You ought to find her congenial, Con- 
 nie. She's one of 'em, too." 
 
 "One of what?" Constance looked blank. 
 
 "Divorcees." 
 
 "Sally!" 
 
 There was a mischievous look on Mrs. Rathvon's 
 face. "I was just doing it to tease you, Connie. 
 You'll come, won't you?" 
 
 "I'd like to " Constance hesitated. She had not 
 been out very much as yet, and she felt an inertia 
 about beginning to construct any sort of social 
 life. 
 
 "Of course you would. Come along. You
 
 SUPPORT 121 
 
 can't be a recluse. You'll enjoy it, though I do say 
 it as shouldn't of my own party." Sally was en- 
 couraging to her backward friend. "Bring your 
 mother along. She doesn't get out much." 
 
 "Well, I'll come," Constance agreed, not unwill- 
 ingly. "And thank you, kind lady, for the invita- 
 tion. I think mother'll come, too. She's so fond 
 of you." 
 
 "Don't forget that we're going to work as well as 
 talk," Sally reminded her. "Bring along some of 
 that perfectly lovely crocheting that you do." 
 
 "I will," Constance replied. "I don't know this 
 aunt of Mary Foster's. She lived in Illinois some- 
 where, I remember, and in my day the Fosters 
 didn't see much of her. She'd done something that 
 they didn't exactly approve." 
 
 "Ha! that was before she made her money in life 
 insurance," said Sally, with her tolerant understand- 
 ing of human failings. "She'd separated from her 
 husband, achieved a divorce, in fact, and Mrs. 
 Foster didn't think that was 'nice.' But she began 
 to be successful, get written up, have her picture 
 in the magazines, you know ; and that made a differ- 
 ence. There's nothing like prosperity for eliminat- 
 ing the disapproval of your relatives. Make note 
 of that, my dear Mrs. Moffatt." 
 
 "I make note of it," answered Constance, almost 
 solemnly. 
 
 "Well, then, you'U come," Sally remarked. "This 
 is Mrs. Gilson's house. Do you want to wait?" 
 
 "No, I'll go on home and finish my green tomato
 
 122 SUPPORT 
 
 pickles," replied the other. "I set them on the back 
 of the stove. I think they'll be all right." 
 
 On Thursday, she and her mother made ready for 
 Sally's tea. Mr. Fenton gave them an unpleasant 
 half-hour, but was pacified by the unexpected ar- 
 rival of Rose from her class on the hill. The profes- 
 sor had "cut," she explained, and so she had come 
 home. "It seems like an intervention of Providence, 
 doesn't it?" Constance remarked, as she and her 
 mother set forth. 
 
 "It does," Mrs. Fenton assented. "I don't think 
 I should have had the courage to come away, with 
 him taking on so." 
 
 "Well, you escaped, anyhow," sighed Constance. 
 Her father was certainly a trial to use no stronger 
 word she admitted in her heart. 
 
 They arrived at Sally's house, took off their wraps 
 in a bedroom upstairs, and joined the little group 
 in the drawing-room. Constance was conscious of 
 looking well. Her becoming silk dress, the modish 
 way in which she did her hair, gave her ease and 
 confidence. She sat with her needlework, not say- 
 ing much, listening to what was said. Mary Foster's 
 aunt, a Mrs. Craig, was a woman of fifty-five, hand- 
 somely dressed, poised, dignified, yet gracious. She, 
 too, was rather silent, and Constance, watching her, 
 was aware that the older woman was scrutinizing the 
 faces about her in a keen though not unsympathetic 
 way. 
 
 Detained by the altercation with Mr. Fenton, Con- 
 stance and her mother had settled themselves among
 
 SUPPORT 123 
 
 the other women just before tea was served. The 
 faithful Emma now began passing the cups and the 
 sandwiches. Tongues were loosened, and the talk 
 became general. 
 
 "This is good brown bread," said a round-faced 
 woman, munching. "Does your maid make it, Mrs. 
 Rathvon?" 
 
 "No," answered Sally from the tea-table, "I get 
 it at the Woman's Exchange." 
 
 "They have such good bread there," purred Mrs. 
 Clarges, her mild face beaming at her hostess. 
 
 "They have good brown bread," put in a thin and 
 sallow woman, "but I don't care for their white bread 
 as much as I used to. Hiram won't eat it. But I 
 get graham bread there, and we enjoy that." 
 
 "I get all my tea-biscuit there," ventured a shy 
 woman. 
 
 Constance failed to place the voices as they went 
 on. "Oh, do they have tea-biscuit? I think they're 
 so nice, toasted, with plenty of butter." 
 
 "And with raspberry jam! I always go to Schu- 
 bert's for my rye bread." 
 
 "Yes, they do have good rye bread at Schubert's. 
 We have it on Sunday night, with cheese and choco- 
 late." 
 
 "That sounds appetizing. I'll tell you a good 
 place for rye bread that's Eggebrecht's, on John- 
 son Street, you know, down behind the Paint Shop. 
 It's just a few doors from that little drygoods store 
 down in there. Rob dotes on Eggebrecht's rye 
 bread. He won't eat any other kind."
 
 124 SUPPORT 
 
 "I don't care for rye bread. It always seems so 
 sourish." 
 
 "Oh, but there's a sweet kind. You want to ask 
 for the sweet rye bread. It's very nourishing, you 
 know." 
 
 "My husband thinks that nobody can make such 
 good bread as I can, myself. Yes, I will have an- 
 other cup, Sally." 
 
 "Do you make your bread with milk, or with warm 
 water?" 
 
 "I use a quart of milk. It's expensive, but it's 
 so much better. We can't eat bought breads, now 
 that we're used to the home-made." 
 
 "My maid makes the loveliest corn bread. It 
 just melts in your mouth." 
 
 "I never ate any corn bread that I thought was 
 good." 
 
 "You'd like Olga's. She saves cream, until she 
 has a cup of sour cream " 
 
 "I'd like to see anyone save any cream in our 
 house ! I'm going to help myself to another of these 
 nice sandwiches. Mrs. Rathvon has such a good 
 maid Emma. She's been with her for I don't 
 know how long." 
 
 "I have a woman that comes in. She cleans the 
 bathroom just beautifully, but she hates doing the 
 stairs." 
 
 "I have a German woman. She's careless, but 
 she's good. She broke Rob's meerschaum pipe, and 
 two of my old blue plates. I just sat down and 
 cried."
 
 SUPPORT 125 
 
 "Mrs. Koski won't wash windows, and I have to 
 have a student. Students are a horrid bother. They 
 expect you to do so much for them let them off be- 
 fore their hour is up, and overpay them." 
 
 "I had a woman who cleaned the silver so well, 
 and the shelves in the china closet, but she had to 
 go and take care of her husband's mother, who 
 broke her leg. Why are cleaning-women's relatives 
 always breaking their legs?" 
 
 Constance, listening to the talk around here, felt 
 wearied and amused. If this was all these women 
 had to say, why take the trouble to meet them or 
 entertain them? They could drink tea at home. 
 They were mostly professors' wives, she noted. They 
 could all talk about more significant things, no 
 doubt, if anyone would start them going. 
 
 Suddenly Constance was aware that the conversa- 
 tion had changed. She turned gradually away from 
 the woman who was asking her how many maids she 
 kept, and gave ear to what was being said. Some- 
 one had asked Mrs. Craig a question. She had an- 
 swered it in her vigorous way. There was a reply, 
 an argument. Other people began to listen. In a 
 few moments, Mrs. Craig had the floor. 
 
 "I used to think that it was a terrible thing to be 
 divorced. Now I see that it's sometimes terrible not 
 to be. I'm afraid I haven't much patience with the 
 woman who hasn't the courage to cut loose from asso- 
 ciations that are obsolete and irksome." There was 
 an unspoken protest in the room. "By that I don't 
 at all mean that one is to break away rashly.
 
 126 SUPPORT 
 
 But when one is convinced that her marriage is a fail- 
 ure, she should quietly withdraw from the whole sit- 
 uation." 
 
 "I don't agree with you at all," said a voice which 
 Constance thought sounded like Eleanor's. "Lots 
 of people sacrifice themselves so as not to bring dis- 
 comfort upon others." 
 
 "That may be," said Mrs. Craig; "but there are 
 thousands of women and men, too who wish they 
 had the courage to get away. It's cowardice and 
 laziness, not heroism or self-sacrifice that keeps them 
 tied up in a relationship which they despise." 
 
 "Cowardice before public opinion, you mean?" 
 asked Sally. 
 
 "Partly that; but with women it's largely coward- 
 ice at the prospect of having to earn their living 
 and make their way. They're afflicted with laziness, 
 just plain laziness. It's easier to sacrifice their self- 
 respect than to sacrifice comfort and vanity." 
 
 "But if they got a divorce with alimony," argued 
 Mrs. Clarges impersonally (she was happy enough 
 with her professor, and had money of her own), 
 "they could have a certain amount of ease, and 
 money to dress on." 
 
 "A woman I mean any woman who is reasonably 
 healthy and free ought to be ashamed to take ali- 
 mony," said Mrs. Craig quietly. She bent her 
 handsome graying head over her neglected needle- 
 work. 
 
 "Why?" There were a few startled faces, a few 
 resentful ones. "Isn't it the usual thing?"
 
 SUPPORT 127 
 
 "The fact that it's the usual thing would probably 
 be an argument against it." Mrs. Craig smiled sar- 
 tirically. "The general mass of thought on such 
 subjects is usually muddled." 
 
 "Of course a woman should take alimony," said 
 the sharp voice like Eleanor's. "It's perfectly silly 
 to say that she shouldn't." 
 
 "Why should she?" Mrs. Craig turned toward the 
 speaker. "She isn't giving anything to the man 
 why should she take and not give? She's living 
 apart from him, not keeping his house, or giving him 
 her companionship, or doing anything at all for 
 him." 
 
 "But he's promised to support her!" put in the 
 plump, youngish woman, her eyes bewildered. 
 
 Mrs. Craig regarded her thoughtfully. "Why 
 should she expect him to?" she asked. "Why should 
 a man carry a full-grown, able-bodied, fairly intelli- 
 gent woman around on his shoulders, like a bag of 
 meal?" 
 
 "But a married woman is not used to working," 
 Mrs. Clarges remarked, still 'impersonally. Con- 
 stance suspected her of wishing in her amiable way 
 to lead the speaker on. "If she's had a profession, 
 she's got out of touch with it." Several other wo- 
 men nodded at this. 
 
 "Nonsense!" cried Mrs. Craig, "she ought to be 
 used to working. She ought not to have settled 
 down to indolence and frivolity, even while she was 
 married. And so it ought not to be a great change 
 if she had to earn a living. She might have to do
 
 128 SUPPORT 
 
 it if her husband died or went insane or was sent to 
 jail, or was crippled or disabled." 
 
 "That's different," murmured two or three. 
 
 "I don't know why." Constance noticed with 
 pleasure how clear and fearless were the eyes which 
 Mrs. Craig turned upon her opponents. "If she's 
 had a profession, she can get back into it or learn 
 another. It's only a matter of willingness. Any 
 intelligent woman can earn her own living. She 
 may not have everything that she wants, but at 
 least she can have safety and comfort and independ- 
 ence." 
 
 Then Mrs. Fenton spoke up. She could not keep 
 the animosity out of her voice. "But he's taken her 
 youth he's taken the best years of her life!" Con- 
 stance flushed at her mother's speech. Nobody 
 looked at her, and yet she was conscious of the 
 thoughts directed toward her. 
 
 Mrs. Craig answered quietly: "So has she taken 
 his. And what are the best years of one's life? 
 Not one's green and selfish and inexperienced youth. 
 The best years are those of maturity and common 
 sense. There's nothing in that sentimental argu- 
 ment at all." 
 
 Emma began collecting the cups. 
 
 "But it's hard for an older woman to go out and 
 hunt around for a job, and to get down to work," 
 persisted Mrs. Fenton, her hands working nervously 
 in her lap. 
 
 "Perhaps it is. I don't know what you mean by 
 an 'older' woman," Mrs. Craig replied. "Even
 
 SUPPORT 129 
 
 women of sixty and more have found positions as 
 housekeepers, matrons, preceptresses, office attend- 
 ants, and helpers in women's clubs, or Y. W. C. A.'s; 
 and they've run cafeterias and tea rooms, and gone 
 into business for themselves. And surely any 
 woman from thirty on can find plenty to do." 
 There were muttered comments on all sides. Mrs. 
 Craig threw her head back. Her eyes shone. "Why 
 there's nothing equal to the excitement of starting 
 in for yourself," she said enthusiastically; "of build- 
 ing up a business ever so little a one saving for 
 
 a home making your own investments " She 
 
 looked around her, glowing with the import of her 
 message. 
 
 Constance's eyes met hers. "It must be excit- 
 ing," breathed the younger woman, her own eyes 
 shining. The others turned and stared at her. 
 
 "It is." Mrs. Craig gave her a sympathetic 
 glance. "Cashing an alimony check once a month 
 a check that's probably sent with reluctance and 
 even hate is nothing compared to it. Those women 
 who live on alimony know nothing of the thrilling 
 adventures of life soft, sluggish, unimaginative 
 creatures, duller than the fat weed that roots itself 
 at Lethe wharf." She laughed at her own extrava- 
 gance in oration. 
 
 "That's all very well as talk," burst out the thin 
 sallow woman, "but I'd get every cent I could get 
 out of a man I'd drain the last farthing from 
 him." 
 
 "Well, why?" asked Mrs. Craig with tolerant at-
 
 130 SUPPORT 
 
 tention, putting some stitches into the towel that she 
 was making. 
 
 "If he'd made me suffer, I'd make him suffer, too. 
 I'd like to see him punished. I'd take everything 
 that I could get." 
 
 "Punished." The older woman made a grimace. 
 "Taking a few dollars out of his bank account every 
 month isn't a very severe form of atonement. Do 
 you think that a few dollars could make up for what 
 you call suffering I suppose you mean grief and 
 self-pity and humiliation? I can't see that money 
 is any reparation for that." 
 
 "It's something, anyhow," mumbled the other, 
 looking dazed. 
 
 "Not much. Not enough to lose one's self-respect 
 for." 
 
 "I don't see why you keep harping on self-respect," 
 said a pretty, well-dressed woman, angrily. 
 
 "I harp on it," Mrs. Craig replied, "because it 
 doesn't seem very self-respecting to me to take 
 money from a man who is nothing to you, and for 
 whom you do nothing. Why not take the same 
 amount from Mr. Smith, across the street? It's 
 just as sensible. You do nothing for Mr. Smith; 
 but why shouldn't you expect two hundred dollars 
 a month from him, just as much as you do from a 
 man who happens to have been your husband, but 
 isn't any more?" 
 
 "That's a disgusting argument," was the reply. 
 
 "No, it isn't. It's logical."
 
 SUPPORT 131 
 
 "Logic has nothing to do with it," pouted the 
 pretty woman. 
 
 Mrs. Craig chuckled. "You're right. It hasn't, 
 in most cases. Far from it." 
 
 "I infer," said Sally Rathvon, with her cheerful 
 audacity, "that you do not accept alimony from 
 your former husband, Mrs. Craig." 
 
 The others pricked up their ears. "I do not," 
 Mrs. Craig answered, with a friendly look at her 
 interlocutor. "I haven't taken anything from him 
 since I got my first decree, and then only a little 
 because I was getting started." 
 
 "According to your argument, you didn't need 
 even that." 
 
 "No, I didn't, really. But I hadn't waked up to 
 the fact. If I had it to do over, I shouldn't take 
 anything." 
 
 There was silence for a space. The successful 
 business woman had about her sufficient evidence of 
 prosperity to command a hearing; but most of her 
 audience were unwilling to be convinced. Some 
 one spoke up with a new idea. "But not everybody 
 has your ability to engage in business and do well." 
 
 "They don't know how much they have," Mrs. 
 Craig retorted. "I didn't know I had any till I 
 tried. There are varieties of jobs for varieties of 
 talents." 
 
 Constance sat transfixed. It was all true, what 
 this self-developed woman had said. When you 
 looked at it logically which you seldom did you 
 could see how silly it was to expect a man to keep
 
 132 SUPPORT 
 
 pouring money down a rat-hole, as it were, and 
 getting nothing in return. 
 
 Mrs. Craig took up her very thought. "It's this 
 way in marriage: The two people start out in good 
 faith, he with the intention of earning the money for 
 the household, she with the object of keeping the 
 house, making a home, affording him companion- 
 ship. They fail to make a go of it. If two men 
 enter into a similar partnership, and don't carry 
 it off, neither insists on the other's paying him a fat 
 sum for the rest of his life. Why make a man keep 
 on paying a woman for dead horses just because 
 of the accident of sex?" 
 
 The pretty woman glared. "It's preposterous 
 to talk in that fashion. Accident of sex, indeed!" 
 Her face was red with rage. 
 
 "Well, isn't it an accident?" said Mrs. Craig, af- 
 fably. "There's too much made of the mere fact of 
 sex." 
 
 "Oh, dear! How right she is," thought Constance. 
 "We women admit these things so reluctantly. We 
 haven't the clearness of sight to see them, nor the 
 honesty to admit them!" She found that she was 
 already formulating ideas which before had been 
 confused and unorganized. "I'm what Mrs. Craig 
 describes," she thought "a healthy, fairly intelli- 
 gent woman. Why should any man carry me on his 
 shoulders? It doesn't make any difference whether 
 he's above criticism or not whether he has done 
 what is right or wrong; the principle is the same. 
 I begin to see that I can't take Frank's money to
 
 SUPPORT 133 
 
 support my family with, or even to support myself. 
 I must think this over more carefully, clarify my 
 own opinions and emotions." She was absorbed 
 in her reflections, and when she came back to her 
 surroundings, she found that the conversation had 
 changed again. People had separated into groups. 
 Mrs. Craig was examining the sallow woman's filet 
 jersey, and describing one which she had made for 
 a niece in the high school. Mrs. Clarges was lean- 
 ing over Constance's shoulder, to ask how to make 
 the triangular inset at the corner of the tea nap- 
 kins. The rest of the time was devoted to feminine 
 interests, and undisturbed by vital opinions on sub- 
 jects of social importance. 
 
 Upstairs in the bedroom where she put on her 
 wraps, Constance had an opportunity to say in a low 
 voice to Mrs. Craig. "Thank you so much for what 
 you said. It ought to be helpful to all of us." 
 
 "I'm glad." The older woman smiled, asking no 
 questions. 
 
 Mrs. Fenton could hardly wait till "he and Con- 
 stance were out of the house, before she vented her 
 wrath on Mrs. Craig. "I do think it's so dreadful to 
 hear women talking like that," she lamented. "It 
 seems so brazen, if you know what I mean so un- 
 ladylike. I hope to goodness you won't go around 
 saying such things, Connie. It would drive me dis- 
 tracted."
 
 134 SUPPORT 
 
 "I shan't begin right away," her daughter an- 
 swered, "though we never know what we are coming 
 to, do we, mother?" 
 
 Mrs. Fenton sighed, shaking her head. "No, we 
 don't, I'll confess. I never thought that you'd " 
 
 "That I'd be getting a divorce." 
 
 "No, I really didn't, any more than " 
 
 "Any more than you would, yourself." 
 
 "Yes, that's it." 
 
 "And yet you did think of it, yourself, mother," 
 said Constance rather cruelly. 
 
 Mrs. Fenton made indignant disclaimer. "Never!" 
 
 "But there was that time," Constance went on, 
 "when father when he gave you a lot of worry. 
 You told me about it yourself." Mr. Fenton had 
 married somewhat late in life, and, as it proved, had 
 found it hard to detach himself from certain friend- 
 ships of his bachelor days. 
 
 The face of Mrs. Fenton showed chagrin. In an 
 unguarded moment, just before Constance's mar- 
 riage, she had confessed the worries of her earlier 
 years. "It wasn't very serious," she stammered; 
 "and I never thought of a divorce. I might, per- 
 haps, have thought of a er temporary separation, 
 but nothing more." 
 
 "Nothing worse, you mean. Oh, well, mother," 
 Constance rejoined, "it's all an individual matter." 
 
 "No, I won't agree that it is," Mrs. Fenton an- 
 swered firmly. "I can't see that one can be indi- 
 vidual in those things. There's a duty to society, a 
 fixed arrangement about it. You can't just do as
 
 SUPPORT 135 
 
 you please. It's sort of arranged for you, if you see 
 what I mean." 
 
 "Oh, yes, I see, plainly. It's arranged all right," 
 said Constance. 
 
 "After all," Mrs. Fenton concluded, "that's the 
 way it should be. People shouldn't be allowed to 
 do as they please." 
 
 "Perhaps not." Constance was smiling medita- 
 tively. "They don't get much chance as it is, any- 
 how."
 
 CHAPTER VIII 
 
 ALISON SHARLAND'S appearance at the Fenton 
 home was now becoming a commonplace. He came 
 over once a week or oftener, to read plays for an 
 hour. He took Constance out in his car, too; but 
 the fall rams and snow made motoring undesirable. 
 He was not an exhilarating companion. He did not 
 talk much, nor laugh a great deal. His manner had 
 been modified, no doubt, by his banking experience, 
 which required reticence, dignity, and caution. 
 There was also the effect of the death of Buford 
 Clarke; that blow had perhaps contributed to make 
 him graver and quieter. He suited her better, Con- 
 stance thought, for his very quality of reserve. She 
 was in no mood for an attempt at frivolity or an as- 
 sumption of gaiety, such as some men demanded. 
 It soothed her to feel that she did not have to chatter 
 and giggle and search about in her mind for quips 
 and sallies which might divert a tired business man. 
 His reposeful manner suggested not weariness but 
 satisfaction. 
 
 "Does your day's work tire you?" she inquired. 
 
 He considered. "No, it doesn't, really. It in- 
 terests me. I don't feel tired at all." 
 
 136
 
 SUPPORT 137 
 
 She was relieved. "I don't have to entertain him," 
 she said to herself. 
 
 So they read their plays, and sometimes made 
 little show of speech. Sharland read aloud, steadily, 
 somewhat monotonously, without straining for dra- 
 matic effect. She would have hated any attempt 
 at elocution. 
 
 Constance, letting her eyes rest upon him as he 
 read, was gratified by his aspect. His face was finely 
 cut, though hard in outline, and in the rigidity of 
 the muscles about the jaw. His clothes were con- 
 servative, and yet correct. There was a touch of 
 distinction in his collar and tie. Was he overcon- 
 ventional in appearance and mentality? On reflec- 
 tion, Constance thought not. If he had been, she 
 added a footnote to her meditations, he probably 
 would not be coming to see her at all. 
 
 He was not curious about her situation. He 
 seemed to take it for granted, to recognize no cause 
 for question or awkwardness. This small portion of 
 masculine attention was pleasant to a lone woman, 
 and it was safe and sane, with no immediate pros- 
 pect of complications. Mr. and Mrs. Fenton re- 
 garded him with complacence. "It seems nice to 
 have Alison Sharland call," said Mrs. Fenton. "I al- 
 ways thought he was a nice young man sort of 
 steady and well-behaved. And he makes a lot of 
 money, I've heard. Of course, there was that affair 
 of his with the Farrar girl. There was something 
 mysterious about it. Then he was gone a while, 
 and when he came back, he was steadier than ever.
 
 138 SUPPORT 
 
 He doesn't seem to get attracted to any girl, now, 
 though I guess he takes one out, once in a while." 
 He never took Constance out, except in his car. 
 There was not much to go to in Blanchard, though 
 there were occasional good plays and concerts. She 
 was vaguely uncomfortable because he did not ask 
 her to go to them, and yet she knew that she would 
 be still more uncomfortable if she tried going out 
 with him in public. She had never made up her 
 mind to ask anyone about Hilda Farrar. "Some- 
 time I'll know," she said, and that was enough. She 
 knew of a certainty that she shrank from finding 
 out the truth. 
 
 One evening she ventured upon the subject which 
 was engrossing her. Something had been said about 
 Mary Foster. "I met that aunt of hers, Mrs. Craig, 
 a while ago," said Constance "the insurance wo- 
 man." 
 
 "She comes to our bank," said Sharland. "She 
 seems like an interesting sort of person." 
 
 "She is." Constance spoke with fervor. "She 
 has ideas real ones." 
 
 "About what?" 
 
 "Oh, women, chiefly, and women's places in the 
 world. She doesn't believe in a divorced woman's 
 getting an allowance from her husband, for instance. 
 What do you think about it?" She asked the ques- 
 tion in an offhand way, and yet she waited curiously 
 for his answer.
 
 SUPPORT 139 
 
 He parried. "Think about it?" He spoke neg- 
 ligently, studying the title-page of a book. "Just 
 what do you mean?" 
 
 Constance grew nervous. "Why, I mean do you 
 think it's right for a woman to take an allowance 
 especially a woman who hasn't any children to bring 
 up?" She tried to keep her voice impersonal. 
 
 Sharland did not look up. "It's usually done, 
 isn't it?" he said. 
 
 "Yes, it's usually done," she replied. "But does 
 that prove anything? That doesn't prove that it's 
 right, does it?" 
 
 "Right? Why shouldn't it be right?" The man's 
 voice had a shade of impatience. 
 
 "I thought," she faltered, "that you might have 
 some opinion on the subject." 
 
 "No. I never thought about it much. I dare say 
 it's all right. It might depend somewhat on how 
 much the woman is to blame for the separation." 
 
 "I've been thinking about it " Constance 
 
 could not go on. She had received no encourage- 
 ment from Sharland. 
 
 "Did you ever notice what Lord Dunsany's full 
 name is?" he inquired, still perusing the title-page. 
 
 "No, I'm not sure." She saw that Alison was not 
 eager to enter into any discussion of her personal 
 affairs, whether from shyness or indifference she did 
 not know. Perhaps he feared that she might take 
 too much for granted if he exhibited such an in- 
 terest. She had thought, hazily, that she might ob- 
 tain some encouragement or consolation from her
 
 140 SUPPORT 
 
 friend. She found his reticence trying. He was 
 easy and agreeable up to a certain point. Then one 
 encountered something either unyielding or elusive. 
 There was no openness or frankness in his nature; 
 no constant dependable friendliness. One would 
 hardly dare to count on him for anything, Constance 
 thought, ruefully. But after all, what would she 
 want to count on him for, except this non-significant, 
 more or less superficial companionship? 
 
 Ever since the tea at Sally Rathvon's, Constance 
 had been turning over in her mind the thesis pro- 
 pounded by Mary Foster's aunt. She found her- 
 self repeating word for word what Mrs. Craig had 
 said. "Why should a man be expected to carry, 
 etc." "Soft, unimaginative creatures, duller than 
 the fat weed." Just why should she be receiving a 
 check every month from Frank, a good solid sum, 
 as Wilbur put it, which she didn't have to turn her 
 hand over to get? 
 
 "I'm getting it because the law allows me to have 
 it; compels him to give it. But allowing and compel- 
 ling have nothing to do with the right or the wrong 
 of the matter. Frank is supposed to give it to me 
 so that I will have something to live on, now that I 
 am deprived of his direct support. But he didn't 
 give me anything before we were married; I earned 
 a little of my support, and got the most of it from 
 my father. Why should Frank give me anything,
 
 SUPPORT 141 
 
 now that our marriage is dissolved? Because I am 
 supposed to be less able or less inclined to support 
 myself than I was before my marriage. The as- 
 sumption is that I married expecting to be sup- 
 ported, and now that I am not married any more, I 
 am to be consoled by being supplied with money. 
 The truth is that I am not less able to support my- 
 self. I am perfectly well, wiser than I was, more 
 courageous. I ought to have more to give the world, 
 not less. It does seem degrading, in a way, to keep 
 accepting money from Frank, just out of greed or 
 vindictiveness. But" here the test would come 
 "have I the strength of mind to give it up?" 
 
 She figured to herself the result of her action, if 
 she should let go her hold on what Frank contributed 
 to her support. She imagined the outcry of her 
 family, their amazement and condemnation. It 
 would be more than she could endure. And yet her 
 present condition was unendurable, too. She was 
 taking the money which she did not feel she had 
 any good reason for accepting, and it was going out 
 in large lumps or small dribbles for the support of 
 her father and mother and Rose. It would be selfish 
 and unreasonable to withhold the money when it 
 was so badly needed in the household. She could 
 not refuse to give it, as long as it came in. But why 
 should it be so needed? Her father had had a good 
 business, and should still be capable of supporting 
 his wife. Rose should be able to support herself. 
 Why should Wilbur make sacrifices in order to main- 
 tain them? Why should Frank Moffatt be called
 
 142 SUPPORT 
 
 upon to supply the wherewithal for these three peo- 
 ple, who had no claim upon him, either legal or 
 moral? "It isn't right. It isn't fair," Constance 
 repeated. "I'll have to do something about it, but 
 I don't know what." There were several things 
 that she wanted to do something about, but she had 
 not yet succeeded in dealing effectually with any of 
 them. 
 
 "Mother, you don't go out enough," said Con- 
 stance one day, early in December. "You stay in 
 as if you were a convict. That day at Sally's is 
 almost the only time that you've been out since I 
 came home." 
 
 "It's hard for me to get out, Connie," Mrs. Fen- 
 ton replied. "Your father hates to have me go." 
 
 "Just why?" asked Constance in a challenging 
 tone. 
 
 "You know; he likes to have us all stay at home," 
 said Mrs. Fenton with an uneasy glance at the 
 study door. 
 
 "Is it because he loves us so much that he can't 
 bear to have us out of his sight?" 
 
 "Oh, Connie, what's the use?" Mrs. Fenton was 
 nervous and bewildered when real issues were to be 
 faced. 
 
 "Of course I shouldn't, mother," Constance re- 
 sponded. "But see here: why don't you go to the 
 D. A. R. meeting on Tuesday afternoon? They're 
 having special speeches, and a social time, with re-
 
 SUPPORT 143 
 
 freshments. You always like going to the D. A. R. 
 Let's both go." 
 
 "That would be nice," Mrs. Fenton sighed. "If 
 your father " 
 
 "Nonsense. Don't tell him you're going till you- 
 're ready to go." 
 
 "Well, I think I will go," said Mrs. Fenton with 
 courage. "I should love to see some of the ladies 
 that I don't get a chance to see very often. Do you 
 think my black net is all right?" 
 
 "It looks fine, mother. And your nice real lace 
 always makes you look like such a lady." Constance 
 had ever taken pride in her handsome mother. 
 
 "Well, we'll join a conspiracy, then," Mrs. Fen- 
 ton agreed with a faint smile. 
 
 On Monday, Constance and her mother were in 
 the dining-room. Suzanne was in the kitchen with 
 her "Auntie" (the child had been coming once or 
 twice a week), and Constance's mind was on the 
 little girl. She did not notice Mr. Fenton standing 
 in the door when she said to her mother, "The meet- 
 ing to-morrow begins at three; so we'll have to start 
 getting ready rather early." 
 
 "Did I hear you say you were going out?" Mr. 
 Fenton asked, looking at his wife. 
 
 Mrs. Fenton hesitated, glancing at Constance. 
 "Why, yes, Fred," she explained. "Connie wanted 
 me to go to a meeting of the D. A. R. They're go- 
 ing to have a special performance, something very 
 interesting." 
 
 The old man made a contemptuous gesture.
 
 144 SUPPORT 
 
 "My God ! " he cried, "a lot of women that don't have 
 anything to do but get together and cackle! Are 
 they all old maids? Don't they have any homes or 
 any husbands, or anything to keep them where they 
 belong?" He was gesticulating with his pipe, which 
 he held in his left hand, while with the other he 
 sought for tobacco in his pocket. 
 
 "Most of them are the nicest married women in 
 town, Fred, and I never heard of their neglecting 
 their families," Mrs. Fenton answered with increas- 
 ing agitation. 
 
 "They must be neglecting them, if they're galli- 
 vanting around to D. A. R. meetings, and committees 
 for the Rejuvenation of Tame Poodles." The old 
 man's face was distorted by a sneer. 
 
 "Now, Fred, don't take on like that," Mrs. Fen- 
 ton entreated. "A woman likes to get out once in 
 a while, and see what's going on." 
 
 "I don't see why. Her home ought to be enough," 
 Mr. Fenton grumbled. "I never did have much pa- 
 tience with these clubs." 
 
 "No, Fred, I've heard you say so. But I like to 
 go once in a while, just the same." 
 
 "Women are all alike." Muttering to himself, 
 the old man turned away, filling his pipe, and cram- 
 ming the tobacco down vengefully. 
 
 "Don't mind him, mother," said Constance. "I'm 
 sorry he heard what I said, but we'll go on with our 
 plans, and pay no attention." She went to the 
 kitchen to see that Suzanne was drinking enough 
 milk. She had detected an improved color in the li t-
 
 SUPPORT 145 
 
 tie girl's cheeks, since she had been coming to the 
 house. 
 
 The next noon, as the family were finishing their 
 lunch, Mr. Fenton pushed back his chair from the 
 table with a motion which indicated physical dis- 
 tress. "I don't feel well," he complained. "I guess 
 I'll have to lie down on the sofa." 
 
 "What's the matter, Fred?" asked his wife anx- 
 iously. 
 
 "I just don't feel well, that's all." Mr. Fenton 
 stretched himself on the sitting-room sofa with a 
 groan. "I'll have to have some warm flannels on 
 my back," he called, after a few minutes. 
 
 "Won't a hot water bag do?" queried his wife, 
 with a glance of consternation at her daughter. 
 
 "No. That's a damp heat. What I need is a dry 
 application." 
 
 Mrs. Fenton hurried to get the warm flannel, and 
 when it was applied, the old man subsided, his eyes 
 shut, and a steamer rug drawn up to his chin. After 
 half an hour, he seemed to be asleep. 
 
 "You go and get dressed, mother," whispered Con- 
 stance. "They begin early, you know. I'll stay 
 here till you're ready." 
 
 When Mrs. Fenton had gone, her husband opened 
 his eyes. "Addie!" he shouted, making an unneces- 
 sary noise. 
 
 "Mother's upstairs," said Constance, coming to 
 the side of the couch. 
 
 "What's she up there for?" inquired the invalid 
 fretfully.
 
 146 SUPPORT 
 
 "Why, she had something to see to. Is there any- 
 thing that I can do?" 
 
 "My stomach hurts me," was the answer. "Are 
 there any of those middle-sized pellets left? Look 
 in the upper right-hand drawer of the secretary in 
 the study." 
 
 Constance went and came. "They're all gone," 
 she announced. "I'm sorry." To herself she was 
 saying, "I don't suppose they were anything but 
 sugar, anyway." "You'll be all right, father," she 
 said in a cheerful, "all's-right-with-the-world" tone, 
 such as one employs with the near-sick. She did not 
 believe that he was in any serious or even painful 
 condition. 
 
 "How do you know I'll be all right?" he snapped. 
 Constance did not answer. "Addie!" he called 
 loudly. 
 
 "Mother can't come. She's busy," Constance ex- 
 postulated. 
 
 The old man was quiet for a while ; then he began 
 to groan. Presently Mrs. Fenton came into the 
 room, wearing her best gown. She made an attrac- 
 tive figure, with her gray hair coiled and puffed 
 softly, and fine bits of lace at neck and wrists. "Did 
 I hear him call?" she asked. 
 
 "Yes. And I told him- 
 
 Mr. Fenton rose on his elbow, and stared at his 
 wife's gala costume. "What!" he burst out, as if 
 astounded, "you aren't going out and leave me here 
 alone, sick as I am?" 
 
 "But, Fred," Mrs. Fenton appealed to him, "can't
 
 SUPPORT 147 
 
 you manage till Rose comes home? Connie and 
 I " 
 
 Mr. Fenton let himself fall back heavily upon 
 the sofa. He closed his eyes as if with an access of 
 suffering. "Oh, go on," he murmured. "Go on if 
 your club means more to you than a sick husband." 
 
 Constance nudged her mother, as if to say, "Don't 
 give in." Mrs. Fenton was saying in a weak voice, 
 "Why, it doesn't, of course. But I get out so sel- 
 dom " 
 
 "Go on, then! go on!" The old man interrupted 
 himself with another groan. 
 
 "I can't go, Connie," whispered Mrs. Fenton. 
 
 Constance drew her aside. "I honestly don't be- 
 lieve that there's anything the matter with him," 
 she said. "He just wants to keep us in." 
 
 "I'll have to stay, anyhow," sighed the mother. 
 
 "No, I will, then." Her mother tried to detain 
 her, but she went back to -her father. "I'm going to 
 stay with you this afternoon," she said as pleasantly 
 as she could. "I especially want mother to go to this 
 meeting. She gets out so little." 
 
 "You won't do." The patient shifted his posi- 
 tion, biting his lips to suppress a moan. His fore- 
 head was drawn with deep furrows; his thin yellow 
 hands clutched the edge of the steamer rug. 
 
 "Is he really suffering, I wonder?" thought Con- 
 stance. "Oh, yes, I can take care of you," she per- 
 sisted. 
 
 "I tell you you can't. Your mother knows how. 
 She can do things that you can't."
 
 148 SUPPORT 
 
 "Oh, well, if that's the case " Constance 
 
 stepped back, pondering. 
 
 Mrs. Fenton took her by the arm and led her to 
 the next room. "You go, Connie," she begged. "I'll 
 stay. There's no use in both of us staying at home." 
 
 "I hate to go and leave you." Constance spoke 
 uncertainly. 
 
 "It doesn't matter. You will go, won't you?" 
 
 "I suppose so." Constance knew that her mother 
 would be the more distressed if she stayed. She 
 went and put on her dress and wraps. When she 
 came downstairs, there was the smell of medicine 
 in the house. 
 
 Her mother came out into the hall. "It's always 
 been like this," she said with an air of resignation. 
 "It isn't this one thing." 
 
 "Yes. I know." Constance leaned over and gave 
 her mother a kiss on the cheek. "Well, I don't know 
 what we can do," she sighed. 
 
 Mrs. Fenton did not answer, but stood twisting 
 her thin, reddened hands. Constance went out, and 
 shut the door harder than she needed. Snow had 
 fallen during the night, and the sun upon it nearly 
 blinded her. The sky was triumphantly blue, the 
 bare trees showing starkly against it. A mountain 
 ash held drooping clusters of scarlet berries. Rose 
 trees carried stiffly their plenitude of red hips. Con- 
 stance noted how lovely the lilac bushes were, with- 
 out their leaves. The stems sprang up with the 
 grace of a fountain playing. But the winter world 
 did not hold her long. Her heart was bitter with
 
 SUPPORT 149 
 
 what she had just seen and heard. "As mother 
 says, it isn't just this one thing," she said aloud. 
 She walked the six blocks to the D. A. R. hall with- 
 out noticing what she passed. She only saw her 
 mother twisting her hands in the shabby hall 
 smelled the nauseous scent of medicine, heard the 
 artificial groans of the old man in the sitting-room. 
 "Oh, well! I can't get into a state over it." She 
 roused herself to greet her friends as she went into 
 the building. 
 
 By the time the social hour came, she felt suffi- 
 ciently restored to enjoy meeting her old acquaint- 
 ances. Sally Rathvon was there, less animated and 
 less rosy than she had been, but enticing in dull blue 
 with white fox fur. "Why didn't your mother 
 come?" she asked. 
 
 "Father was ill," said Constance briefly. She did 
 not feel like going into the subject of her father's 
 behavior. 
 
 "Really ill?" Sally's eyebrows went up. 
 
 Constance shrugged. "How can one tell?" 
 
 "It's too bad," commented Sally; then she said, 
 "I want you to meet Mrs. Gallatin. She's lived in 
 New York." 
 
 Mrs. Gallatin proved entertaining. Mrs. Crow, 
 also a new acquaintance, was cultivated and well- 
 mannered. Professor Clarges' wife, ponderously 
 benign, squeezed Constance's hand, and said, "It's 
 nice to have you back." Constance had always liked 
 the Clarges pah-, but had seen them seldom since 
 her return. "Your mother isn't here?" the other
 
 150 SUPPORT 
 
 lady went on. "Too bad. She doesn't get out 
 much." 
 
 "No. She stays at home too closely," Constance 
 agreed. Looking about at the crowd of well-dressed, 
 soft-voiced women, she wondered why her mother 
 should be debarred from joining them. Was Mr. 
 Fenton more grasping than most men, or did the 
 other women have more courage to shake off the 
 strangling hands of selfishness? She felt another 
 pang of resentment. Why were men so greedy and 
 demanding? It must be the way in which their 
 mothers brought them up; so after all the women 
 were to blame, even for that! 
 
 Tea came, with small cakes and tartlets. More 
 acquaintances appeared. Across the room, Con- 
 stance saw Katherine Sharland, but did not come 
 near enough to speak. Constance had to some de- 
 gree recovered from her earlier state of self-con- 
 sciousness, and the suspicion that she was being 
 singled out for discussion. 
 
 When the time came for her to go home, she 
 walked along in the cold blue twilight with Sally 
 and Mrs. Gallatin. They left her at a corner, and 
 she turned to go on alone. A crunching of footsteps 
 and a surprised "Hello!" made her swing quickly 
 about. Alison Sharland was walking beside her. 
 "Well! how fortunate for me!" he cried. "I thought 
 I recognized Sally Rath von, then your voice. You've 
 been at some feminine festivity, I suppose: tea and 
 gossip and all that." 
 
 "There were gallons of tea, but I didn't hear a
 
 SUPPORT 151 
 
 word of gossip," she answered. She was thinking, 
 "Gossip: there was probably someone there who 
 could have told me about Hilda Farrar." But she 
 knew that she did not want to hear. 
 
 "It must have been an assemblage of dumb 
 women,'" laughed Alison. 
 
 "Nonsense! What a cynic you are," Constance 
 returned. 
 
 "Not cynical, but experienced," he gave answer. 
 "I've been a victim of gossip once or twice myself." 
 
 "Really?" Constance took refuge in the conven- 
 tional phrase. "I don't think men mind much," she 
 added. "They sort of glory in it. It emphasizes 
 their importance." 
 
 "Who's the cynic now?" he asked. "Don't women 
 like being in the limelight, too?" 
 
 "Not unless they're moving picture stars. Fear of 
 gossip makes almost every woman a coward," she 
 replied. 
 
 "Strange," he said seriously, "when women are so 
 brave in other ways." 
 
 "Women are very fine, now, aren't they?" she said 
 simply. 
 
 He considered. "Yes, they are. Somehow I al- 
 ways expected you to do something, Connie. You 
 seemed to have so much in you. If you hadn't 
 married " 
 
 The heart of Constance was stirred. He had not 
 called her Connie since the old times. He was so 
 reticent that he seldom spoke words of praise. "I 
 always had an idea that I was going to 'do some-
 
 152 SUPPORT 
 
 thing/ too," she confessed. "But I never made it 
 definite; and then, as you say, my marriage " 
 
 "It needn't stultify a woman," he broke in. "She 
 could develop in her home, be a delightful hostess, 
 form a social circle count for a good deal in that 
 way. That's just as good as painting pictures or 
 
 making speeches. With the right man " He did 
 
 not finish. 
 
 "Yes, it takes the right man for that," Constance 
 assented. They had reached her gate. She held 
 out her hand. 
 
 "Good night. I'm coming in soon." He turned 
 and went on. 
 
 Constance found her mother in the kitchen, still 
 wearing her best dress, with an apron tied over it. 
 Rose was taking some dishes out of the cupboard. 
 "How's father?" asked Constance, loosening her fur. 
 Her talk with Alison had enlivened her. She stood 
 tall and bright-eyed, her cheeks red, her brown hair 
 blown. 
 
 "Better," answered Mrs. Fenton. "He's up, read- 
 ing." 
 
 "He just did it to keep you both at home," flared 
 Rose. "I can't see why mother stands for it. She 
 ought to have put on her hat and gone." 
 
 "How could I?" asked Mrs. Fenton wearily. 
 
 "I could," Rose blustered. "You knew perfectly 
 well that he was shamming." 
 
 "No, no! he wasn't." Mrs. Fenton tried to look 
 shocked. "He really thought he felt badly or at 
 least he thought he thought " She floundered.
 
 SUPPORT 153 
 
 Rose smiled maliciously. "Poor mother! Women 
 have always been just as long-suffering." 
 
 Constance went about her tasks and ate her dinner 
 in silence. The constant friction of the household 
 was wearing on her. All this talk and bickering 
 and more than that, the mental antagonism in the 
 atmosphere made her feel depressed and hopeless. 
 Her exhilaration was gone. She longed poignantly 
 for a place of her own where she could express 
 herself, have harmony and peace. She thought of 
 Suzanne the little clinging spirit of the child. 
 There might be a place for them both somewhere 
 together. 
 
 Feeling a little nearer to her mother, after their 
 common experience with Mr. Fenton's illness, Con- 
 stance attempted to talk over the problems which 
 occupied her thought. "Mother, I've been wonder- 
 ing " she began. She stopped, held back by a 
 
 doubt. Was it wise to open an argument with Mrs. 
 Fenton, harassed as she was with the troubles of the 
 home? 
 
 "Yes?" her mother encouraged her, without look- 
 ing up from the dish-towel which she was hemming. 
 
 "I've been wondering whether I'm doing right to 
 keep on taking money from Frank." 
 
 Mrs. Fenton raised her head to give her daughter a 
 horrified stare. It seemed to Constance as if some 
 one was always giving her that stare. "That you're 
 doing right? What in the world do you mean?"
 
 154 SUPPORT 
 
 asked the mother, when she had managed to recover 
 herself. 
 
 "Why, just what I say." Constance decided to 
 speak plainly. "I don't know whether it's really 
 the square thing for me to keep on taking money 
 from him, when we're divorced, or as good as di- 
 vorced, and " 
 
 Mrs. Fenton looked puzzled and alarmed. "I 
 don't understand," she said. "If you're divorced, 
 then you have a right to take money from him, 
 haven't you?" 
 
 "That's just what I'm getting at," returned Con- 
 stance evenly. "Have I a right?" 
 
 Mrs. Fenton kept on staring. "Women always do 
 take it, don't they?" she asked. "I never heard of 
 anybody that didn't, except that disagreeable Mrs. 
 Craig," she added spitefully. 
 
 "There have been people who didn't," Constance 
 replied. "But that isn't the point." 
 
 "I don't see any other point." Mrs. Fenton's 
 face was drawn and worried. 
 
 "The question is whether / ought to take money 
 from Frank." 
 
 "I should think you should take it!" Mrs. Fen- 
 ton's lips trembled; her cheeks suddenly flamed. 
 "Hasn't he ruined your life? I should think he 
 could do that much for you give you a few dol- 
 lars, to keep you from being dependent on your 
 family." 
 
 Constance suppressed a smile at the idea of her 
 "dependence" upon her father and mother. "Now,
 
 SUPPORT 155 
 
 mother, listen," she said as calmly as she could, "I'm 
 not sure that Frank has spoiled my life, any more 
 than I've spoiled his." 
 
 Mrs. Fenton threw down her towel and needle. 
 "Why, Constance Fenton Constance Moffatt, I 
 mean what do you expect me to understand from 
 that?" she cried. Her face was shocked and appre- 
 hensive. 
 
 "Nothing in the world, except that I probably had 
 my faults, and didn't know how to make him 
 happy." 
 
 "I guess you did as well as anyone could," an- 
 swered Mrs. Fenton sharply. 
 
 "That's very loyal of you," said Constance, trying 
 to smile. "Anyhow, to continue, I'm not at all sure 
 that my life is ruined." 
 
 "Connie!" Her mother gazed at her in astonish- 
 ment. "Of course it is. Haven't you " 
 
 Constance interrupted. "I strongly suspect that 
 it isn't. In fact, I feel sure that there's a lot left of 
 it quite untouched." 
 
 Mrs. Fenton sighed hopelessly and took up her 
 sewing. "Oh, well, if you want to look at it in that 
 way," she said. She was disappointed that her 
 daughter should seem to take her affliction so 
 lightly. 
 
 "But let me get on," pursued Constance. "Even 
 if my life were spoiled, and even if Frank had spoiled 
 it, is that any reason why I should go on taking 
 his money? I mean," she continued desperately, 
 before her mother could voice her indignation, "is it
 
 156 SUPPORT 
 
 really any restitution for me to get money does 
 money make up for a ruined life?" 
 
 Mrs. Fenton looked still more bewildered. "In a 
 way," she admitted, "nothing can make up for it. 
 But at least it keeps you safe and comfortable." 
 
 "It's intended to," Constance agreed. "But the 
 fact is that I'm not using Frank's money merely to 
 be safe and comfortable. I'm using it for my family 
 to buy groceries and clothes, and pay doctor bills 
 and coal bills " 
 
 Mrs. Fenton threw down her sewing again and 
 began to cry. "I didn't think you'd fling it in our 
 faces like that," she wailed. "It is terrible for us to 
 deprive you of what you ought to have, but but 
 we need it'so and you get quite a 'lot I mean, it 
 leaves you something" 
 
 Constance drew a long breath. "Now, mother, 
 stop crying," she begged, "and listen. I'm not com- 
 plaining. I'd just as lief give my money to the 
 family as not, however I get it. But it strikes me 
 that I'd better be earning it instead of merely taking 
 what someone else has earned." 
 
 Mrs. Fenton wiped her eyes, still sobbing. "Earn- 
 ing it yourself?" she gasped. "You mean going out 
 and taking a position? You'd hate it now. And, 
 besides, you couldn't earn nearly so much." 
 
 "Maybe I could," Constance said hopefully, 
 though she was pretty sure she couldn't. 
 
 "You couldn't at all. And anyhow, I don't see 
 why you should get out and work and suffer and
 
 SUPPORT 157 
 
 scrape along, when you have a husband to sup- 
 port you." 
 
 Constance's lips twitched. "But I haven't a hus- 
 band to support me that's just what I'm saying. 
 It's my duty to earn something instead of taking it 
 from a man who isn't my husband." 
 
 Mrs. Fenton blinked. "Frankly, Connie," she 
 said, "I think you're losing your mind." She spoke 
 anxiously. "This trouble has been too much for 
 you, my poor child!" 
 
 "Nonsense. I'm saner than I ever was," Con- 
 stance returned with asperity. 
 
 Mrs. Fenton relapsed into self-pity. "If you can 
 do something for your family, that's your duty, it 
 seems to me. I honestly don't know what we'd do 
 if it weren't for you. Wilbur can't take all of us 
 on his shoulders. He doesn't have any more than 
 he needs for himself. And I can't ask Sister Claudia 
 for any more. Why, Connie, we'd be in an awful 
 predicament if you gave up what you have!" Her 
 brimming eyes and drooping mouth appealed 
 strongly to the sympathies of the daughter. 
 
 "But, mother, you forget that I said I'd go to 
 work and earn something to take its place." 
 
 Mrs. Fenton put her hand on her daughter's arm. 
 "Promise me you won't do anything so foolish," she 
 pleaded. "It would be the greatest mistake in the 
 world." 
 
 "Well, well, don't worry. I sha'n't do it just yet." 
 Constance tried to be consoling. "And don't say 
 anything to anyone. There's no use in raising a
 
 158 SUPPORT 
 
 family discussion about nothing." She patted her 
 mother on the shoulder. "Cheer up! The grocery 
 bill will still be paid." 
 
 "Oh, Connie!" Mrs. Fenton reached for the 
 younger woman's hand and held it. 
 
 "It's all right," reiterated Constance with anima- 
 tion. She put on her wraps and went to take some 
 books to the public library. "I wish I hadn't said 
 anything," she murmured as she went. 
 
 All the next day and the next she was revolving 
 her problems in her mind. She was scarcely con- 
 scious of the incidents which passed, so intent was 
 she upon her cogitations. She shrank from further 
 discussion with anyone. She would think the mat- 
 ter out more completely before she said anything 
 more. 
 
 One forenoon, when she was on an errand, she 
 went out of her way, she did not know why, to pass 
 the Sharland house. She caught a glimpse of Mrs. 
 Sharland at the window a frail white-haired 
 woman, between red rep curtains, and ensconced 
 among pieces of old walnut. "The house isn't fur- 
 nished in any better taste than ours," thought Con- 
 stance. "How nice and well-kept it looks on the 
 outside! They have plenty of money." 
 
 "Plenty of money," she repeated as she hurried 
 on. Then all at once there sounded in her mind the 
 question, "Why shouldn't I marry Alison Shar-
 
 SUPPORT 159 
 
 land?" It was like a bell ringing suddenly in her 
 consciousness. Perhaps the idea had been there all 
 along, but it had never clamored out so boldly be- 
 fore. "Why shouldn't I?" She spoke half aloud 
 in the street. Marrying Alison would settle the 
 question which she was debating. She would give 
 up her allowance from Frank, to be sure, but for a 
 greater opulence from the Sharland hoard; there 
 would be enough so that her family need not suffer. 
 She walked more slowly as she involved herself hi 
 the intricacies of the theme. Alison liked her, she 
 felt sure; he had always liked her. If she had not 
 married Frank she might (perhaps) have married 
 Alison. He was reticent and cautious now, not 
 hasty to commit himself; but he must feel attracted, 
 to come and see her so often. He could do as he 
 liked, go where he liked. If he did not care seri- 
 ously for her companionship, he would not be likely 
 to bother with her at all. And she liked Alison. 
 Her heart warmed toward him. If she did not really 
 love him now she was fairly sure that she did not 
 she could do so without much effort. She had 
 not as yet been willing to let herself go. If she 
 could permit her affections to stray untrammeled, 
 they would find their way unhesitatingly to him. 
 She was wiser than she had been six years before, 
 when she had believed that love was some sacred 
 individual thing: that you loved a person because 
 he above all others was ordained for you. She did 
 not think that now. It was not so mystical or so 
 personal. Not that she was brazen or mercenary
 
 160 SUPPORT 
 
 or cynical. But there should be wisdom in one's 
 affections as well as everywhere else. She pondered 
 as she walked. Here was Alison Sharland : steady, 
 serious, close-lipped, a good business man, with 
 family, an inheritance, prospects, character. He was 
 eminently desirable. What more could a woman 
 want than a man like that? 
 
 And yet hadn't she thought that Frank Moffatt 
 was eminently desirable, too, even though he was 
 so different from the other? She hadn't, as Wilbur 
 said, made a go with Frank. What assurance had 
 she that she could make a better "go" with Alison? 
 He was prouder than Frank, she knew, more 
 sensitive, less tolerant of clumsiness and stupidity. 
 She might blunder again, make another failure. She 
 scrutinized her fear. Perhaps there was, as she had 
 once or twice suspected, some innate defect which 
 would make it impossible for her to have a happy 
 marriage. What was wrong with her? She must 
 analyze herself. She would not want to ruin an- 
 other man's life. She laughed at her own phrasing. 
 That was funny. Hadn't Frank ruined her life? 
 Everybody told her so. If she had ruined his, he 
 had quickly repaired it, she told herself without 
 much bitterness. He had assuaged his griefs with 
 another woman. But after all, she knew Frank. She 
 knew that down under his gaiety, his loud laugh, 
 his apparent immunity from suffering, there was a 
 little secret chamber where he kept his feelings 
 real ones and an exact unwavering estimate of 
 values. Down in that secret chamber he was hurt,
 
 SUPPORT 161 
 
 disillusioned. His faith was marred his faith in 
 himself, as well as in women. Well, she couldn't 
 help it. Things had turned out as they had. There 
 was no gain in worrying. She could return to the 
 question which had sounded its silver chiming in 
 her heart: Why shouldn't she marry Alison Shar- 
 land? 
 
 6 
 
 Curiously enough, that afternoon, Sally Rathvon 
 broached the same subject. The two women had 
 been doing needlework together, with Griffith safely 
 conducting a seminar on the Hill, and the children 
 out with Emma. Constance was doing a set of 
 tea-napkins, a present for a Bridgeport girl who 
 was going to be married. Sally had been speaking 
 about the new Head of the History Department, 
 and Constance had commented on his salary. "Ali- 
 son Sharland told me," she remarked. 
 
 Sally was silent, threading a needle. Then she 
 looked up. "Are you setting your cap for Alison?" 
 she said abruptly. 
 
 Constance did not know at first whether the ques- 
 tion were intended to be humorous. She glinted a 
 look at Sally. Her friend's face was serious, not 
 mischievous or coquettish. In the perceptible pause 
 before she replied, Constance thought, "Am I? 
 That's what I'm wondering myself." She answered 
 lightly, "Of course not, Sally. I can't believe you 
 aren't joking. Why do you say a thing like that?" 
 
 "It's not so unbelievable," persisted Mrs. Rath-
 
 162 SUPPORT 
 
 von. "He's a good catch; and so are you," she 
 supplemented. 
 
 "Thanks for the afterthought." Constance spoke 
 dryly as she set her fine stitches. "I'm not a very 
 good one, I know a woman with a past." She 
 made a grimace. "But a past doesn't matter so 
 much nowadays as it used to." 
 
 "No, not your kind." Sally was thoughtful. 
 "He'd do well to get you. But " She stopped, 
 irresolute. 
 
 "But what?" 
 
 "Nothing, really. I just wondered. I hope you 
 don't want him, Connie." Sally's candid eyes 
 searched for her friend's. 
 
 Constance evaded them, frowning. "I don't," she 
 said shortly. "But why?" 
 
 "Oh, well, I don't know that I should say." Mrs. 
 Rathvon was purposely vague. "He isn't a big 
 man," she concluded. 
 
 "N-no. Not big. But how many men are?" Con- 
 stance was irritated at finding herself defending Ali- 
 son. She wondered whether Sally considered her 
 Griffith "big." 
 
 "I don't care for him much," added Sally, with 
 unwonted bluntness. 
 
 "He says you don't like him," put in Constance 
 quickly. 
 
 Sally contemplated her, holding her needle in the 
 air. "He said that, did he?" 
 
 "Yes." Constance began to be ashamed of her 
 tattling.
 
 SUPPORT 163 
 
 "Did he say why?" Sally looked curious. 
 
 "M-mm I don't remember that he did. He just 
 said that you two didn't hit it off, or something." 
 Constance tried to recollect what Sharland had 
 said. "It seems to me he said something about your 
 Cousin Buford." 
 
 Sally had a startled air. She resumed her sew- 
 ing to cover her perturbation. "What did Buford 
 Clarke have to do with it?" queried Constance, grop- 
 ing in mental vagueness. 
 
 "7 didn't say he had anything," retorted Sally. 
 
 Constance meditated. "Do you know anything 
 about Alison anything that makes you not like 
 him?" she asked. 
 
 Mrs. Rathvon colored. "Aren't we discussing him 
 at unnecessary length?" she said. 
 
 "You began it." Constance did not like to per- 
 sist. "Anyhow, you needn't worry," she went on 
 flippantly. "I'm not crazy to get married again. 
 No wedding bells for me." 
 
 "I wouldn't say that," Sally objected. "We all 
 want wedding bells. We all want to be married to 
 the right man; but heaven knows very few of us 
 are," she added under her breath. 
 
 "You are, aren't you?" Constance shot a spying 
 glance out of the corner of her eye. 
 
 "Absolutely." Sally spoke with a haste not too 
 exaggerated to be sincere. "Griffith is perfect for 
 me. I'm devoted to him. You know that, Connie." 
 
 "Oh, yes. I know it." Constance spoke absently. 
 Her mind had already turned away from her ques-
 
 164 SUPPORT 
 
 tion, and she was half-envying Sally not her Grif- 
 fith, of course, for she did not like Griffith any more 
 than Sally cared for Alison. But here was Sally 
 with an affectionate husband, money enough, a 
 charming house, two healthy and intelligent chil- 
 dren, social position, good clothes, everything that a 
 woman could want, without being too rich or too 
 idle. One might well wish to be in Sally's shoes. 
 Constance hardly envied her friend's approaching 
 pangs; and yet, she told herself fiercely, she did 
 envy them, too, and the child that was coming : 
 the sweet, helpless little baby. Phrases like that 
 had seemed silly and sentimental before; there was 
 really something in them, after all. 
 
 Constance brought herself back. It was too bad 
 to be envious of anyone, especially of her best friend. 
 She had always hated envy and jealousy; they 
 seemed to be so small, so unworthy of normal 
 people. 
 
 There was a pause, each woman following her 
 own train of thought. Sally's face had fallen into 
 its placid lines, but there was a strained look around 
 the eyes. "I suppose there's always a secret fear," 
 Constance thought. She knew that Sally was not 
 thinking of Alison Sharland. She herself had ceased 
 to dwell upon him. She was thinking of the women, 
 thousands of them, who had homes and husbands 
 and children and competence and harmony, and all 
 the good things of life, material and spiritual. Why 
 should she, among so many, have to be divorced, 
 uprooted, compelled to make decisions, to solve prob-
 
 SUPPORT 165 
 
 lems, to work out her own destiny? It was cruel 
 and unfair. 
 
 The pause in the conversation grew so long that 
 it became conspicuous. Sally looked up. "You do 
 such lovely work, Connie," she said in her friendly 
 way. "Why don't you do those things for sale?" 
 
 Constance wrinkled her forehead. "Why, I hadn't 
 thought of it," she answered. "Do you think any- 
 one would want them?" 
 
 "Would they want them? Aren't your friends all 
 wild to have them?" 
 
 "They do seem to like them pretty well," Con- 
 stance admitted, holding up her work to look at it. 
 Sally took one of the serviettes from Constance's 
 knee and examined it. 
 
 "It's perfect," she sighed. "My work is a botch 
 compared to it. I don't see why you don't make 
 capital of such skill." 
 
 "I don't believe it would get me very far," said 
 Constance with skepticism. 
 
 "You never can tell. Won't you make two or 
 three sets for me for Christmas gifts and let me 
 pay you?" Constance flushed, hardly knowing 
 whether to be incensed. "I know you don't need the 
 money," said Sally calmly, "with what you have 
 from Frank; but one can always use a little more." 
 
 "I should say." Constance bit her lips. "Yes, I'll 
 make them for you, if I can find time to do them 
 before Christmas. It isn't very far off. I'll be glad 
 to make them." She was restless nowadays, always 
 feverishly doing something; she might as well have
 
 166 SUPPORT 
 
 the serviettes as an excuse. She loved meticulous 
 work, took a feminine delight in seeing it growing, 
 finished, laid away in shining perfection. Men, she 
 reflected, know little of that laborious instinct which 
 is as the breath of life to women : to construct, com- 
 plete, hoard, display, to revel in the work of one's 
 hands. Men work with a freer swing, wielding the 
 axe, building the bridge, devising the big business 
 deal. Woman is secluded in the home, taking her 
 careful stitches, putting up the fruits of the earth in 
 cans, content to see a pile of linen rising higher in a 
 drawer, a row of glass jars glowing redly on a shelf. 
 
 She was roused from her meditations by the voice 
 of Sally, commenting on the hour. It was a suitable 
 time to withdraw, Constance discovered, before 
 Griffith came home. She made her adieux as quickly 
 as possible, lingering in the hall, however, to give 
 Sally a grateful kiss. This friendship was the most 
 comforting thing in her life at the present time. 
 Next to it came the growing love, which she hardly 
 dared allow herself, for little Suzanne. 
 
 She went around by the business section to buy 
 the linen for the promised serviettes. "I'm glad to 
 have this work to do for Sally," she thought. "But 
 why should I be willing to sit sewing and crochet- 
 ing? Isn't there bigger work that I can do?" She 
 had gradually become convinced that she must do 
 something, get used to working, earn some extra 
 money, make a start toward being active and 
 independent. 
 
 She had taught for a year or so after leaving the
 
 SUPPORT 167 
 
 State College. She might be able to get a teaching 
 position again. Her university diploma, with a 
 year's experience, constituted, she believed, a per- 
 petual certificate for teaching. But she had not 
 liked the work, even in her earlier unthinking days, 
 when she accepted almost anything without ques- 
 tion. She did not believe she could stand it now, 
 after nearly seven years of comparative freedom and 
 steady growth. Flinching, she recalled the big room- 
 ful of staring, volatile boys and girls, the bad air, 
 the papers to be corrected, the visits of the Super- 
 intendent (the "Snoop'intendent," as the teachers 
 called him among themselves), the reports, the 
 teachers' meetings, the jealousy, the petty compe- 
 tition over salaries and promotions. She had not 
 experienced much of that sort of thing only a year 
 or two but to look forward to an endless continua- 
 tion of it impossible! No, that was not likely to 
 be the solution of her problem. 
 
 She presented the idea warily to Rose that even- 
 ing. "You aren't thinking of going to work, are 
 you?" Rose stared with curious eyes over her 
 French dictionary. 
 
 "Not seriously. But it might not be a bad thing 
 to consider it a little." Constance often felt awk- 
 ward in discussing things with Rose. 
 
 "Considering is all right," Rose agreed. "But 
 teaching is out of the question for both of us. I 
 might do it for a year, if any school board would
 
 168 SUPPORT 
 
 have me ; but as a permanent job, it's hopeless. Look 
 at Wilbur. I wouldn't be in his predicament for 
 anything, and he has more say of his own than 
 any woman would have. He'll probably find some- 
 thing else to do. Most men can if they try." 
 
 "Probably laziness and inertia will keep me from 
 going in for it," said Constance. 
 
 "You aren't lazy, Con," rejoined the sister. "You 
 work like a tiger, even when you don't have to. But 
 as to inertia, that's what keeps most of us from 
 getting out of the muddles we're in." She reflected 
 on her own case, perhaps. "But what makes you 
 think of going to work? I suppose you want to get 
 out of the house. I don't blame you for that. It 
 isn't exactly hilarious here." 
 
 "I'm not seeking something hilarious." Constance 
 
 spoke with perplexity. "It's " She did not 
 
 know how to go on. 
 
 "If you just spent your money on yourself," Rose 
 was saying, "you could live beautifully I mean, 
 have a lot of pretty things, and all sorts of pleas- 
 ures. But you spend it on the rest of us." 
 
 "It gives me more satisfaction that way, I dare 
 say," said Constance slowly. She doubted whether 
 it did. 
 
 "I don't believe it does," returned Rose with can- 
 dor. "But, somehow you always seem to have to, 
 I've noticed. There's always some reason, some ur- 
 gent reason, why you should pay a bill or buy some- 
 thing for somebody. It's the kind of thing that it 
 would take a harder heart than yours to resist."
 
 SUPPORT 169 
 
 "It might as well go in that way," Constance re- 
 sponded. "But I've often wondered whether it's 
 fair to Frank." 
 
 "Must one be fair to Frank?" There was a tinge 
 of satire in Rose's voice. 
 
 "Well why not?" 
 
 "I don't see that he's in this at all/' said Rose. 
 "He gives you money because he has to, by law, 
 and you can jolly well do what you like with it." 
 Her chin went up. 
 
 "Frank wants to give it to me. He wants to feel 
 that I'm comfortable." Constance was still able to 
 defend her man. 
 
 "He wants to ease his conscience for dropping 
 you, of course." Rose was brutal now. "He 
 wouldn't have dared to do as he did if he hadn't 
 felt that he could put you off with a little money. 
 He could make things right by supplying you with 
 enough to get along on. That isn't generosity. It's 
 self-interest in its crudest form." 
 
 "Oh, Rose!" Constance murmured a protest. 
 
 "Not that I blame Frank so much, you under- 
 stand," Rose was going on. "It's all right if he can 
 get by with it. We're all governed by self-interest. 
 What I'm getting at is that this is the sort of thing 
 that one has to look at without sentiment, instead 
 of trying to deck it up with emotionalism. You 
 see, it's pure business with Frank; it's the means 
 by which he buys what he wants. So you'd better 
 let it be pure business with you. Take it and do 
 what you like with it. I'm not advising you to
 
 170 SUPPORT 
 
 spend it on your family," she explained hastily. 
 "Spend it on yourself, and do it with a free hand." 
 
 "There's more to it." Constance choked. There 
 was a lot more to it. Rose didn't understand ; could 
 never understand. It wasn't that Frank had delib- 
 erately decided to have another woman, and to buy 
 her (Constance) off. Their separation had begun 
 long before Mrs. Carmichael had appeared upon the 
 scene. They had found that they saw things dif- 
 ferently, lived life differently, were two widely dif- 
 ferentiated people, instead of the "one flesh" (which 
 ought to imply spirit) that the poets and the reli- 
 gionists talked about. The close contact of an apart- 
 ment had probably contributed to their dissensions 
 of soul. The freedom which a man has in a great 
 city had also done its share. And then there were 
 other things things that one couldn't tell to any- 
 one. Mrs. Carmichael had been an effect, not a 
 cause. Frank had taken up with her after he and 
 his wife had been practically sundered that is, 
 when it had become apparent to both of them that 
 they could not live happily together. 
 
 Constance stood at the door of Rose's room, sunk 
 in thought. Rose had gone back to her Old French 
 poem and her dictionary. Nobody would see, 
 thought Constance dejectedly, that the other woman 
 was, in a way, the least of the trouble. A temporary 
 and material infidelity was nothing, you might say, 
 compared to a permanent constraint, coldness, irri- 
 tation, and repulsion. And that sort of thing came 
 on gradually, was the result of essential unlikenesses
 
 SUPPORT 171 
 
 in mind and character of incompatibility, in short. 
 The sin of the flesh was wrong of course, but negli- 
 gible. "Some people would think that I ought to 
 be ashamed," she said to herself. She ought perhaps 
 to be shocked that she could condone the great of- 
 fense in marriage. 
 
 She went away to her room, deep in thought. 
 "It's a matter of proportion, I suppose." Hardly 
 anybody was honest enough to have a real sense of 
 proportion. Married people could live in a state of 
 petty deception, insincerity, open wrangling; they 
 could hurt each other's pride, destroy each other's 
 happiness and hope and beauty and individuality, 
 and it was all right, as long as neither of them went 
 out and committed an act of "infidelity" technically 
 so-called. "Bosh!" cried Constance aloud. She and 
 Frank had been irrevocably divided before he saw 
 Mrs. Carmichael. If it hadn't been Mrs. Carmichael, 
 it would have been someone else. Rose might say 
 what she liked; she knew nothing at all about it. 
 Rose hadn't lived for six years in a four-room apart- 
 ment with a man a well-meaning man, to be sure, 
 but a material-minded, free-and-easy one, oblivious 
 of other people's tastes and moods, a man who lived 
 for good eating, cigars, gay company, and "shows." 
 That wasn't quite fair to Frank, possibly. He was 
 not to be condemned for being himself. But let that 
 pass. She must not let Rose's opinion influence her 
 too much. This question of money was not "pure 
 business." It had an emotional and ethical content, 
 and she could not let herself ignore either.
 
 CHAPTER IX 
 
 As the time had gone on, Constance had seen al- 
 most nothing of Schelling. Rose had kept him away 
 from the rest of the family, and they were glad 
 enough to keep away from him. One evening Rose 
 said, as the dinner dishes were being put away, "I 
 have to go out to get those shoes I'm having the 
 heels straightened, you know and if Herman 
 comes, will you look after him?" 
 
 Constance looked confused. "Why of course I 
 can," she began. "I can let him in, if that's what 
 you mean." 
 
 "You're suggesting that even that wouldn't be a 
 very agreeable task?" said Rose coolly. "Well, you 
 could go through the motions of opening the door 
 and showing him into the parlor, couldn't you?" 
 
 "Certainly I could." Constance was condemning 
 herself for her reluctance. After all, it was the very 
 antagonism of the family which had driven Rose to 
 bestowing her perverse favor upon Schelling. If 
 they acted as if they didn't care, perhaps she would 
 the sooner come to her senses. Moreover, here was 
 an opportunity to get some first-hand information 
 about the man. "Don't hurry. I'll attend to him," 
 
 she said. 
 
 172
 
 SUPPORT 173 
 
 "That sounds more like a threat than a conces- 
 sion." Rose's laugh had a sting in it. 
 
 The younger sister put on her wraps and went 
 out. She had not been gone long when Constance 
 heard a ring at the door-bell. She went to the door. 
 As she opened it, she noted with flitting humor the 
 change of expression in the round red face of the 
 man, with the hall light shining upon it. He had 
 expected Rose, and found a quite different lady gaz- 
 ing steadily, even searchingly, at him through the 
 gloom. 
 
 "Is Rose Miss Fenton in?" he stammered. He 
 stumbled on the door-step as he entered. 
 
 "She's out, but she'll be back presently." Con- 
 stance kept her voice as cordial as it needed to be 
 for any casual visitor. "She told me to ask you to 
 wait." 
 
 Schelling came into the drawing-room with his 
 overcoat on, holding his hat in his hands. His man- 
 ner of standing, of sitting down in one of the big 
 tapestry-covered chairs, betrayed him. He was 
 neither frankly at his ease nor frankly awkward. 
 He strove to cover his gaucherie with a half- 
 restrained swing of assurance, a faint and disingenu- 
 ous bluster. To the merciless gaze of Constance, 
 he was that worst of social anomalies, the "common" 
 man neither wise enough nor simple enough to ap- 
 pear what he is, but pretending something, with the 
 suspicion that he may not be carrying it off. 
 
 She sat down on the sofa and engaged him in 
 conversation. The snow and the cold weather fur-
 
 174 SUPPORT 
 
 nished available topics. It was hard on the ma- 
 chines, Schelling expounded, to have to go plugging 
 through the snow. "You feel like putting them up 
 altogether," he said, "but of course that wouldn't 
 do, for you'd lose too much cash." 
 
 "Then you keep them going all winter?" asked 
 Constance. 
 
 "Yes, ma'am, all winter long, in spite of the snow," 
 Schelling replied. "It's three feet deep sometimes 
 of course you know, for you've lived here but we 
 keep the heavy cars plunging right through. The 
 lighter ones we put up, of course; and we don't let 
 a car go out into the country unless it's a case of 
 emergency." 
 
 "I'd forgotten what dreadful winters there were 
 out here," said Constance; "I've been away so long." 
 
 "This is a rotten climate for my business," Schell- 
 ing complained. "In the East and farther South, 
 you can easily run your car all the year round. Here 
 you're froze up half the time, or buried out of sight 
 in the snow or mud." 
 
 His words were harmless, Constance perceived, in 
 spite of the ungrammatical "froze." He probably 
 knew better than that. But his manner was clumsy, 
 devoid of attraction. 
 
 "Still, we don't do so badly," he said with osten- 
 tatious cheer. "We make a lot during the summer, 
 you know. The cars are out all the time, and we 
 just leave 'em go wherever they're wanted." 
 
 "Leave 'em go" that was hopeless. Could Rose 
 really care for a man who made so fatuous a blun-
 
 SUPPORT 175 
 
 der? It was impossible; not because a man might 
 not use an ungrammatical expression and still be a 
 man of distinction and character; but because the 
 kind of errors which Schelling made proclaimed his 
 lack of home training, which lack was in itself a 
 confession of vulgarity. Constance sat and mar- 
 veled, scarcely sure of what was being said, so ab- 
 sorbed was she in her amazement at the type of 
 man whom Rose had encouraged in his pursuit of 
 her regard. 
 
 "What does she see in him for goodness' sake, 
 what does she see?" Constance was saying to her- 
 self. What an unbiased observer would see was a 
 commonplace man of German lineage (not so young 
 that youth could be made to excuse his deficiencies), 
 whose qualities were obviously not such as were 
 likely to interest or satisfy a fastidious girl like Rose. 
 "It's beyond me," Constance confessed, in answer to 
 her own astonished inquiries. "Probably she doesn't 
 really comprehend how impossible he is; and per- 
 haps his motor cars and his admiration make up for 
 what he lacks in ancestry and manners." 
 
 He was taking Rose to the Orpheum, he an- 
 nounced. There wasn't much you could go to, since 
 the movies had crowded out the shows; but some- 
 times there was a good laugh in a vawd'ville, if you 
 weren't too fussy about what you laughed at. 
 
 "Yes, sometimes those things are very amusing," 
 the lady agreed. Her heart sank as she communed 
 with this social intruder. But it rose again, upon 
 further consideration. Surely there was hope in the
 
 176 SUPPORT 
 
 man's very grossness. The worse he was, the less 
 likely Rose would be to marry him, much as she 
 might enjoy horrifying her relatives by permitting 
 his attentions. Constance resolved not to worry, 
 even though she knew that other people wondered 
 at seeing Rose with a man so far removed from 
 her own natural station. 
 
 It rested Constance to be with Sally, if Griffith 
 were not about; and she planned her calls carefully 
 to avoid him, keeping in mind a schedule of his 
 lectures and committee meetings at the College. 
 There was a certain hardship in being cut off from 
 a free intercourse with Sally's family, but Constance 
 had determined to be grateful for what she had of 
 Sally's company, and not repine over what she was 
 denied. Mrs. Rathvon was consoling when Con- 
 stance talked to her of Rose. 
 
 "I don't believe she'll marry him," she said, when 
 the possibility had been suggested. "I think she's 
 just indulging herself in a fit of contrariness just 
 sticking her tongue out and being as awful as she 
 can." 
 
 "She told me she was going to defy fate, or some- 
 thing like that," said Constance. 
 
 "Yes; well, that's only the heroics of youthful- 
 ness." Sally was comforting, even though her eyes 
 did not speak with so much assurance as her lips. 
 "Women are such self-deceivers," she went on after 
 a pause. "It's often very hard for them to get at
 
 SUPPORT 177 
 
 their own feelings and motives. I'm convinced, Con- 
 nie, in spite of my own happy marriage, that it isn't 
 the man that we love, at all. It's an ideal, a state 
 of mind, that we lavish our affection on. When we 
 wake up and find that the object of our love doesn't 
 exist, we're shocked and broken-hearted, or proud 
 and cynical, as the case may be." 
 
 "On the whole, then," meditated Constance, "any 
 man will do to hang one's ideals on?" 
 
 "Almost any." Sally smiled in return. "He 
 usually has to be more or less of one's own state 
 and stage of society; not always even that, as we 
 observe when high-bred girls fall in love with chauf- 
 feurs, Indian guides, sailors, riding-masters, and club 
 waiters." 
 
 Constance looked at her friend curiously. "Do you 
 think any other man would have served as a hat- 
 rack for your ideals as well as your Griffith?" she 
 inquired. 
 
 Sally deliberated. "Logically, I have to admit 
 it," she replied. "Emotionally, I'd say no. Com- 
 mon sense compels me to confess that there are a 
 great many men as good-looking, as intelligent, as 
 agreeable as Grif." 
 
 ("I'll swear there are!" commented Constance 
 mentally.) 
 
 "And I dare say any one of them would have 
 contented me as well, if the circumstances had been 
 propitious. The fact is, I'm a contented sort of 
 pussy-cat person. I like a home and the things that 
 go with it. I have my children. I don't want to
 
 178 SUPPORT 
 
 get out and do things. I'm happy with my Griffith : 
 he treats me well, and gives me what he can, within 
 reason. If his name were David or Evan instead 
 of Griffith, I'm pretty sure I'd be as well pleased 
 with life." 
 
 Constance stared. "I'm interested to hear you say 
 that, Sally," she made avowal. 
 
 "Mind you, I wouldn't tell Grif this." Sally was 
 humorously contrite. "He wouldn't understand. 
 He'd think at once that I meant to say I don't love 
 him. I do love him devotedly or what I think he 
 is: it's all the same for practical purposes." 
 
 Constance sat hi contemplative silence. She had 
 not thought Sally capable of analyzing herself so 
 shrewdly. She saw how much Sally had developed 
 in the last four years. There was, as her friend 
 herself had confessed, an inherent laziness in her, or 
 inertia, or whatever one wanted to call it, which 
 would prevent her from ever doing anything, except 
 purring and basking at home. The world needed 
 just such nice, comfortable, serene women good 
 home-makers and good mothers as a background 
 for its larger activities. They had their place and 
 did their work and deserved as much credit, pos- 
 sibly, as those who "got out" and struggled with 
 social and political problems. 
 
 "I'm amazed at women, sometimes." Sally took 
 up another phase of her theme. "The marvel is, 
 how good, gentle, intelligent women can make such 
 fools of themselves over men perfectly unworthy 
 men, too. It makes me sick when I think of some
 
 SUPPORT 179 
 
 of the women I have known, giving themselves so 
 generously, so loyally, to blockheads or cads men 
 who haven't the least conception of what they're 
 receiving. Or sensitive, eager-souled women eating 
 their hearts out because some smug-faced dolt of a 
 man won't make love to them and marry them! 
 It's a mystery, now, isn't it, Constance?" She 
 glanced sharply at the face of the woman beside her. 
 
 Constance flushed. "It is, it really is," she re- 
 turned. "I've thought about it a good deal myself. 
 I don't pretend to be able to diagnose it. I suppose 
 it's a part of the mesmerism that women are under, 
 the hypnotism of sex which has been developed and 
 fostered by their dependence on men. It seems to 
 be a part of the game to abandon all common sense, 
 and give oneself up to sentimentalism and, as you 
 say, self-deception." 
 
 "It's an attempt to cover up something ugly with 
 something that looks prettier, I suppose," assented 
 Sally. "Somehow, one expects more of intelligent 
 modern women. Connie, I do hope that you " She 
 frowned, lacking courage to go on. 
 
 "Oh, don't worry about me," said Constance. 
 
 3 
 
 Although Constance had asked her mother not to 
 speak of what had been said about giving up the 
 allowance from Frank, she suspected that Rose at 
 least had heard of it. She fervently hoped that Wil- 
 bur would not be informed until she had fully made 
 up her mind.
 
 180 SUPPORT 
 
 One Saturday afternoon, the hall door opened and 
 shut, and Wilbur stood in the sitting-room. He 
 shook hands with his father, and greeted him with 
 amiable gravity. Mr. Fenton was fond of Wilbur, 
 and was always glad to see him. "I can't stay long," 
 said the caller. "I just ran down between trains. 
 Eleanor's expecting me back. There's a party of 
 some kind this afternoon, but I'd like to be at home 
 this evening." He chatted on about family affairs, 
 and went out into the kitchen, seeking his mother. 
 He looked glum and threatening, Constance thought. 
 She had some household tasks to occupy her, and did 
 not stay in the sitting-room to hear all that was 
 being said. 
 
 She was coming downstairs when Wilbur called to 
 her, "Oh, Con, mother says I can have that strip of 
 Indian bead-work that we used to have around the 
 house. I'm getting up an Indian exhibit for one of 
 my classes. Do you know where that piece is?" 
 
 Constance tried to think. "I've seen it since I 
 came home," she said. "I think it's in the drawer of 
 the wardrobe in the upper hall. I'll go and see." 
 
 She turned back, and Wilbur followed her up the 
 stairs. He waited till she stood beside the wardrobe, 
 ready to open the drawer. "See here, Con," he said, 
 staying her hand. 
 
 Constance knew that he had followed her upstairs 
 to say something. His face was like a thundercloud. 
 "Well, what is it?" she asked uneasily. 
 
 "What's this I hear about your giving up your ali- 
 mony?"
 
 SUPPORT 181 
 
 "What do you mean?" she parried, backing away, 
 against the wardrobe. 
 
 "You know. Something you said to mother about 
 giving it up. Are you crazy, or what's the matter?" 
 Wilbur fixed her with an inquisitorial eye. 
 
 "I don't see that we need to discuss it," his sister 
 replied with dignity. 
 
 "There's reason enough. I'm your brother." 
 Wilbur was equally dignified. "I have a right to see 
 that you don't act the fool especially about money 
 matters. Women have no sense in such things. But 
 mother must have been mistaken. You can't be 
 such an idiot as to to " 
 
 "To give up a good thing when I have my clutches 
 on it?" supplemented Constance. 
 
 "Something of the sort, if you want to put it that 
 way. Come on, Con, tell me what it's all about. 
 I'd like to give you some advice." 
 
 "Don't get excited." Constance tried to carry off 
 the unpleasant situation. "I just said to mother 
 that I wondered sometimes whether it was right for 
 me to take Frank's money when I wasn't using it for 
 myself, you know as it was intended." 
 
 Wilbur's face darkened. "You can do as you darn 
 please with it, can't you?" he said roughly. "Isn't 
 that what it's for?" 
 
 "Perhaps it is. That's why I thought " 
 
 "If your family need it, that's all the more reason 
 why you should get it ; if they need it to make them 
 comfortable in their old age."
 
 182 SUPPORT 
 
 "Theoretically, at least, that isn't what Frank 
 earns it for," Constance answered firmly. 
 
 "Frank can be damned," responded Wilbur with 
 solemnity. "Hasn't he ruined your life? Hasn't 
 he " 
 
 Constance smiled wearily. "Nobody will let me 
 say that he hasn't; so I suppose I'll have to say that 
 he has." 
 
 Wilbur regarded his sister with suspicion. "I 
 don't know what sort of mysterious talk that is." 
 His voice was cold. "I should think a woman in 
 your position would have pride enough not to go 
 around talking flippantly about herself." 
 
 "I never was less flippant," retorted Constance. 
 "You don't understand." 
 
 "If you're going to take the pose of not being un- 
 derstood all right." Constance bent to rummage in 
 the drawer while Wilbur was speaking. "I can't 
 believe you'll do anything silly." His tone implied 
 that he thought her capable of infinite silliness. 
 
 "Don't distress yourself about me." Constance 
 kept her face hidden. 
 
 "I do distress myself about you," the man rejoined. 
 "I used to think you had some sense " 
 
 "But now you're sure I haven't?" Constance held 
 out the strip of bead-work at arm's length. 
 
 "Thanks." Wilbur took the offering mechani- 
 cally. "Con, promise me " 
 
 "I promise nothing." She smiled bafflingly. 
 "What would a promise amount to, from a person 
 with no sense?"
 
 SUPPORT 183 
 
 "Oh, well," he sulked, "I'd like to save you from 
 your own foolishness." 
 
 "You can't do that, Wilbur," she answered lightly. 
 "A fool must follow his natural bent." 
 
 "Eh?" Wilbur knitted his brows. 
 
 "Even as you and I." She shut the drawer with 
 her knees, and turned quickly toward the head of 
 the stairs. 
 
 "But, say, Con!" He reached out a hand to de- 
 tain her. 
 
 She eluded him. "Are you staying for dinner?" 
 
 "No." His face was heavy. "I told Eleanor I'd 
 go back on the four-thirty-two." He pulled out his 
 watch. 
 
 "You'll have to hurry, then. It was nice of you to 
 give us even this short visit." She ran down the 
 stairs ahead of him. 
 
 Wilbur reluctantly got into his overcoat, stuffing 
 the bead-work into the pocket. When he had gone, 
 Constance drew her mother into the parlor. 
 "Mother," she began accusingly, "did you write to 
 Wilbur about what I said regarding Frank's allow- 
 ance?" 
 
 "I I might have written him something," her 
 mother replied guiltily. 
 
 "You shouldn't have done that. I asked you 
 not to." 
 
 Mrs. Fenton clasped her hands nervously. "I 
 didn't want you to do anything rash," she cried. 
 
 "Setting Wilbur on me is the sure way to force me 
 to do something rash," her daughter muttered.
 
 184 SUPPORT 
 
 "A girl should look up to her brother." Mrs. Fen- 
 ton spoke with conviction. 
 
 "Not when he's Wilbur!" Constance turned 
 away, her eyes blinking, her lips tightened. What 
 was the use? "Never mind, mother," she said. "It 
 can't be helped now." 
 
 "I'm sorry," the older woman made her appeal for 
 forgiveness. 
 
 "It's all right." Constance went up to her own 
 room, a weight of depression hanging upon her. She 
 sat down in a low chair at the window. Her courage 
 seemed to have gone forever. What was there about 
 Wilbur that made you feel like that? It was a sort 
 of mental bullying a forcing upon you of his beliefs 
 and antagonisms and self-righteousness, until you 
 were willing to admit that you were beneath con- 
 tempt. "I am a worm and no man," wails the 
 Psalmist. Constance smiled as her tears started. 
 "I am a worm and no woman," she murmured. Her 
 head drooped. Sobs shook her. Twisting in her 
 chair, and supporting her forehead on her arms, she 
 gave herself up to weeping, succumbed to the 
 miseries which seemed to rise up and overwhelm 
 her. What was the use of fighting them? She cried 
 with long shuddering breaths, luxuriously, with aban- 
 don, as she had not permitted herself to cry for 
 months. She heard Rose come in at the front door, 
 and hoped that the younger sister, for whom she 
 ought to be an example, would not find her weakly 
 yielding herself to tears. 
 
 She tried to stifle her weeping when she heard
 
 SUPPORT 185 
 
 Rose at the door of her room. Her inarticulate cry 
 Rose took for an invitation to enter. She stood still, 
 saying nothing, while Constance wiped her eyes and 
 struggled to regain her self-control. Constance was 
 glad of the dusk which partially concealed the 
 ravages of her lamentations. 
 
 "I knew all the time that you felt worse than you 
 let anyone know," said Rose at last. "Has Frank 
 been bothering you?" 
 
 "No, oh, no!" Constance's voice was thick. "It's 
 just that I'm so tired. Wilbur's been here and 
 and " 
 
 "I should think you would be," said Rose. "It's 
 a rotten shame that you couldn't have got on better 
 with Frank, and that you had to come back here." 
 
 "I didn't have to," Constance defended herself, 
 gulping. 
 
 Rose stood looking down at her with an .attitude 
 of curiosity and pity. "I don't see what made you 
 do it, Connie," she said. 
 
 Constance was mastering her emotions. "People 
 do a great many things that they can't account for," 
 she said. "I suppose it was the 'homing instinct/ 
 I wanted my own people." 
 
 "And now that you have them, they don't satisfy." 
 Rose was not questioning, but making a statement. 
 Rose saw through people all except herself. 
 
 "It's my own fault. I expected too much. I'm be- 
 ginning to see," Constance went on slowly, "that 
 mere physical relationships (blood-relationships, 
 we call them) aren't very real. They don't have
 
 186 SUPPORT 
 
 much actual substance to them. You won't misun- 
 derstand me?" she begged. 
 
 "No. I think I see it myself." Rose seemed 
 striving to make the idea abstract and not personal. 
 
 "They're not founded on any unity of purpose, or 
 on any real congeniality of temperament or philoso- 
 phy," Constance explained, rather lamely. 
 
 "No, not at all," Rose admitted. 
 
 "That's why they're so disappointing," the elder 
 sister went on. "You look to them for consolation 
 and happiness, and you don't get them." 
 
 "Well, cheer up, Con," Rose responded. "I be- 
 lieve our family is about the worst that you could 
 have come back to." 
 
 "No, it isn't, Rose." Constance turned to regard 
 her sister the more earnestly in the darkening room. 
 "I'm convinced of that. It's just the same as a mil- 
 lion others its value and dignity spoiled by petty 
 friction and too easy condemnation. I have sense 
 enough to see that we're merely human that my 
 family hasn't been got together for the express pur- 
 pose of making things hard for me" 
 
 "That's generous of you." It was sometimes diffi- 
 cult to tell whether Rose were ironical or not. 
 
 "It's hard to be generous," the other rejoined. 
 "I can see why the family don't all find it easy to be 
 charitable with me." 
 
 "It seems strange," Rose meditated, poking at the 
 rug with the toe of her shoe "everybody always 
 acts toward everybody else as if they, themselves, I 
 mean, had never done or said anything wrong or
 
 SUPPORT 187 
 
 foolish. They never stop to think that, in other peo- 
 ple's eyes, they've done things just as bad." 
 
 "That's true." Constance felt humble. She was 
 not altogether discriminating in her condemnation, 
 perhaps. "What a muddle life is!" She got up, 
 wearily. "I'd better go and help mother get dinner. 
 She'll be tired after Wilbur's visit." 
 
 "Yes. Wilbur makes me tired," Rose assented 
 with a satirical chuckle. "There we go again, 
 don't we?" 
 
 "We ought to be generous or just, at least to 
 Wilbur." Constance repented her hateful thoughts 
 of him. 
 
 "Even that wouldn't make us like him any bet- 
 ter. I'm glad I wasn't in when he came," said Rose. 
 Constance caught her grinning as she came near her. 
 
 Constance, bathing her red eyes in the bathroom, 
 thought with bewilderment and tenderness of Rose. 
 She was a curious girl. She had a lot in her, if one 
 could only bring it out. "I wish she would be her- 
 self more," the older sister sighed. "Well, I can't 
 worry about it now." She went downstairs to help 
 her mother with the dinner. 
 
 Christmas was now approaching; but the Fentons 
 had agreed that they would not try to celebrate it 
 elaborately. The distinguishing feature of the sea- 
 son was Eleanor's refusal to come to Blanchard for 
 the holidays. She couldn't go, she said, where there
 
 188 SUPPORT 
 
 was anyone who didn't believe in God, especially 
 at such a sacred time as Christmas. This piece of 
 information was communicated darkly to Mrs. Fen- 
 ton by an indignantly sympathetic Wilbur. Mrs. 
 Fenton whispered it to Rose, who called it out to 
 Constance up the back stairs on Sunday morning. 
 Rose was frankly grateful to Constance for keeping 
 Eleanor away. Constance laugluJcl hysterically, her 
 mixed mirth reverberating down the back stairs in 
 unison with the jubilant note which floated up. 
 "I'm only afraid," added Rose, "that she'll repent 
 her decision, and make up her mind to come down 
 and convert you." 
 
 Mrs. Fenton's worry was ameliorated by the news, 
 arriving later, that Eleanor was too ill to come, any- 
 how. A delicate digestion, a tendency to colds, and 
 a goading ambition to provide mosquito-netting 
 bags filled with candy for all the children in her 
 Sunday school, had combined to put Eleanor under 
 the care of her physician. 
 
 "Of course, I'm sorry Eleanor's sick," commented 
 Mrs. Fenton, attempting to hide her relief; "but it 
 is so much better to be able to explain that that's 
 the reason why she and Wilbur aren't coming home 
 for Christmas." 
 
 "It seems like another dispensation of Providence, 
 doesn't it, mother?" said Constance dryly. 
 
 "Almost. Of course we don't know why people 
 are called upon to suffer," said Mrs. Fenton with an 
 accent of piety. "It must be for their good." 
 
 "And the good of their families," put in Constance
 
 SUPPORT 189 
 
 with a wicked grin. "Here is a case where it cer- 
 tainly does seem so, mother. For once your theory 
 of providential affliction is borne out." Mrs. Fenton 
 had no answer, beyond a commiserating sigh for the 
 visitations of an inscrutable Power upon an inno- 
 cent Eleanor. 
 
 Constance had finished the serviettes for Mrs. 
 Rathvon, and M^ with bantering protests taken 
 the money for them. "I feel terribly silly, taking 
 money from you, Sally," she said. "I don't know 
 what to do about it." 
 
 "The silliness is in your feeling like that," Mrs. 
 Rathvon responded in her most practical tone. 
 "You could sell a lot of those things, if you weren't 
 too proud." 
 
 "I don't know that I'm too proud," answered the 
 other, thoughtfully. "I don't see why anyone 
 shouldn't sell the work of his hands, when he has 
 put his best effort into it. All craftsmen have 
 done so." 
 
 "That's true," said Sally, "and I hope you'll re- 
 member it." 
 
 "I shall," Constance rejoined. "It isn't that one 
 hesitates to sell her work, so much as it is that she 
 doesn't like to appear to need the money. I don't 
 know why woman should feel so, but it's the effect 
 of being supported, I suppose. If I had always 
 earned my own living, I should think it was per- 
 fectly natural to sell my handiwork for money." 
 
 "The married woman who is an artist in oils or 
 water-colors, or is a writer or a singer, gets money
 
 190 SUPPORT 
 
 for her skill," said Mrs. Rathvon. "Why shouldn't 
 one who is an artist in needlework?" 
 
 "She should," laughed Constance. "I shall begin 
 vending my wares on the street corners, before 
 long." 
 
 As a matter of fact, she was inordinately proud 
 of this money, which she had earned herself, which 
 had not been bestowed upon her by either a willing 
 or an unwilling hand. She put the bills away in a 
 drawer, and took them out to handle them over. 
 They represented more than money. They were 
 self-activity, individuality, the pleasure of pleasing 
 someone else by one's own endeavors. In the end, 
 she spent the money for Christmas gifts for 
 Suzanne: yarn for a blue jersey; a white fur tippet, 
 and white "kitty" mittens ; a doll with round cheeks 
 and real hair; oranges; and cinnamon candy the 
 kind that snaps and crunches. She went over to 
 Mrs. Greening's, on Christmas Eve, and cuddled 
 Suzanne, and helped her to hang up one of the 
 clumsy black woolen stockings behind the sheet-iron 
 stove. She was sorry that she could not be there in 
 the morning, when the stocking was taken down; 
 but she made Mrs. Greening tell her what Suzanne 
 had said and done. "Next Christmas, perhaps," she 
 said to herself, without precisely formulating what 
 she meant. 
 
 Just after Christmas, her second decree came. She 
 had been expecting it, and dreading it, too, because 
 in spite of her desire to have it, it seemed to typify a 
 crisis, the end and shattering of her girlish hopes, a
 
 SUPPORT 191 
 
 something big and significant in her life, of looming 
 proportions difficult to estimate. It meant the final 
 severing of a relationship which had been hanging 
 by a thread. As long as this actual breaking of 
 bonds had not taken place, she was still half-mar- 
 ried, not her complete unhampered self, to choose, to 
 act, to be. 
 
 It was the day for Suzanne to stay at the Fen- 
 tons', while Mrs. Greening was doing the washing. 
 The little girl had had her nap, and Constance was 
 dressing her. Rose came in with a long envelope, 
 and said, "Mail for you, Connie." There was a for- 
 warded circular, too, advertising a rug-cleaning es- 
 tablishment. Constance, with the child on her lap, 
 took the letters, glanced at them without interest, 
 and laid them down. Then she took up the long 
 envelope again, looked at it more closely, and tore it 
 open. It contained a letter from her lawyer, and the 
 second decree. She sat staring at it, her heart beat- 
 ing thickly. So here was the end the definite, abso- 
 lute end of her dream of love and happiness. She 
 would have allowed herself a season of sentimental 
 yearnings and regrets, but that the child broke in, 
 saying plaintively, "Mummy-Constance, I can't 
 reach my buttons, you know." She threw down the 
 papers, and went on dressing the little girl. After the 
 buttoning and hair-brushing had been accomplished, 
 there was the glass of milk to be brought and dis- 
 posed of, and then a wonderful new doll-jacket to be 
 displayed and put on the Christmas doll. By the 
 time that Suzanne was settled down with some pic-
 
 192 SUPPORT 
 
 tures and a packet of colored crayons, Constance had 
 forgotten the document which she had received, and 
 went to make the pudding for dinner, with her mind 
 absorbed in some trifling plan for Suzanne's amuse- 
 ment. As she stirred the beaten egg-whites into the 
 hot custard, she thought, "What was it that made 
 me feel depressed, a while ago?" The remembrance 
 of the official paper came sharply, but she parried it 
 with the thought, "Nothing has really changed. 
 This is only a formality." She did not permit her- 
 self to lapse into misery. "I ought to be thankful 
 that it has come, and that I'm myself again," she 
 said, and went on making the pudding. 
 
 "Do you remember how we always went to some- 
 body's house for Sunday night supper?" said Alison 
 Sharland, as he was taking leave of Constance at the 
 door. 
 
 "Yes. That was one of our happiest customs," 
 she answered. "We always seemed to be a little 
 more subdued and sensible at that time. We used to 
 have some really intelligent discussions." 
 
 "I believe we did about marriage and religion 
 and politics, even; but our most savage wranglings 
 usually ended in harmony over the good things to 
 eat." 
 
 "Won't you come over for Sunday night supper, 
 sometime?" asked Constance.
 
 SUPPORT 193 
 
 "I'd like to, immensely." Sharland's clean-shaven 
 face had a boyish look in the dim light. 
 
 "Shall we say next Sunday?" 
 
 "Yes, that would be fine. I haven't any engage- 
 ment." 
 
 "I'll expect you, then, about half-past six." 
 
 "I'll be here," said Sharland. "Would it be too 
 much trouble to have waffles? I remember how good 
 your mother's used to be." 
 
 "We'll manage. It's no trouble." 
 
 Constance said good-night with new exhilaration. 
 One of the charms of the past was to be renewed. 
 There was an intimacy about the Sunday night sup- 
 per with her family that boded well for her friend- 
 ship with Alison. She told her mother, who in turn 
 communicated the information to Rose. 
 
 On Sunday morning, Constance said in a business- 
 like way, "We must plan about supper. I think I'll 
 polish some of the silver, instead of going to church. 
 Let's see there'll be five of us, I think." 
 
 "Six," said Rose, putting the salt-shakers on the 
 sideboard. 
 
 "Oh, no; five." Constance counted : "Mother and 
 father and you and Alison and myself." 
 
 "And Herman," said Rose. 
 
 "Herman Who?" For a moment it seemed to 
 Constance that she had simply never heard of any 
 Herman. 
 
 "Schelling," Rose replied. 
 
 "Why what he isn't going to be here," asserted 
 Constance blankly.
 
 194 SUPPORT 
 
 "I asked him, and he said he'd come," Rose re- 
 torted with an assumption of coolness. 
 
 "Good heavens!" Constance stood aghast, furi- 
 ously angry, rage rushing hotly through her veins. 
 The calm insolence of Rose moved her to baffled 
 and surging wrath. 
 
 "I don't see what's so shocking about that." Rose 
 met her sister's eyes with a level stare. 
 
 "Why, Rose, I think that's hateful of you," Con- 
 stance burst out, her voice trembling. "To do a 
 thing like that without without " 
 
 "Without consulting you. Now, why haven't I a 
 right to invite someone here if I want to?" queried 
 the girl. 
 
 "I suppose you have," admitted Constance. "But, 
 Rose " 
 
 "Well, what? Haven't I just as good a right to 
 invite Herman Schelling as you have to ask Alison 
 Sharland?" 
 
 "Perhaps." Constance's voice stuck in her throat. 
 "I don't know just what the right consists of. 
 But " 
 
 Rose made no answer. Constance turned away 
 and went into the kitchen, where her mother was 
 putting away the food left from breakfast. "Mother, 
 what do you think?" Constance began. 
 
 At her daughter's tone, Mrs. Fenton turned an 
 apprehensive glance toward the speaker. "What is 
 it?" she asked timidly. 
 
 "Rose has invited that man Schelling here for
 
 SUPPORT 195 
 
 supper to-night," said Constance with grim distinct- 
 ness. 
 
 "To-night? Why, I thought you'd invited Allie 
 Sharland," Mrs. Fenton returned in bewilderment. 
 
 "I did, mother. And she's invited Schelling, and 
 they'll both be here." 
 
 "Oh, no !" The look on Mrs. Fenton's face showed 
 how serious the contretemps appeared to her. 
 
 "Yes. It's so hateful of Rose. She just did it 
 purposely to hurt our feelings, and to to set Alison 
 against us." Constance could not keep her lips 
 from quivering. 
 
 "Perhaps it was just thoughtless," Mrs. Fenton 
 began feebly. 
 
 "You know it was deliberate, mother. Can't you 
 do something?" 
 
 "What can I do, Connie?" Mrs. Fenton answered 
 in distress. "You know how Rose is. Nobody has 
 ever been able to do anything with her." 
 
 "Well, mother," Constance replied, more harshly 
 than she intended, "when a girl grows up to be like 
 that so selfish and inconsiderate and headstrong 
 I think it must be her parents' fault. It must be 
 her bringing up. It can't be just accident or 
 nature." 
 
 "Why, Connie Fenton, how can you be so un- 
 kind?" Mrs. Fenton set down the dish of prunes 
 which she was holding, and fumbled for her hand- 
 kerchief. "You know we've tried and tried with 
 
 Rose to make her to to " She prepared to 
 
 dissolve into tears.
 
 196 SUPPORT 
 
 Constance was ready to condemn herself for 
 worrying her mother. "Never mind," she said. 
 "We'll have to make the best of it. Perhaps one of 
 them will be sick or break a leg, or something," she 
 added with hopeless humor. Inwardly she was ask- 
 ing herself, "Shall I telephone Alison not to come?" 
 The answer was, "No, I can't do that. It would be 
 too rude. Besides, I hate to be defeated by Rose. 
 That's probably what she wants. We'll simply have 
 to do the best we can, and let it go at that." 
 
 Nothing more was said during the day, but an air 
 of covered hostility prevailed when the two sisters 
 were in a room together. The preparations for the 
 supper devolved as usual upon Mrs. Fenton and 
 Constance. Rose was of small assistance in domestic 
 and culinary affairs. Constance had recovered from 
 her first flaming of wrath, but she could not stifle 
 her resentment at the insolence with which Rose had 
 treated her; nor could she restrain her fear of the 
 consequences. Her friendship with Alison Sharland 
 was in a delicate state of flux, she knew, where a sin- 
 gle incident, however small, might send it in one 
 direction or the other. Forcing upon him the per- 
 sonality of this crude German, contingently a mem- 
 ber of the Fenton family, would be a dangerous ex- 
 periment. Alison was proud and sensitive. The 
 opinion of the world counted largely with him ; and 
 his own standards of fitness counted, too. He placed 
 a high value on the taste and station of the 
 Sharlands. 
 
 The courage of Constance rose to the occasion.
 
 SUPPORT 197 
 
 She arranged the drawing-room so that it looked less 
 than usually ugly, with candles and shaded lights 
 and flowers. The square of Chinese embroidery 
 thrown across the piano was possible in the dimness 
 which softened the wall paper. The fire on the 
 hearth drew attention from the mantel, whence she 
 had removed the knickknacks, leaving only the old 
 gold-framed mirror, and a pair of candle-lamps with 
 dangling crystal fringe. In the dining-room, she 
 set out the best linen and silver, with more candles 
 and flowers. 
 
 The happiness was gone from the festivity. It 
 was now merely something to be endured. "Per- 
 haps it won't be so dreadful," she murmured. "Per- 
 haps we can carry it off. I hope father won't be too 
 difficult." Mrs. Fenton had told her husband as 
 cautiously as she could that "Rose's man" was going 
 to be there. Constance had not known how he had 
 accepted the news, but she could imagine. 
 
 Alison was the first to come. He used the three 
 light rings which had been a clan signal in times 
 gone by. Constance went to the door to let him in. 
 As he took off his overcoat, he gazed at her warmly, 
 searchingly. "You look just as you did then," he 
 said in a low voice. She knew that he meant to tell 
 her that she was still young, still alluring; that the 
 affection of an earlier day was being restored. She 
 smiled back at him. Even in her worry she could 
 thrill to the hints which his manner implied. The 
 sense of comfort, of being at home, with which he 
 walked into the drawing-room and sat down gave
 
 198 SUPPORT 
 
 her both assurance and alarm. His geniality was 
 unusual. She was nervous, dreading a change in his 
 manner. She pulled at her handkerchief, talking of 
 the snow, his mother's health, waffles, maple syrup, 
 real and "near." 
 
 The door-bell rang again, with loud insistent 
 whir, as of a heavy finger held hard upon it. Shar- 
 land looked at Constance inquiringly. "There's to 
 be another guest," she said. Sharland made no 
 reply, but fixed his eyes curiously upon the door. 
 There were voices in the hall. Constance talked on, 
 with meaningless iteration. Rose came into the 
 room, and Schelling followed. 
 
 Sharland got up with his impeccable politeness, 
 and shook hands with Rose ; then stood stiffly, staring 
 at the other man. Constance, watching him while 
 she performed the introduction, saw him grow stark, 
 and freeze. Schelling was taken aback by the pres- 
 ence of Sharland, clearly unexpected. It was as if a 
 cold wind had passed over the four. They sat or 
 stood in constrained attitudes. Nobody could think 
 of anything to say. Mrs. Fenton came in, handsome 
 and harassed, with a graciousness which long years 
 of fretting had not erased. There was a slight re- 
 laxation in the group, and they began talking of 
 trivial things; but all were conscious of the awk- 
 wardness of Schelling, the contemptuous proud 
 silences of Sharland. 
 
 It was harrowing, Constance conceded. But 
 worse was to come when they went into the dining- 
 room. Mr. Fenton joined them in the hall, shaking
 
 SUPPORT 199 
 
 hands cordially with Sharland, and contriving not to 
 see Schelling at all. The old man obstinately looked 
 away from the German and ignored him. "Well, 
 Alison," he remarked with conspicuous heartiness, 
 "you're getting more like your father. A fine man, 
 a fine man ; reliable ; good as gold. Good old Ameri- 
 can stock, he came from. That's what we want in 
 this country: good old American stock." He took 
 up his fork and attacked his plate of food. Con- 
 stance could see that his hand was trembling, and 
 knew that for once he was oblivious of what he ate. 
 
 Rose, her high color accented by rouge, was chat- 
 ting vivaciously with Schelling, laughing more than 
 was necessary. Schelling crumbled his bread, clear- 
 ing his throat, and saying, "Yes, yes ; that's it, that's 
 it," helplessly, at each of her sallies. Mrs. Fenton, 
 behind the silver teapot, lapsed into a crushed 
 silence, studying the faces of the five others. 
 
 A sudden hard hush fell upon them a spiritual 
 blankness, which suggested nothing to be said. 
 It was as if they saw one another with relent- 
 less clarity of vision, and read one another's 
 thoughts: Constance, wounded, apprehensive; 
 Sharland haughty and resentful; Mrs. Fenton be- 
 wildered, weakly protesting; the old man bitterly 
 angry; Schelling awkward but self-satisfied and de- 
 termined; Rose hysterical, defiant, recklessly enjoy- 
 ing the misery which she had created. 
 
 The talk began again. Constance felt about des- 
 perately for subjects: the college play, a popular 
 novel, the decline in prices, the new sewer project.
 
 200 SUPPORT 
 
 Mr.Fenton addressed Sharland, in oratorical phrases. 
 Mrs. Fenton put in a vague remark now and then, 
 under the impression that she was helping. Rose 
 chattered and said nothing. Schelling launched into 
 a story of an automobile speeder and a policeman. 
 His grammar weakened and collapsed. The taint of 
 the common in him seemed to smirch his most harm- 
 less attempts at social discourse. Sharland looked 
 at his plate. Constance smiled at the story, trying 
 to find a few words to emphasize the point of it, 
 where it was inaptly expressed. 
 
 When the waffles came on, there was a spasm of 
 heavy gaiety, but it died out, and the six people sat 
 eating in pleasureless constraint. "It might as 
 well . be sawdust and syrup," thought Constance 
 sardonically. 
 
 Back in the drawing-room, matters were unim- 
 proved. Constance could have shrieked with joy 
 when Sharland looked at his watch and said that he 
 had to see somebody, a man from out of town, who 
 was going on the eight-forty. "I have to see him on 
 business," he explained. 
 
 "We're so sorry," she managed to say. "We 
 thought you could stay longer." 
 
 "I'm sorry, too." 
 
 She went to the hall with him, after his good 
 night to the others. "Thanks for the waffles. They 
 were delicious," he said. 
 
 "Come in and have some more, sometime," she 
 replied. Her heart was leaden. 
 
 "I will," he answered, settling the collar of his
 
 SUPPORT 201 
 
 coat. He opened the door. "I believe it's snowing 
 again. Well, good night. It was good of you 
 to ask me." 
 
 His fingers touched hers. His tone was formal, his 
 handshake cool. 
 
 "Good night." She stood rigid, her furious anger 
 at Rose surging up again within her. The door 
 closed. She could not go back to the parlor, but 
 slipped away to the dining-rom, forcing back her 
 tears. It would only elate Rose to see her crying. 
 She began picking up the dishes and taking them to 
 the kitchen. Her mother came out presently, and 
 tied on an apron over her silk dress. "Where's 
 father?" asked Constance. 
 
 "In the study," said Mrs. Fenton briefly. 
 
 So Rose had succeeded in driving them all out. 
 The two women went on with their work, saying 
 nothing, their faces sober, drawn with the emotions 
 which they restrained. Constance washed the 
 dishes, and Mrs. Fenton wiped, both conscious of 
 the murmur of talk and the continued bursts of 
 laughter in the drawing-room. Constance, her care- 
 ful hands busy with cups and glasses, felt that she 
 could willingly smash the dishes against the wall, 
 and trample the pieces under her feet. Seldom had 
 she been so angry. "But of course I'll get over it 
 and go on, the same as ever," she assured herself. 
 "In your own family you struggle along with the peo- 
 ple who treat you badly. You can't eliminate them, 
 as you can outsiders." She refused to let her mind 
 dwell upon Sharland. "He will have to do as he
 
 202 SUPPORT 
 
 thinks best," she thought dully. She lingered over 
 the work, to make it last as long as possible. She 
 shrank from going upstairs. But when all was done, 
 and the kitchen reduced to shining order, the talk 
 and laughter in the drawing-room continued. 
 
 As she passed the drawing-room door, she heard 
 the voice of Rose, suddenly low, saying, "Not now, 
 Herman," in a tone of putting off a too-familiar 
 approach; and Herman's (it was a rather agreeable 
 voice) replying doggedly, "Well you will sometime." 
 
 Quivering, Constance went on upstairs. It was 
 all so incredible, so sickening, that she had no emo- 
 tion left for it. Poor Rose ! Poor foolish, contrary- 
 minded, bewitched little girl! There was no know- 
 ing what she would do now. The family must be 
 prepared for the worst, thought Constance as she 
 climbed the stairs. The ache of her own fear and 
 uncertainty was overmastered by her terror as to 
 what was to become of Rose. 
 
 6 
 
 As she had predicted, there was no redress for the 
 discord of the evening. Rose made pretense that 
 nothing had occurred. The others shrank from 
 bringing on an argument, a round of recrimination. 
 Rose was out at her classes and elsewhere (Constance 
 did not inquire), and Constance herself went out 
 more to distract herself from her forebodings. She 
 recounted the episode of the supper to Sally Rath- 
 von, touching it as lightly as she could. Sally looked
 
 SUPPORT 203 
 
 grave. "It's the first time she has really forced him 
 on the family, isn't it?" she asked. 
 
 "Yes," Constance replied. "Heretofore, she's 
 merely had him in the drawing-room, and gone out 
 with him. This is the most aggressive thing that 
 she has done. I hate to think " 
 
 "It seems unbelievable," answered Sally. "But 
 girls do act absolutely insane sometimes. It ap- 
 pears to be a form of self-mesmerism. Of course, 
 Rose has always been difficult." 
 
 "Yes, terribly," Constance agreed. 
 
 "I remember how hard she used to make things 
 for you and your mother, when I used to go there so 
 much. She used to have tantrums and obstinate 
 streaks, and be rude and insolent, just to annoy and 
 horrify someone. Do you remember that time that 
 your Aunt Claudia was there, and you all wanted 
 everything to be so nice, and then how Rose acted?" 
 
 "Oh, do I?" Constance groaned at the recollec- 
 tion. "Some of that was so awful that it was funny. 
 But this is serious, Sally deadly serious." 
 
 "It is. It's all of that." Sally bit her lip, looking 
 almost as distressed as Constance. 
 
 "I don't know why she should be so strange and 
 dreadful," the elder sister lamented. "If it were in 
 a novel, people would say it was impossible." 
 
 "It's getting less and less impossible," Sally re- 
 turned. "Do you realize that all over this country, 
 this family tragedy is going on the old American 
 family being invaded by foreigners, people of a dif- 
 ferent class and background and consciousness, who
 
 204 SUPPORT 
 
 pride themselves on breaking in where it would seem 
 that they couldn't go? Why, even my own case was 
 something like that. Grif's people were Welsh farm- 
 ers chapel-goers; you can see it in him" Con- 
 stance nodded "and my family didn't like it very 
 well when I married him." 
 
 "Well, of course, he was educated, and when you 
 come right down to it, he was of the same British 
 stock as ourselves." If Rose wanted to marry some- 
 one like Griffith Rathvon, Constance thought, it 
 would be unpleasant, but not objectionable. She 
 had never expected to find herself defending the 
 Welsh professor who had, so undeservedly, it 
 seemed, carried off her closest friend. "It's when the 
 race is different and the man himself is undesirable 
 that it hurts. And there's the question of religion, 
 too, though Rose isn't interested in religion. Really, 
 Sally, it's enough to drive us all mad." 
 
 "Nonsense," retorted Sally briskly. "Nothing 
 may ever come of it. I imagine that Rose has done 
 her worst now has played her naughtiest prank, as 
 it were, and is secretly ashamed of herself. I 
 shouldn't worry if I were you, Connie." 
 
 "I'm sorry I bothered you with this," Constance 
 apologized. She was glad that she had not said 
 anything about Alison Sharland. Sally was getting 
 near her time, and ought not to be badgered with 
 other people's perplexities.
 
 CHAPTER X 
 
 FOR nearly two weeks, Constance saw nothing of 
 Sharland, and heard only indirectly. "The Evening 
 News says that Allie Sharland is out of town," Mrs. 
 Fenton remarked. 
 
 "Our supper was too much for him," commented 
 Mrs. Moffatt. "Where did he take his wounded feel- 
 ings to?" 
 
 "To North Dakota, it says." 
 
 "His uncle has a bank up there somewhere. He's 
 probably gone on business," said Constance. 
 
 "You haven't heard from him?" inquired Mrs. 
 Fenton. 
 
 "No." Constance felt a shade of humiliation in 
 confessing that Alison had not written to her. He 
 might have sent a note or a card or something. But 
 he was busy. He would call when he came back. 
 Alison was too punctilious, even in these inelegant 
 days, not to pay a call where he had been invited. 
 Constance had a cold sense of loss and deprivation 
 in his absence. She had not realized how much her 
 quiet evenings with him had meant. She suffered 
 for the lack of companionship, especially since a dis- 
 tance now seemed to intervene between her and 
 Rose. Constance took occasion to go to some eve- 
 ning lectures at the college, to the theater with 
 
 205
 
 206 SUPPORT 
 
 Mary Foster, and to the moving pictures, which she 
 disliked. One of Sally's friends invited her to a tea, 
 and she went, not hoping for much enjoyment. 
 Contrary to her expectation, she had an agreeable 
 time. 
 
 During this time, she thought a great deal about 
 Suzanne. The child had been coming once a week 
 sometimes more staying for the hours in which 
 Mrs. Greening was occupied with the washing or 
 cleaning. Constance invariably took charge of her, 
 and kept her in her own room. Nobody else paid 
 much attention to her. Constance bought toys and 
 invented games, and prepared food for the little girl, 
 taking a peculiar delight in every task involved. 
 She had taught the little one to call her "Mummy- 
 Constance," and she felt a thrill of pleasure every 
 time that the name was pronounced. In her heart 
 there was a growing but not fully recognized convic- 
 tion that the child must inevitably belong to her. 
 "My Suzanne," she found herself saying. "Whose 
 little girl are you?" she would whisper, hugging the 
 child. She experienced a mild chagrin when Su- 
 zanne answered "Auntie's," and a throb of exulta- 
 tion when the reply was, "Yours, Mummy-Con- 
 stance, yours." 
 
 Day by day, in her spiritual loneliness, keeping 
 her mind from Alison Sharland, she examined the 
 implications of her affection for Suzanne. And one 
 day the thoughts and feelings which had centered 
 round the child coalesced into the sudden cry, "I 
 must have her for my own!"
 
 SUPPORT 207 
 
 Later, she considered the case. Why did she de- 
 sire this child? She had never wanted children. In 
 her married life she had not felt the need which they 
 might have met. In the first few years, she was 
 happy with Frank, and he was, as she had been used 
 to say, her baby: all men are babies to their last 
 breath, she knew. She and Frank had not felt set- 
 tled. They had lived in Bridgeport for a year, then 
 in Yonkers, then in New York. While they were in 
 the city, she had tried to gain something from the 
 opportunities at hand. She had gone to art exhibits 
 and concerts and the opera and good plays ; she had 
 a strong liking for the theater, and had followed as 
 well as she could the modern movements for the bet- 
 terment of the stage. And then, in the last years, 
 there had been the growing separation between her 
 and Frank. She had not wanted children then, and 
 was thankful, as the division widened, that there 
 were no little ones to complicate the situation. At 
 the last, there had been the clean, complete separa- 
 tion, not the muddled half-detachment that comes 
 when children are involved. 
 
 Now here she was brooding over this child and 
 yearning for her not her own or Frank's, but the 
 offspring almost of strangers. The child's need was 
 great but hers was greater. It was not merely a 
 humanitarian impulse which moved her, though she 
 longed to see the child find its place in life. It was 
 not, she decided after reflection, merely the "mother 
 instinct" which the poets wrote about. That in- 
 stinct had in it, when all was said, a good deal of the
 
 208 SUPPORT 
 
 fierce and primitive lust of possession. Hers was a 
 simple, human craving for something close and sweet 
 and real, more sacred than the accidental and con- 
 ventional relationships. Her relation to Wilbur, for 
 instance, was purely accidental, and she cared for 
 Wilbur nothing at all. How much she cared for her 
 father and mother, she could not say: one could 
 never be really honest on such a question. Rose she 
 loved, but Rose was difficult, offish, perhaps entirely 
 alienated. There remained this child a relic, in a 
 way, of her own girlhood. This was a creature to 
 whom she could give the best she had, her affection, 
 her honesty, her wisdom, her spiritual achievement. 
 a thing which she could construct, not mechani- 
 cally, but livingly, lovingly, forcefully. Her heart 
 warmed, her soul expanded with the thought. This 
 was no mere whim, no petulant impulse, no selfish 
 caprice. It was the best of her, seeking encourage- 
 ment and expression. Nobody should take it away 
 from her. She would bide her time, crouch in silent 
 waiting. Nobody should avert the hard necessity 
 which impelled her. 
 
 She not infrequently slipped away in the late after- 
 noon or early evening and went to Mrs. Greening's 
 little house in West Thompson Street. One even- 
 ing she found herself saying impulsively, after the 
 little girl had been put to bed, "Mrs. Greening, if 
 it's possible for me to arrange it, will you let me 
 have Suzanne?"
 
 SUPPORT 209 
 
 Mrs. Greening was picking up the child's clothes 
 from a chair. She stopped with a petticoat in her 
 hands. "Why, Miss Constance, I hardly know what 
 to say." The woman's brow was troubled. "You 
 surprise me so!" 
 
 "Think it over a little, then." The voice of the 
 other was thick with emotion. She had a great fear 
 lest she should be refused. Her hands shook under 
 the folds of the cape which she was putting on. 
 
 "I don't know." Mrs. Greening stood transfixed. 
 
 "Think it over," Constance repeated. "You don't 
 need to answer now. You might let me know some 
 other time." 
 
 Mrs. Greening picked up the rest of Suzanne's 
 clothes and hung them behind the stove. At last 
 she looked at her visitor, her eyes suffused. "I don't 
 know as I'd really have to think it over," she said. 
 "I'd like to have you have her. I shouldn't wonder 
 if I'd kind of had it away back in my mind, all along. 
 I don't know as I was surprised, though I felt so at 
 first." 
 
 "Then you will?" Constance took a step forward, 
 clasping her hands. 
 
 "Yes, yes, of course I will. I know you'll be good 
 to her, and love her, and do for her." 
 
 "I can't do much now, but later I can, I'm sure." 
 Constance glowed hopefully. She was trembling 
 with relief and apprehension. It was a big thing to 
 do to take a little child like that, and be respon- 
 sible for its future. She sat down. "My affairs are 
 unsettled just at present," she said. "I don't know
 
 210 SUPPORT 
 
 exactly what I'm going to do. So I'd better not be 
 too hasty, though I want her the first minute that I 
 can have her." 
 
 "You aren't thinking of going away back to New 
 York, are you?" Mrs. Greening showed her dread of 
 being entirely separated from Suzanne. 
 
 "No, not that," Constance responded. "I'll have 
 to take her to my mother's home now. But I'll have 
 a place of my own, after a while. I feel sure of it." 
 
 "Your people won't care to have her," said Mrs. 
 Greening, stating a fact. 
 
 "No, probably not. They won't understand. I'm 
 I'm lonely, Mrs. Greening." Constance confessed 
 to this woman of hard tasks what she had not ad- 
 mitted to anyone else, not even Sally Rathvon. 
 
 "I know." Mrs. Greening did not express surprise 
 or even sympathy, but a sort of accepted comprehen- 
 sion. 
 
 "Then I really may have her?" It seemed al- 
 most too good to be true. 
 
 "Yes. It'll be hard for me to give her up." 
 
 "You have your own." Constance spoke in an ac- 
 cusing tone, as if she did not see why any one person 
 should have so much. 
 
 "Yes. I have my own." There was a pause, 
 while each woman dwelt on her individual thoughts. 
 Then "How soon?" said Mrs. Greening. 
 
 "Before long. I'll have to prepare my people." 
 Constance could not hide her eagerness. 
 
 "And I'll prepare Suzanne. I'll begin to tell her 
 that she's going with you. She'll understand."
 
 SUPPORT 211 
 
 "Do you think she ?" Constance was breath- 
 less. Perhaps Suzanne would not like going with 
 her, after all. It would be terrible if she hung back. 
 
 "I think she will." Mrs. Greening had a reassur- 
 ing air. "She loves you already." 
 
 "I hope so. I feel sure she does." Constance 
 went home walking on clouds. She could not bring 
 herself to face the opposition which she might meet 
 at home. She thought only of the child, the joy of 
 having her in the house, the delight of doing some- 
 thing for her, dressing her, teaching her, displaying, 
 protecting her. It would be sweet a consolation 
 for sufferings past, a defense against misfortunes to 
 come. 
 
 3 
 
 The next time that Suzanne was at the house, 
 Constance brought her to the lunch-table. Disap- 
 proval was expressed, but not voiced, by the other 
 members of the family. When Suzanne had gone 
 back to the kitchen, and Mr. Fenton and Rose had 
 withdrawn, Constance said to Mrs. Fenton abruptly, 
 "I want to take her, mother." 
 
 "You what?" Mrs. Fenton grew perceptibly 
 paler. She tightened her fingers on the napkin she 
 was folding. 
 
 "I want to take Suzanne," Constance returned 
 swiftly; "to keep her; to have her for my own." 
 
 Mrs. Fenton's face was eloquent of her horror. It 
 was as if she said aloud, "This is the last straw." 
 She did not reply, but made only an inarticulate 
 noise in her throat.
 
 212 SUPPORT 
 
 "Well?" said Constance with the undisguised 
 grimness of decision. She, too, was pale. 
 
 "Oh, Connie!" Mrs. Fenton's voice rose. "As if 
 we didn't have enough to worry about!" 
 
 "I'm sorry that you don't approve, mother," Con- 
 stance replied without agitation, "but I've thought 
 about this a good deal, and I have decided that I 
 have to have her." 
 
 "You mean bring her here?" Mrs. Fenton tried 
 to stifle her resentment. 
 
 "Yes, I suppose it would be that," Constance made 
 rejoinder. "I haven't any other place yet." 
 
 At the word yet, Mrs. Fenton cried out in conster- 
 nation, "You aren't going to leave us, are you, Con- 
 nie?" 
 
 "I may sometime. But not now," Constance as- 
 sured her. 
 
 "You may sometime, of course," said Mrs. Fenton 
 in a low voice. "You'll probably marry again. But 
 you won't go until then, will you? Please say you 
 won't." 
 
 "Mother," Constance paused before she answered, 
 "I don't know what I shall do. I feel very uncer- 
 tain, very confused. But I know that wherever I 
 am, I must have Suzanne. If you won't have her 
 here, I shall have to go elsewhere." 
 
 Mrs. Fenton rose and began walking about ner- 
 vously. "Oh, don't go, Connie," she said. "Per- 
 haps you'll be marrying again. And until you do 
 yes, you'll have to bring her here. It won't be so 
 bad. I don't care much. But it does seem as if
 
 SUPPORT 213 
 
 we have all we can look after your father " 
 
 Her voice broke. 
 
 "I'll try not to let Suzanne burden you too much," 
 said Constance. "But you see, I put in a good deal 
 of the money here, and I think I ought " 
 
 "I know, Connie. It's only right," Mrs. Fenton 
 answered. "And yet I don't understand just why 
 you want her." 
 
 "Never mind about that," said Constance as cheer- 
 fully as she could. "Let's try it, and if it doesn't 
 work out, there will be something else some other 
 way." 
 
 "You mean " 
 
 "I'm not outlining." 
 
 "Has Mrs. Greening consented?" asked Mrs. Fen- 
 ton hoping that there might still be some stumbling- 
 block in the way of her daughter's project. 
 
 "Yes. It's all settled. But I'm not going to bring 
 Suzanne here right away; not until I've made some 
 other decisions." 
 
 "Perhaps you'll change your mind." Mrs. Fenton 
 could still be hopeful. 
 
 "Not likely," said Constance. She could not ex- 
 plain to her mother her feeling about Suzanne. 
 
 Rose received the news philosophically. "It's 
 your own business, Connie," she said. "I don't 
 blame you a bit. One has to have somebody. But 
 it does seem " 
 
 "I have to live my own life." Constance spoke 
 almost in a whisper. 
 
 "That's true." Rose regarded her curiously.
 
 214 SUPPORT 
 
 "Nobody else can say what you ought to do." Con- 
 stance felt rebuked by the charitable attitude of 
 Rose, who had suffered so much condemnation. "If 
 you think Suzanne will make you happier, by all 
 means have her here or anywhere else." Her tone 
 implied that Constance might find the child a bur- 
 den. "Are you going to adopt her?" 
 
 "Eventually, I suppose. I haven't decided every- 
 thing." 
 
 "Well, go to it, Con." Rose yawned and reached 
 for a book. "Anything that you want to do suits 
 me. I know enough about life to see that it's a 
 puzzle, at the best." 
 
 Constance felt that Rose's nonchalance was largely 
 assumed, but she was grateful not to have active op- 
 position from her sister. She dreaded hearing what 
 Wilbur would say. As yet Mr. Fenton had not been 
 informed. He would object, of course ; but what he 
 thought would not really count. 
 
 In the meantime, other things were happening. 
 "You're wanted on the 'phone, Connie," said Mrs. 
 Fenton one morning after breakfast. 
 
 Constance went to the telephone. The City Su- 
 perintendent of Schools was calling her. He was a 
 new man, in his first year in Blanchard. "Mrs. 
 Moffatt," he said courteously, "someone spoke to 
 me about you. I wondered whether you would come 
 on our list as a substitute teacher?"
 
 SUPPORT 215 
 
 "Why, I don't know." Constance was surprised 
 and confused. She hardly knew how to take the 
 suggestion, though it gave her an offer of employ- 
 ment, such as she had told herself she ardently de- 
 sired. 
 
 "It's difficult to get really good people for substi- 
 tutes," said the voice on the wire. 
 
 "I'm not sure that I'm a really good person," said 
 Constance with a deprecatory laugh. 
 
 "Hm. Well, you've had some experience, I be- 
 lieve. You were in the system for a year or so, 
 weren't you, some time ago?" 
 
 "Yes. I taught in the schools here in Blanchard for 
 a little over a year," Constance replied. She was 
 rapidly considering the possibilities of this offer. It 
 might mean exactly the right thing. She would not 
 be occupied all the time; yet she would be earning 
 something, making a beginning of independence. 
 
 "Won't you try it again?" the Superintendent was 
 saying. "Perhaps we could make some arrangement 
 with you." 
 
 "We ell, I might." Constance yielded reluct- 
 antly. She was afraid that she would not like teach- 
 ing; she distrusted her ability to succeed in it. Yet 
 the opportunity had offered. It seemed providen- 
 tial. It was only right to consider the position, at 
 least. 
 
 "Will you come down to my office to-day, and 
 talk about it?" 
 
 Yes, she would come. She hung up the receiver 
 with a feeling of fatality. "It's just what I didn't
 
 216 SUPPORT 
 
 want to do," she said to herself; "and it puts off my 
 taking Suzanne." She could not leave the child all 
 day, even occasionally, to add to Mrs. Fenton's af- 
 flictions. "But it's a start. It's doing something. 
 I'll try it." 
 
 She went to tell her mother. "It's dreadfully hard 
 work," said Mrs. Fenton. She made no secret of her 
 disapprobation. "You won't like it, Connie." 
 
 "Probably not," Constance agreed. "Nobody likes 
 hard work." 
 
 When Rose was told, she said, "I saw you coming 
 to it. You'll hate the work, I'm sure. But it's your 
 own business. I suppose you won't take Suzanne 
 now." 
 
 "Not right away," said Constance with hesitation. 
 
 Mr. Fenton scowled and shook his head, when 
 Constance broached the subject. "I don't think it's 
 right for you to be out away from your family all 
 day," he said, "when you could just as well stay at 
 home." 
 
 There was, on the whole, surprisingly little opposi- 
 tion. Constance began her work with timidity. 
 Suppose she shouldn't be able to do it? Suppose 
 she should be a failure? She summoned her pride 
 and her courage to her support. 
 
 It was, she secretly admitted, a satisfaction to be 
 out of the house, where gloom reigned so much of the 
 time. The schoolrooms to which she was called were 
 modern, well lighted, fairly well ventilated. Con- 
 stance found, to her satisfaction, that she got on ex- 
 cellently with the pupils. They behaved with de-
 
 SUPPORT 217 
 
 corum, and gave her little trouble. She did not 
 mind the work of looking up lessons, or even the 
 effort of taking hold of things on short notice, which 
 was one of the requirements of her situation. 
 Nevertheless, she had not been at the work for a 
 week until she began to suspect that it was not to 
 her taste. The money which she earned was more 
 than acceptable. It gave her a vivid pleasure as a 
 tangible result of her labors an evidence of her 
 economic value. She balanced her growing dislike 
 of the work against her joy in being a useful worker. 
 
 All the time, she was wondering about Alison 
 Sharland where he was, what he was doing and 
 thinking, how he felt toward her, whether he was 
 going to let Schelling cut him off from his friendship 
 with the Fentons, whether his pride would dominate 
 his sense and his affections. Then, on Saturday, he 
 called her on the telephone. "I've been out of 
 town," he said. His voice was hesitant, but he did 
 not make explanations. "May I come over this eve- 
 ning?" 
 
 "Of course," answered Constance. Her intuition 
 seemed to read the situation. He had resolved to 
 break off relations with the Fentons because their 
 association with Schelling annoyed and disgusted 
 him; but after ten days of thought he had decided 
 that Constance was not to be given up. Unwilling, 
 shamefaced, he was coming back to her. This return
 
 218 SUPPORT 
 
 was a higher tribute than mere continued allegiance. 
 He had tested his regard for her, and had found that 
 it demanded the humbling of his pride. 
 
 Now that she was out of the house during the 
 week, there were endless tasks to be done while she 
 was at home. She went from one to another with 
 her usual logical swiftness, and her mind kept pace 
 with her bodily activities. But the mental opera- 
 tions were not so well ordered as the physical. "It's 
 too bad," she thought, "that Suzanne can't come to 
 the house now that I'm teaching. I know she'll 
 miss me. Will she grow away from me? Must I 
 win her all over again? I must go often to Mrs. 
 Greening's, no matter how busy I am. What will 
 Alison think about my teaching? He won't like it. 
 I don't believe I'll keep at it very long, anyhow. 
 There must be something else that I can do. I 
 must give up my allowance from Frank. It's wrong 
 to take it. If I marry anybody, then I'll give it up, 
 and that will solve the problem. There will be 
 plenty of money. I'll probably have an allowance, 
 to do as I like with. I can give some to mother. 
 Oh, dear, it's awful, thinking about money all the 
 time ! My hands are getting red, with washing these 
 collars. Alison has such nice hands. I wonder what 
 Frank is doing? Will Mrs. Carmichael make him 
 happy happier than I did? Is there any reason 
 why I couldn't make some man happy? I wonder if 
 Rose will marry Herman Schelling? Whatever 
 happens, I must have Suzanne." 
 
 Thus her thoughts ran on. They were still going
 
 SUPPORT 219 
 
 at breakneck speed when Alison arrived that evening. 
 Rose had gone to the Orpheum with Schelling, and 
 the drawing-room was free. Constance had made up 
 her mind not to refer to past events or to Sharland's 
 absence. He told her briefly that he had been up hi 
 North Dakota on business. The cold was terrific 
 up there, he said. It was bad enough here, but up 
 there it was worse. He spoke of the isolation of the 
 farmers on the plains during the winter months, the 
 hardships of the frontier life. Constance listened, 
 studying his face. He looked thinner, she thought ; 
 troubled, perhaps. She could not see into his mind ; 
 she did not know what dwelt there of remembrance 
 or indecision. She had not forgotten the mystical 
 existence of Hilda Farrar. Living or dead, the girl 
 might still be a rival. Rival. That was a queer 
 word. She did not want Alison Sharland badly 
 enough to consider anyone a rival. She wanted 
 nothing, she assured herself, but a wholehearted 
 friendship. As to marriage, she had entertained the 
 idea, to be sure, but not seriously. 
 
 "I brought along some of Galsworthy's new plays." 
 He took a book from his pocket. "I didn't feel much 
 like talking, this evening. I'm a little depressed. I 
 thought it would be pleasant just to sit here; and 
 read," he added, after a pause, as if he had forgotten 
 the book. 
 
 "I'd like that, too," said Constance. Talking 
 might be awkward. She did not want a lot of ex- 
 planations and discussions. 
 
 "What have you been doing all this time?" asked
 
 220 SUPPORT 
 
 Sharland. All this time suggested a weariness in 
 the lapse. 
 
 "Working," Constance answered. Then she be- 
 thought herself. "Teaching," she said. 
 
 "Teaching?" He looked astonished. "Oh, tutor- 
 ing some cub on the Hill, I suppose." 
 
 "No. Teaching in the schools; substituting," she 
 persisted. "I've been at it every day." 
 
 "Not really?" He looked at her speculatively. 
 Was he wondering whether she had enough to live 
 on? "What are you doing that for?" he asked. 
 
 "I wanted to do something. It won't hurt me." 
 It was an inadequate explanation. 
 
 "No." He frowned. "But somehow, I like to 
 think of you as having leisure. You like to read, to 
 take things calmly, to be at home " 
 
 He was expressing his idea of a "lady" a married 
 lady, with a home of her own, Constance perceived. 
 She sighed involuntarily. "Yes. But it isn't my 
 own home." She had not meant to say so much. 
 
 "No," he said quickly. "I realize that." She 
 gathered that his mind had gone back to the Sunday 
 night supper. 
 
 She guessed that he wanted to ask her why she had 
 come back to a home that was not her own. Per- 
 haps, she thought swiftly, he might imagine that she 
 had come back on his account. She went warm all 
 over at the notion. She must dispose of it. "I I 
 was homesick," she said. "I wanted someone." 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 What a difficult, unresponsive person he was ! She
 
 SUPPORT 221 
 
 noted with alarm that she had made matters worse, 
 by saying that she wanted someone. "I mean," she 
 floundered, "that I wanted my own people. One 
 does sometimes," she supplemented, as if to say, 
 "No matter what they are like, one wants them." 
 
 "I understand." He exonerated her from the sus- 
 picion of seeking him. "Shall we read?" 
 
 All the time that he was reading, her thoughts 
 were not on the play. "I hope he doesn't think I 
 am appealing to his sympathies," she was saying. 
 "How difficult it is to keep on terms of mere friend- 
 ship with a man, and not say something awkward, 
 or say too much or too little." She began to wonder 
 whether there were so very much to him, after all; 
 whether his coldness were not the result of a defect 
 in character, rather than of reserye or self-control. 
 
 6 
 
 "You were right," Constance said to Rose one eve- 
 ning. "I don't believe that teaching is the right 
 sort of thing for me." 
 
 "I was sure it wasn't," Rose made answer. "You 
 can't fit yourself into that groove." 
 
 "I suppose I can't," said Constance. "The work 
 is dignified enough, and it's not so awfully hard 
 until it gets to be a routine. But it oppresses me. 
 I can't go on with it. It isn't fair to the school sys- 
 tem or to the children for me to keep at it, feeling 
 as I do." 
 
 "A great many women do go on with it, even feel- 
 ing as you do," Rose reminded her.
 
 222 SUPPORT 
 
 "Yes, but they haven't courage enough to stop." 
 
 "Or a check every month from a divorced hus- 
 band," jeered Rose. 
 
 "Or a check from a divorced husband," Constance 
 repeated. "That may make a difference." 
 
 "Wilbur says he wouldn't have a divorced woman 
 in his schools," came from Rose. 
 
 "Perhaps other people don't feel as Wilbur does," 
 Constance replied. 
 
 She hesitated to send in her resignation, lest she 
 should be considered erratic in giving up the work 
 so soon. But she was to repent her delay. She re- 
 ceived a note one afternoon, requesting her to go to 
 the office of the Superintendent. Wonderingly she 
 complied. The Superintendent, a thin, sandy-haired 
 man, sat at his desk and motioned her to a seat. 
 "School men never rise when a woman comes into the 
 room," she thought with distaste. 
 
 "Mrs. Moffatt," the man said, keeping his eyes 
 down, as he fiddled with a silver pencil, "some people 
 have er been making a little trouble about your 
 er appointment." 
 
 "Oh have they?" Constance was sincerely 
 amazed. She had not supposed that anyone was 
 concerned with her humble position. 
 
 "Yes. I may say " The Superintendent 
 
 looked out of the window. "The truth is, when you 
 applied for a place with us " 
 
 "You asked me," Constance interpolated. 
 
 He went on. "When you er talked with me 
 about the matter, I supposed I was under the im-
 
 SUPPORT 223 
 
 pression that you were a widow. Now there are 
 certain people it isn't necessary to name them, Mrs. 
 Moffatt who prefer not to have a woman teaching 
 here who is a ah you understand." 
 
 "Perfectly," said Constance, calmly. "A divorced 
 woman, you mean." 
 
 "Well yes. I may say that that is what I had in 
 mind. Ah it's merely as I may say ah a purely 
 practical issue. It's not any reflection on anybody's 
 well character. It's just that there are a good 
 many women who need positions, as it were, and 
 who haven't er any other resources than their own 
 efforts." 
 
 "I understand." Constance gazed thoughtfully 
 at the man in the swivel chair. He flushed and kept 
 his eyes averted. "Then it would simplify things if 
 I should resign?" 
 
 "I may say it probably would, Mrs. Moffatt," 
 he replied. "I'm so sorry a misunderstanding 
 most unfortunate." 
 
 "I'll do so at once." Constance rose to go. She 
 was saying to herself, "Now I can have Suzanne!" 
 She went out of the office deeply humiliated; and 
 yet she could not help rejoicing in her freedom. It 
 had not dawned upon her that anyone could object 
 to her acting as a substitute teacher in the public 
 schools; but now that she thought about it, she saw 
 that the schools were, in a manner, sacred. She tried 
 to be scrupulously fair. If she had a child like 
 Suzanne, for instance and she sent it to school, 
 should she be pleased to have it in the hands of a
 
 224 SUPPORT 
 
 divorcee? Probably not: that is, if she were a thor- 
 oughly conventional mother of a family, who went 
 regularly to church, and whose husband (also a 
 churchgoer) paid taxes to support the schools. No, 
 it was not surprising. And then, there was some- 
 thing in the "purely practical" issue, too, though she 
 knew that the Superintendent had made it an ex- 
 cuse. There were plenty of spinsters and widows 
 who had to earn a living. It did look greedy for 
 one who received money from a living (if alienated) 
 husband to reach out for the salary which might be 
 going to an unmarried woman. "He 'was under the 
 impression that I was a widow,' " she laughed. "The 
 joke was on him. Well, I'm glad I'm out of it, and 
 the method doesn't matter." 
 
 At first she only told them at home that she had 
 resigned. 
 
 "I'm glad you had sense enough," said Rose. 
 
 "The work was too hard," said Mrs. Fenton. 
 
 "Now you'll stay at home/' said her father. 
 
 Constance kept her own counsel. Her teaching 
 venture had failed, but it had done something for 
 her, at any rate. It had given her a glimpse of the 
 delight of earning money. It had deepened in her 
 mind the necessity of "going out" and working, and 
 claiming a reward for her endeavors. Without go- 
 ing more completely into the questions which were 
 involved, she ran over to Mrs. Greening's to ask that 
 Suzanne might come over the next morning and stay 
 all day.
 
 SUPPORT 225 
 
 Sally's baby was born on one of these January 
 days. Constance went over promptly, to see the 
 baby and its mother. Sally, vigorous and beaming, 
 lay back among pillows. Constance took her hand 
 and bent to kiss her. The eyes of both were brim- 
 ming. Sally passed her hand caressingly over her 
 friend's smooth cheek. "Connie, dear," she whis- 
 pered, "you ought to have had one of your own." 
 
 Constance did not answer. "I want one," she was 
 thinking. Again she envied Sally, but with a long- 
 ing which she knew was to be satisfied. 
 
 She kissed Sally again, on the forehead. She left 
 her offering, a hand-made dress for the baby, and 
 went to the next room, where the nurse displayed the 
 child a red, ancient-faced creature with a button 
 mouth. Gladys and Owen were staring at it, round- 
 eyed. 
 
 "It's awful funny," commented Gladys, wrin- 
 kling her nose. 
 
 "Awful funny," echoed Owen, a fat, black-eyed 
 young Welshman in miniature trousers and smock. 
 
 "It's going to be ours," Gladys triumphed, jump- 
 ing up and down. "Daddy says we can keep it." 
 
 "So obliging of Daddy," murmured Constance. 
 She was glad to have missed Griffith. "Then you 
 aren't going to let me have it?" 
 
 "I should say not!" returned Gladys indignantly. 
 
 "Say not," iterated Owen, mirroring his sister's 
 flash of the eyes.
 
 226 SUPPORT 
 
 "We want it," cried Gladys. The nurse smiled 
 faintly at her vehemence. "Can't you get one of 
 your own, Auntie Constance?" the child suggested. 
 "The doctor will bring you one. I'll bet you he 
 will!" 
 
 "I don't believe I'll have to ask him." Constance 
 spoke slowly, looking down into the eager face of the 
 little girl. "I know where I can get one. But she 
 won't be as tiny as this baby. She'll be almost as 
 big as Owen, here." 
 
 Gladys marveled. "When are you going to get 
 her?" she asked, with huge respect. 
 
 "Right away," glowed Constance. "Well not to- 
 day; but I shouldn't wonder if it would be to-mor- 
 row."
 
 CHAPTER XI 
 
 CONSTANCE was on her way to Mrs. Greening's in 
 West Thompson Street. Her heart was thumping, 
 and she had a sinking feeling which she could not 
 place nor define. She was conscious of the rash and 
 irrevocable in what she was doing; yet she could 
 refrain no longer from following her heart's desire. 
 She must have Suzanne, and she could not wait for 
 this consummation of her secret wish. She walked 
 swiftly, and then held herself back, when fear as- 
 sailed her lest she should not, after all, attain what 
 she was seeking. Now and then she stopped en- 
 tirely, her hand upon a convenient fence or gate- 
 post, stricken with sudden terror of what might 
 come and what might not. 
 
 At Mrs. Greening's house, she stood upon the nar- 
 row step, knocking, listening. Mrs. Greening came 
 to the door, peering out into the cold dusk. "It's I 
 Constance Moffatt," said the visitor. Then the 
 words came out impetuously. "May I have her now, 
 Mrs. Greening?" 
 
 The older woman, steadying herself in the door- 
 way, paused before she spoke. When her answer 
 came, it was quiet and self-possessed. "Are you sure 
 you want her now?" 
 
 227
 
 228 SUPPORT 
 
 "Yes, I'm sure. I'm not going to wait any longer," 
 said Constance. A curious trembling unnerved her. 
 She knew that her voice was hoarse and unnatural. 
 "She isn't asleep?" 
 
 "No. I was holding her," Mrs. Greening replied 
 slowly. She could not conceal her pain at the pros- 
 pect of losing the little girl. 
 
 "Has she had her supper?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Then she can go to bed immediately, when we 
 get home." Constance took refuge in unimportant 
 remarks. Her throat ached with the effort of speech. 
 
 "It's the best way. Then she can get a fresh 
 start in the morning. Come in." The two women 
 had been so absorbed in their thoughts that they had 
 not regarded the amenities. 
 
 Little Suzanne was in the kitchen with the older 
 of the two Greening children. They both stared 
 frankly. Suzanne came and took hold of Constance's 
 skirt, and rubbed her cheek against it. Constance 
 put her fingers against the child's cheek caressingly. 
 She allowed herself even now a tenderness of pos- 
 session, in spite of the solemnity of what she was 
 undertaking. "You're going with me, dear," she 
 said. 
 
 Suzanne looked up, startled. "Now?" she asked, 
 with trust and yet with shrinking. 
 
 "Yes, darling," Constance assured her. "You're 
 to get your coat and hood on, and come with me. 
 We're going home." 
 
 Suzanne was dubious. Tears came into her eyes.
 
 SUPPORT 229 
 
 She looked over at Mrs. Greening, and yet clung to 
 Constance. 
 
 "It's all right, dear." Mrs. Greening nodded 
 cheerfully. "You're going with Mummy-Constance, 
 and she'll let you sleep in her bed. You know how 
 nice that is." 
 
 Suzanne nodded, her small face wistful. She let 
 go of Constance's hand, and put up her arms. Con- 
 stance knelt and crushed the little girl in a quick 
 embrace. "Come on, now," she said in as matter-of- 
 fact a voice as her emotion would permit; "here's 
 your coat. Let's put it on quick." 
 
 The Greening boy stood open-mouthed. "Is Susie 
 going away?" he inquired. 
 
 "Yes, John, she's going with Mrs. Moffatt," his 
 mother explained. "You know I told you she might 
 go at any time." 
 
 "Uh-huh" John watched them sleepily, hardly 
 knowing whether to pity or envy Suzanne. 
 
 "You'll telephone for a taxicab, won't you?" said 
 Constance to Mrs. Greening. "There is some way of 
 getting one, isn't there?" 
 
 "Just two doors down, they let me use the 'phone." 
 Mrs. Greening threw a shawl over her head and went 
 out, while Constance put on Suzanne's wraps. Ty- 
 ing the hood, she stooped and gave the child a hasty 
 and breathless kiss. 
 
 Mrs. Greening came back. "It will be here in a 
 few minutes," she said. "I'll get her things." Her 
 hands were shaking as she brought out a shabby 
 suitcase, and the few garments and small belong-
 
 230 SUPPORT 
 
 ings which represented Suzanne's worldly effects. 
 "There are a few trinkets and photographs that I'll 
 give you later," she remarked, her eyes averted from 
 the child. "Honoria would want her to have them. 
 Here's the funny little bowl that she likes for her 
 bread and milk. It's one her mother had, you know. 
 You might take that along now." She wrapped the 
 bowl in paper and Constance took it clumsily, hold- 
 ing it under her arm. Her thoughts were all on 
 Suzanne. 
 
 The cab came to a noisy stop outside. Constance 
 held Suzanne up to kiss Mrs. Greening, and lower to 
 kiss John. She could not brook delay. She hurried 
 the little girl down the walk, and lifted her into the 
 taxicab. Mrs. Greening followed with the suitcase. 
 
 "Good night. Thank you thank you thank 
 you." Constance leaned out of the cab and pressed 
 the other woman's hand. 
 
 "Good night. Good night, Suzanne." 
 
 The door slammed; Constance was holding Su- 
 zanne close to her side in the darkness. "It's all 
 right, dearie," she whispered. "It's all right. You're 
 going with me." The child made a sound of 
 submission and content. Constance felt her own 
 mind a swirl of apprehension, defiance, exultation, 
 relief. No matter what happened now, she had Su- 
 zanne. There was that much gained, and it never 
 could be lost. 
 
 They reached the house. The child trotted be- 
 side her, while she carried the suitcase. In the 
 warm hall, she heard the voices of Rose and Schel-
 
 SUPPORT 231 
 
 ling from the drawing-room, and those of her father 
 and mother from the sitting-room. Her mother 
 came to the door. "Oh, it's you, Constance," she 
 said. 
 
 "Yes," Constance made reply, unmistakably jubi- 
 lant. "I've brought Suzanne." 
 
 Mrs. Fenton said nothing, but stood looking down 
 at the child. The dim hall light did not reveal the 
 older woman's feelings ; but there was that about her 
 pose which suggested an angry resignation. "I'll 
 take her right up to my room. She's sleepy, 
 I'm sure," said Constance. Still Mrs. Fenton did 
 not speak. The daughter repressed a sudden throb 
 of anguish at the cold welcome which the child her 
 child was receiving; but she spoke merrily to Su- 
 zanne as she helped her up the long stairs. Undress- 
 ing her and putting her to bed, she felt again, rising 
 in her breast, the defiance and tenderness which had 
 possessed her when she had taken the child from the 
 other home. 
 
 Suzanne went quietly to sleep, accepting with 
 weary satisfaction her new environment, to which 
 she had become partly accustomed. Constance sat 
 beside her on the bed, thinking, gathering the cour- 
 age which this venture of hers would inevitably de- 
 mand. Among her emotions, joy outweighed all the 
 others. 
 
 Constance had realized that it might be difficult 
 having the child in the house, but she had hardly
 
 232 SUPPORT 
 
 understood how difficult. There was an undercurrent 
 of antagonism, which made itself felt, although it 
 was not expressed in words. She tried to take upon 
 herself all the labor and care which the presence 
 of the child required, and to ask nothing of her 
 mother and Rose, except in some case of necessity. 
 Mr. Fenton paid no attention to the little thing, and 
 Suzanne regarded him with wary silence, and kept 
 scrupulously away from the study, where he im- 
 mured himself with newspapers and books. 
 
 For the next two days, Constance turned over in 
 her mind the various phases of her new problem. 
 So intent had she been on her desire to have the child 
 that she had not fully considered the effect which her 
 decision might have on her own destiny. She 
 thought now of Alison Sharland, and realized with a 
 sinking heart that he would be out of sympathy with 
 her rashness, and that her ownership of the child 
 would not by any means further his interest in her. 
 She had not told him of her intention, partly be- 
 cause she dreaded telling him, and partly because, 
 at the last, she had acted impulsively, without in- 
 forming anyone as to what she was going to do. 
 
 The next night after Suzanne's arrival, he came 
 to call. "We have a new member of the family," 
 she told him, as casually as she could. 
 
 "Have you? How's that?" he asked in reply. 
 
 "I've taken Suzanne," she said abruptly. He had, 
 of course, known of the existence of the little girl, 
 and her occasional short sojourns at the Fenton 
 home.
 
 SUPPORT 233 
 
 "Taken?" he repeated inquiringly. 
 
 "Brought her here for good; taken her for my 
 own," said Constance. Even in her nervousness, she 
 could not keep her pride out of her voice. 
 
 "Oh!" There was a blank perplexity and annoy- 
 ance in the man's face. After a pause he said, "Are 
 you going to adopt her?" 
 
 "Probably sometime," she answered; "when I've 
 worked it out." 
 
 "I I'm surprised." He seemed to be balancing 
 his words, Constance thought with impatience. Oh, 
 if he would come out with something hearty and en- 
 couraging, like "Bully for you!" or "You're a 
 trump!" She knew better now than to expect such 
 an outburst from Sharland. He was cool, judicial, 
 after his first show of disapproval. "Just why did 
 you want the child?" he asked. 
 
 "One can't analyze one's feelings completely," she 
 answered. "I wanted her because I'd grown to love 
 her, I suppose. And then well, I just wanted her." 
 
 "Ought you to won't she be something of a bur- 
 den?" he asked, looking narrowly at her. 
 
 "Possibly. I dare say she will." Constance as- 
 sumed a bravado to cover her hurt in Sharland's 
 lack of sympathy. "But I had to have her." She 
 made one more attempt to express her emotion. 
 "She seemed to belong to me." In her soul she was 
 saying, "Oh, won't you understand?" 
 
 Sharland met her eyes uncomprehendingly. 
 "How?" 
 
 "I knew her mother."
 
 234 SUPPORT 
 
 "Yes, she was one of those Blakes, that used to 
 live over on Clinton Street." There was a tinge of 
 contempt in his voice. To him, Honoria was only 
 one of "those Blakes"; to Constance she was inef- 
 fably more. 
 
 "I think it was right to take her," said Constance. 
 
 "Of course it's right for you to do what you want 
 to." She distinguished a suppressed irritation in his 
 manner. 
 
 "Do you think I'm foolish?" She knew she was 
 foolish to ask the question. 
 
 "It isn't for me to say." He spoke with reti- 
 cence. Coldness had come between them. 
 
 Constance had a suffocation at her heart. She 
 knew that she wanted her child and Sharland, too. 
 Yet if she couldn't have both, she told herself, she 
 would unquestioningly take the child. "It's true," 
 she repeated, almost aloud, so much did she need 
 convincing. 
 
 "It's your affair, of course," Sharland added. He 
 had an air of detachment, as if he wished to end the 
 conversation, and as if, also, he wished to make 
 clear to her that he was entirely uninvolved. She 
 must suffer the consequences of her own deeds. 
 She looked at him searchingly, as she had done be- 
 fore, studying his fine hands, his reserved, pale face, 
 now deliberately noncommittal. 
 
 She sank back in her chair. It was as if she had 
 reached out for something, and had found that it 
 eluded her hand. She turned away from her longing
 
 SUPPORT 235 
 
 for sympathy, to her own settled determination to 
 nourish and protect her child. 
 
 Sally, of course, approved and rejoiced. But Sally 
 was too much absorbed, at the moment, in her own 
 convalescence and her own renewed motherhood to 
 be of much value to Constance. 
 
 Wilbur wrote to his mother, "Tell Con that I think 
 she's the darnedest fool I ever heard of. If she 
 wanted children, why didn't she have some when she 
 had a chance? Eleanor says " Constance waved 
 away any further revelations. She knew pretty 
 well what Eleanor had said. She saw that the child- 
 less couple might with some justice feel resentment 
 at her own high-handed methods, and at her bold 
 acquirement of a child when they were denied that 
 solace. She put Wilbur and Eleanor out of her 
 mind. 
 
 It was during these days that she forced herself 
 to speak to Rose once more about Schelling. It 
 was not a propitions time, perhaps, now that Su- 
 zanne was in the house, but Constance felt that 
 one last protest should be made from someone in the 
 family. She reasoned that if the worst happened 
 she did not define what the worst might be Rose 
 could blame no one but herself, and could not say 
 that her family had not attempted her rescue. 
 Moreover, Constance cherished the forlorn hope that 
 Rose might be persuaded to give up her German 
 lover.
 
 236 SUPPORT 
 
 Constance had made a point of seeing Schelling 
 rarely; since the memorable Sunday night supper, 
 she had consistently avoided him. He came and 
 went, and she caught echoes of his presence in the 
 house, heard him talking in the hall, listened to her 
 father's muttered imprecations, her mother's sighs 
 and cries of worriment. But could not face the man 
 himself. She 'hated him for his hold on Rose, a 
 hold which could be accounted for only on the theory 
 that where men are concerned, women are imper- 
 vious to reason and common sense. 
 
 "Why do you like him, Rose?" she asked again one 
 afternoon, when Rose had come home from her 
 classes, and was dressing to go out. 
 
 Rose assumed the belligerent air which she in- 
 stinctively put on whenever Schelling was men- 
 tioned. "I answer you as I have answered before 
 did you ever hear me say that I did?" Her tone 
 was flippant and she kept her eyes from meeting 
 her sister's gaze. 
 
 "No, I can't stay that I ever have heard you say 
 that you cared for him. But I can't imagine why 
 you put up with a man like that unless you feel that 
 you can't get on without him unless you're in love, 
 I mean:" Constance felt that her last words on the 
 subject should be plain ones. "He's " She hesi- 
 tated. 
 
 "Well he's what?" Rose took down a whisk- 
 broom and began brushing her skirt. 
 
 "Common out and out common." Constance 
 compelled her tongue to bluntness. "And whatever
 
 SUPPORT 237 
 
 we are, we aren't that. And you aren't, Rose. 
 You're a girl of refinement. You like a different sort 
 of companionship. You're above such things," she 
 finished lamely. 
 
 Rose sulked. "Oh, Connie, you're getting proud 
 and finicky in your old age," she rejoined. "You've 
 got so fussy and conservative that you don't realize 
 that we're all human at least those of us that are 
 young." 
 
 Constance let the fling at her thirty years remain 
 unnoticed. "I think I do understand that," she said. 
 "But there is his family " 
 
 "Well, you don't see me going with his family, do 
 you?" retorted Rose. "Anyhow, what's the use of 
 being a snob?" 
 
 "It isn't just snobbishness." Constance answered 
 with all the patience that she could find. "It's a 
 decent regard for standards. The Schellings aren't 
 in our class. I don't mean socially, exactly. I 
 mean, they don't think as we do. They haven't our 
 outlook. They don't stand for the same thing. 
 They aren't old Americans." 
 
 "Constance, I know all that." Rose was also try- 
 ing to command a degree of patience. "I feel it just 
 as much as you do. But I can't bother with it. 
 What I mean is here's Herman : he's a real person ; 
 actual, that is, not hypothetical. He isn't refined, I 
 know. He isn't a Harvard graduate. But he gives 
 me a little of what I want diversion, admiration, 
 flattery, if you want to call it that. I can't go into 
 a lot of finespun arguments about him. I've got to
 
 238 SUPPORT 
 
 have a man's attention. I'm constituted in that 
 way. I can't bear to be treated as if I didn't count. 
 I can't have the kind of attention that I want, and 
 so I take what I can get. There was somebody that 
 I preferred I think you know that. I liked him 
 better than anyone else. But I put him off. I 
 couldn't make a good enough appearance; I didn't 
 have good enough clothes ; I hated his feeling that I 
 was poor. Oh, why go over it all?" she ended pas- 
 sionately. "I think we've covered this ground be- 
 fore." She threw down the brush and put the skirt 
 on, turning her back on Constance, who could see 
 that the girl was quivering with emotion. 
 
 "But Rose," the older sister began, beating back 
 her own grief and despair, "you mustn't be rash. It's 
 awfully hard to get away from a man when once 
 you've got entangled with him. You mustn't spoil 
 your life." 
 
 "I can't see that you're qualified to give so much 
 advice," Rose answered acridly. "I don't think 
 much of the man you're getting yourself involved 
 with. And I can't see that you've made such a 
 howling success " 
 
 "Oh!" Constance gave a cry of pain, so tortured 
 that Rose turned and stared at her. "Oh, Rose, 
 don't do that," she pleaded. "I may not have made 
 a success, but that's all the more reason why I want 
 you to do better. And I may have learned a little 
 wisdom." Had she? She wasn't sure, but she 
 would assume that she had. 
 
 Rose went over and put her hand on her sister's
 
 SUPPORT 239 
 
 shoulder. "Now see here, Connie," she said, not 
 without contrition, "you've driven me into saying 
 horrid things to you. I really don't mean to be so 
 savage, but you force me to be. I try to leave you 
 alone. Can't you do the same for me?" 
 
 Constance went downstairs with an aching heart. 
 She knew that she must give Rose up to her own 
 devices. There was no use in saying any more. 
 Thereafter Schelling's name was seldom mentioned 
 between them, and Rose went her way, regardless 
 of the hostility of her family. 
 
 Suzanne was slow in becoming acclimated to the 
 atmosphere of the Fenton home. She loved Con- 
 stance, and looked to her for care, amusement, and 
 consolation. Mr. Fenton she steered clear of, shying 
 away from him when he was near, and keeping out 
 of the room where he secluded himself. Rose she 
 made friends with in a tentative way. Rose did not 
 actually dislike the child ; she even petted her at 
 times, in a hurried, self-absorbed manner. It was 
 Mrs. Fenton that Suzanne most dreaded. She fixed 
 upon the older lady a silent stare which had in it no 
 condemnation, yet evinced a readiness to shrink if 
 there were signs of danger. 
 
 At all times the child was abnormally quiet, show- 
 ing the effects of the repression which had been 
 brought to bear upon her in the home in which Mrs. 
 Greening had been wont to leave her. This con- 
 straint had by no means been removed by her trans-
 
 240 SUPPORT 
 
 fer to the home of the Fentons. She would sit in 
 her little red rocking-chair, looking at the advertis- 
 ing pictures in the magazines, or scribbling on bits of 
 paper; or she would kneel on the floor, building a 
 tower with blocks and spools. Constance kept her 
 in her own room as much as she could. She made 
 and bought simple toys for her, told her stories, sang 
 to her, taught her to count, to button her clothes, to 
 repeat little verses, to chant tiny French nursery 
 songs. Suzanne expanded when she was with Con- 
 stance. She drooped in the presence of the others. 
 The foster mother was pained and baffled. But she 
 looked forward vaguely to a time when she could 
 establish a securer refuge for herself and the child. 
 
 It was a little thing which deepened and defined 
 her resolve. 
 
 Constance was in the kitchen, helping with the 
 dinner. Suzanne pulled at her dress. "Can I have 
 a drink, Mummy?" she begged. 
 
 "Of course, darling," said Constance. She filled 
 a glass hurriedly, set it on a chair, and went back 
 to the stove, where her immediate attention was 
 needed. Mrs. Fenton stood at the table, cutting 
 bread. Suzanne, never quite easy in her presence, 
 was staring at her while she reached for the glass. 
 The small fingers, not yet trained to steadiness, fum- 
 bled, slipped, and dropped the tumbler on the floor. 
 It splintered, flashing its fragments far and wide. 
 The water splashed over Suzanne's feet, and flooded 
 the floor around. 
 
 "Oh, dear!" Mrs. Fenton gave a cry of vexation.
 
 SUPPORT 241 
 
 "Suzanne! You shouldn't do such naughty things. 
 Bad girl!" 
 
 The child stood petrified, her eyes wide, her lips 
 apart. Then a shiver ran over her. Her mouth 
 twisted into a sob. Her shoulders shook. Constance 
 knelt swiftly, and took her in her arms. But it was 
 too late to reassure the quivering child. She clung 
 to Constance with heartbroken cries. "I'm not a bad 
 girl. Am I a bad girl?" she pleaded, gasping and 
 weeping. 
 
 "No, no! Of course you're not." Constance of- 
 fered passionate consoling. "Grandma doesn't think 
 you are. You're a good girl oh, such a good girl." 
 
 "I didn't mean to, Grandma," sobbed Suzanne, 
 looking up at the stern face of the older woman. 
 
 Mrs. Fenton was ashamed of her spiteful impulse. 
 "I don't suppose you did," she conceded, her with- 
 ered cheeks flushing. She tried to make her voice 
 ingratiating. "Don't cry, Suzanne. Never mind. 
 Don't cry," she said. 
 
 But Suzanne had gone off into a fit of crying which 
 it seemed impossible to stop. The nervousness and 
 fear with which she regarded Mrs. Fenton had her 
 in full possession. 
 
 "Mother, look after the chops." Constance took 
 Suzanne up in her arms, and cuddled her, wiping 
 away the tears, soothing her with endearments and 
 caresses. They were of no avail. Sobs came and 
 racked her as violently as ever. "Oh, my poor little 
 child, don't, don't do that," whispered Constance. 
 Suzanne pressed close to the woman's breast, and
 
 242 SUPPORT 
 
 wept with unchildlike bitterness. "I don't know 
 what to do with her," Constance mourned, looking 
 her reproach at her mother. 
 
 "I'm sorry," murmured Mrs. Fenton. "Who 
 would think a little thing like that would be so sensi- 
 tive?" 
 
 "It's all about a glass, too," said Constance, voic- 
 ing her scorn "a glass that doesn't amount to a 
 row of pins." 
 
 "It was one of my best ones." Mrs. Fenton jus- 
 tified herself with asperity. "It's one of the set 
 that Wilbur and Eleanor gave me for Christmas, 
 three years ago." 
 
 "Oh, well!" Constance checked herself. She 
 meant to say that no amount of value in Christmas 
 tumblers could make up for hurting a child's feel- 
 ings. She bent her face to Suzanne's and did not 
 finish. Mrs. Fenton turned the chops gloomily. 
 The water ran over the floor, the fragments of glass 
 sparkling here and there. "I'll take her upstairs." 
 Constance lifted the child and carried her to her own 
 room. She sat down on the edge of the bed, rocking 
 back and forth, crooning over the weeping child. 
 For a long tune, the crying continued unabated. 
 Then it grew fainter and ceased in quivers and sighs 
 of exhaustion. She wiped the little flushed face and 
 reddened eyes, whispering affectionate words. Her 
 arms ached, and her shoulders were strained with her 
 difficult position. 
 
 She was thinking, "The way in which I love this 
 child is beyond all reason, almost. At any rate, it
 
 SUPPORT 243 
 
 is beyond all change or retraction. She's mine. 
 I've taken her for better, for worse. I must, I must 
 have a phce where I can keep her and make her 
 happy." This was her problem now: to make a 
 home for herself and Suzanne. That was the pres- 
 ent end and aim of her existence. 
 
 Suzanne drowsed. Constance, unmindful of the 
 tasks awaiting her downstairs, sat dreaming over the 
 child. And yet, not dreaming, either. She had 
 never been more logical. "What I want for Suzanne 
 is individuality. That is the secret of a complete 
 life to be yourself, from childhood up; not to be 
 hampered, coerced, forced this way or that, made to 
 assume something that doesn't belong to you, to 
 appear what you are not. Most of us are borne; 
 most of us have no full complete, noble development 
 of what is latent in us. Suzanne must be herself, 
 an individual, developing freely and joyously into 
 the best that she can become." 
 
 Constance felt herself hardening into a resolution 
 which should lead to action. Her suffering in the 
 child's hurt was assuaged by her resolve. She un- 
 dressed the sleeping baby, and laid her warmly away 
 in bed, folding the blankets about her with the ten- 
 derness of the motherhood which was now hers. She 
 went downstairs to her belated dinner with a clearer 
 vision than she had had before of what she must do 
 in order to achieve any individual life for herself 
 and for the child whose destiny was interbound with 
 her own.
 
 244 SUPPORT 
 
 One afternoon, when Suzanne was taking her nap, 
 Constance went to talk over her decision with Sally. 
 She found her friend in a pink silk negligee and cap, 
 sitting beside the baby while it slept. She was 
 crocheting an afghan of soft white wool. Constance 
 slipped her arm about Sally's shoulders. "You've 
 made a splendid recovery," she said. 
 
 "Yes, I've done beautifully." Sally had a healthy 
 color, and her hands were firm at their work. "You 
 know I was perfectly well all along. The baby is 
 to be named Llewellyn, after all, Connie." She 
 looked up sidewise at her caller, the corners of her 
 eyes crinkling with humor. 
 
 "Oh, Sally, it isn't!" Constance was vexed with 
 Sally for giving in. Griffith had insisted on this im- 
 possible name, because it had belonged to a Welsh 
 grandfather. 
 
 "Yes, poor little dot. Does urns have to have an 
 awful old Welsh name?" Mrs. Rathvon put her 
 hand caressingly on the sleeping infant, whose face, 
 now properly pink, was cuddled against a lace- 
 trimmed pillow. "Llewellyn Townsend Rathvon. 
 It's terrible, isn't it?" 
 
 "I believe you like it," said Constance accusingly. 
 
 "I don't, exactly." Sally looked a bit guilty. 
 "But you see, Grif was set on it and I like to please 
 him. It was little enough to ask." 
 
 "Little enough!" Constance began with indigna-
 
 SUPPORT 245 
 
 tion. "After but what's the use? You'll bow 
 down to your Griffith till the end of time." 
 
 "One wants to live in harmony," answered Sally, 
 her eyes sober. "Giving up the little things is easy 
 enough." 
 
 "I'm afraid I didn't find it so," Constance sighed. 
 She seldom referred to her married life, lest she 
 should become the thing she dreaded a nuisance. 
 
 "Well, dear," cried Sally, with her usual anima- 
 tion, "sit down and tell me about yourself. How are 
 you coming out? I haven't heard much lately about 
 how things are going." 
 
 "It would be a relief not to have to hear, I sup- 
 pose," said Constance, still keeping her hand on 
 Sally's arm. "You've had about enough of me and 
 my troubles." 
 
 "No, I haven't." Sally's fingers went up to reach 
 for Constance's hand. "You're privileged to tell 
 them to me, Connie. I can't do much, but at least I 
 can listen and sympathize." 
 
 "Dear Sally." Constance returned the pressure 
 of the fingers clasping hers. 
 
 "I'm so glad you've really taken Suzanne." 
 Sally spoke in the practical tone which Constance 
 needed. "You'll never regret it. She'll be a com- 
 fort to you." 
 
 "I feel sure of it." Constance leaned over the 
 baby, smoothing the light blanket. "What a darling 
 'ittie bittie one!" She sat down. "But there's 
 something that I want to talk over with you, 
 Sally."
 
 246 SUPPORT 
 
 "What is it?" Mrs. Rathvon pulled out her 
 crocheting on her knee. 
 
 "I've decided that I can't live at home any longer." 
 Constance brought the words out with an effort, even 
 in the face of Sally's assured sympathy. 
 
 Sally did not look surprised. "I know," she said. 
 "I've wondered how long you would stand it. What 
 I mean is," she hurried to say, "that a mature woman 
 needs her own home, and after she's had one, she 
 can't live in another person's home no matter 
 what it is." 
 
 "I could have stood it, I think," Constance re- 
 plied, "if it weren't for Suzanne. It's different, now 
 that she's there or it's more unbearable." 
 
 "They don't want her," said Sally. 
 
 "They aren't very keen. It isn't that they have 
 anything in particular against her." Constance 
 went on. "It's just that they don't want me to 
 burden myself in that way, and they don't want a 
 child around the house." 
 
 Sally meditated, taking slow stitches in her white 
 wool. "I don't know that you can blame your 
 mother," she said. "She's brought up her own fam- 
 ily, and she's had a rather hard time of late years, 
 or thinks she has; and I suppose, too, that she is 
 afraid that Suzanne will subtract something from the 
 money that you would otherwise give to the family. 
 It takes something to support a child." 
 
 "Yes. It does." Constance slapped the palm of 
 her hand nervously with her gloves. "Nobody real-
 
 SUPPORT 247 
 
 izes that better than I do. But I have a right to 
 my child. Don't you think I have?" 
 
 "You don't need to ask." Sally looked toward the 
 crib, where her own child was sleeping. After a 
 pause she said, "So you think you'll take Suzanne 
 and go?" 
 
 "I haven't said that," Constance corrected her. 
 
 "But isn't that what you meant?" 
 
 "It probably is. But I haven't got to the end of 
 what I wanted to talk over. I can't stay at home; 
 and I can't go on taking money from Frank, either. 
 I can't be dependent on him any longer." 
 
 "Do your two decisions go together?" Sally 
 raised her eyebrows inquiringly. 
 
 "I don't know." Constance's tone was dogged. 
 "In one way they do. They're both declarations of 
 independence. But of course you mean, can I start 
 out for a home of my own without Frank's money? 
 I was coming to that. I must get something to do, 
 so that I can earn my living." 
 
 Sally was thoughtful. "Of course you can earn 
 your living, Connie, at some sort of job. But can 
 you earn enough to keep yourself and Suzanne in a 
 dignified way, and still contribute to the support of 
 your father and mother as I know you want to do?" 
 
 Constance groaned, though she permitted herself 
 to laugh, too, at the exact statement of her problem. 
 "It's absurd to think that I could go out and earn 
 as much as Frank is sending me. I couldn't no 
 matter what sort of job I could get; I mean, with 
 my preparation and training. It takes years to
 
 248 SUPPORT 
 
 work up into a profession; and anything that would 
 bring an immediate return would be inadequate." 
 
 Sally nodded. "You're not used to scrimping, 
 Connie." 
 
 "Perhaps not. But I could scrimp if I had to. 
 I could get along on a little. Of course, I'd want 
 Suzanne to have what she needed." 
 
 "That's just it," Sally confirmed her remark. 
 "One hates to deny anything to one's children." 
 
 Constance got up and walked about the room, 
 stopping to lean over the child in the crib. "I feel 
 that I've got to come to a definite decision," she said. 
 "I can't dally along. I must tell Frank's lawyer that 
 I don't want the money any more." 
 
 "He'll think you're going to marry again," said 
 Sally significantly. "How about it, Connie? Have 
 you taken that into consideration?" 
 
 "No," Constance rejoined. "I can't very well. I 
 feel that I have to act alone. If it turns out that 
 I marry again all well and good. But I can't count 
 on it, and I can't delay while I'm waiting for it." 
 
 "How does Alison feel about your taking Su- 
 zanne?" asked Sally, with apparent irrelevance. 
 
 Constance grew crimson. She had not meant to 
 draw Sharland into the discussion. She turned to 
 the window to hide her face from her friend. "He 
 doesn't like it," she said unwillingly. "Did you 
 think he would?" 
 
 "From what I know of him no, I shouldn't think 
 he would," Sally answered. Her tone suggested that 
 she might say a good deal more.
 
 SUPPORT 249 
 
 "Well, to return to my prospects of earning 
 money," said Constance, "I've gone over every- 
 thing, I think. Teaching: I don't like it, and they 
 don't want me here. Stenography: I'd have to take 
 a lot of time to learn, and then it wouldn't pay very 
 well. Office work of any kind: There isn't much 
 opportunity here, and it doesn't pay, either, unless 
 one works up. There's my needlework, which you 
 think so highly of," she continued, "but I can't see 
 how I could live on it, much less support anyone 
 else." 
 
 Mrs. Rathvon bit her lip, thinking. "It would be 
 precarious. And yet " She waited for Constance 
 to formulate her declaration. 
 
 "And yet I'm going to give up my allowance, 
 just the same." 
 
 "It's rash," warned Sally. There was an exult- 
 ant light in her eye. 
 
 "I know it. It's rash. That's why I must do it." 
 Constance set her teeth. 
 
 "You mean you're willing to make it hard," said 
 SaUy. 
 
 "Yes. I don't ask that it should be made easy." 
 
 "It won't be," prophesied Sally, with a grim look 
 on her plump, unlined face. "I glory in your cour- 
 age, Connie." 
 
 Constance sat down limply. "You haven't seen 
 me take my stand yet," she said. "Talk is easy 
 but action is something different." 
 
 "You'll come out all right." Sally was crochet- 
 ing swiftly now. She was ostentatiously cheerful.
 
 250 SUPPORT 
 
 "You have a little money ahead, haven't you, dear?" 
 "A little." Constance did not like to say that 
 Wilbur had it. "I could get along on it for a while 
 if I had to." 
 
 "That's good." Sally's face expressed approval. 
 "Keep your courage up. I'm sure you'll manage 
 somehow." 
 
 Constance began buttoning her coat. "I must go 
 home," she said. "Suzanne will be waking up, and 
 I hate to ask mother to look after her. I feel clari- 
 fied, my dear Sally. I think I'll manage." She 
 kissed her friend, and went out into the cold with a 
 feeling that there were good things ahead, and that 
 she could find them. 
 
 6 
 
 That evening, after she had put Suzanne to bed, 
 she went out, with some library books under her arm. 
 In reality, she was going to the telegraph office. She 
 sent a night message to Frank's lawyer in New York : 
 
 Tell Mr. Moffatt I do not wish any more money. 
 
 She thriftily reduced her words to ten. "I'll have 
 to be careful, now," she said. She went home, buoy- 
 ant as on the night that she had taken Suzanne. 
 One always feels so, she reflected, when one has made 
 a decision after long vacillation. She knew that she 
 was, in all likelihood, preparing for herself the hard- 
 est struggle she had ever had to meet; yet she was 
 hopeful, animated, almost gay. She knew that she
 
 SUPPORT 251 
 
 might have to cut her expenditures down to a nig- 
 gardly limit, live narrowly and cheaply and selfishly, 
 without ease or scope. But she knew she could da 
 all that without complaining, if only she achieved 
 her spiritual freedom. Much harder to bear would 
 be the assailings of criticism and condemnation from 
 those who thought that they could order her life with 
 more wisdom and foresight than she could herself. 
 
 That was one point of defense : Had they done so 
 well and wisely that they could afford to say what 
 she should do? (She remembered that Rose had 
 used this same defense.) 
 
 There was her father : He had acted indiscreetly, 
 in tunes past, been involved in an unpleasant affair 
 with a woman an affair which had been hastily 
 hushed up. He had had a good business and had 
 made a little money, but had bungled it at the last, 
 lost his prosperity, yielded to the suggestions of old 
 age, given up his endeavors, and settled down to in- 
 activity and semi-dependence. He had not endeared 
 himself to his family, or acquired any vital friend- 
 ships. He certainly was not happy, nor did he con- 
 tribute much to the happiness of others. 
 
 Her mother, a good woman in her way, had mud- 
 dled along through a difficult life, without making 
 a conspicuous success of her career as a wife and 
 mother. In her present state of fear and confusion, 
 she was not a fair judge of the conduct of others. 
 
 Wilbur was not, either in character or financial 
 attainments, a model for the world. As the Super- 
 intendent of Schools in a small Middle-Western
 
 252 SUPPORT 
 
 town, he was entitled to only a modest degree of 
 reverence. Constance refused to let her mind rest 
 upon Eleanor, who was, perhaps, not sufficiently a 
 member of the family to count. 
 
 Rose was too young to judge, yet she was now in a 
 fair way to ruin her own life through sheer perver- 
 sity. 
 
 No. Her family, Constance was well convinced, 
 had not done any better than she had. Their par- 
 ticular blunders had not been hers, but they had 
 proved their capacity for plenty of their own. So 
 far as she could see, they were not endowed with 
 any supernatural wisdom which would justify them 
 in regulating her behavior in life. She would have 
 to make her own decisions and abide by them, enjoy 
 or suffer regardless of what other people thought or 
 said. She would have to express her own individu- 
 ality, make her own success or failure, live according 
 to her own judgment, whether right or wrong. 
 
 The first thing was to decide on some way of earn- 
 ing money, and go into it immediately. The next 
 was to get back her few hundreds from Wilbur, and 
 use the money to tide her over, until she had estab- 
 lished herself in some position whence the necessi- 
 ties of life should come. In the meantime, she would 
 refrain from publishing the fact that she had repu- 
 diated the income which afforded to her family a 
 minimum of comfort and security.
 
 CHAPTER XII 
 
 CONSTANCE was walking along one of the main 
 streets in Blanchard, her mind concentrated on the 
 questions which she must inevitably settle. She was 
 conscious that she was frowning, that her face was 
 contracted into unsightly lines. She stopped in 
 front of a window, to catch her own reflection, loos- 
 ening the hard wrinkles in her forehead and around 
 her mouth. Then she glanced at the articles in the 
 window before which she was standing. It belonged 
 to a china store the only one in Blanchard. The 
 dishes were huddled on the window shelf as if there 
 had been an attempt to bring everything possible 
 into the public eye. Piles of plates, cups, platters, 
 tureens, goblets, and yellow kitchen bowls were dis- 
 played together. "That isn't right," said Constance 
 to herself. "If they'd crowd things less put in a 
 few things and show those off they'd have a more 
 interesting window and attract more customers." 
 
 She walked on, glancing into the windows which 
 she passed. "I'd like to have a shop," she said half- 
 aloud. "I should, really. I should love it. What 
 kind of shop?" she asked herself. "Why, obviously, 
 an 'art shop' a 'gift shop.' I've always wanted 
 
 253
 
 254 SUPPORT 
 
 one. Always. I've been mad to have one and 
 why shouldn't I?" 
 
 She stopped short in the street, excited, breathing 
 hard. "I believe that's the solution," she said. 
 
 People were looking at her. She pretended to be 
 searching for something in her handbag, and went on. 
 "Other women have done it," she told herself. 
 "They have succeeded. Why shouldn't I succeed?" 
 She hurried with her errands. She wanted to get 
 home and think. At home, she found callers Mrs. 
 Clarges and Mrs. Crow. She was glad to see them, 
 but she could not keep her mind on what they were 
 saying. A gift shop that was the thing. There 
 wasn't any in Blanchard not a real one. The book 
 store had a few calendars, book ends, desk fittings, 
 pen trays, and such things. The department stores 
 had "art" departments. But there was need of a 
 really good little shop, with a lot of attractive things 
 in it, moderately priced. She must be the one to 
 start it. She was suddenly in a panic lest someone 
 else should be devising the same thing, and should 
 get in ahead of her. She was uneasy on the sofa 
 where she was chatting with the visitors. She loved 
 Mrs. Clarges, and wished to do her honor, but the 
 idea of the shop was a winning rival to the stout, 
 kindly lady in the big chair. "I've got to telephone 
 Sally," Constance was thinking. As soon as the 
 callers had gone, she rushed out to the Public Li- 
 brary, where there was a public telephone. She did 
 not w-nt to use the home telephone, lest her family 
 should hear what she was saying.
 
 SUPPORT 255 
 
 "Oh, Sally!" she gasped, when she had brought 
 Mrs. Rathvon to the telephone. 
 
 "What is it, dear?" asked Sally. 
 
 "I've got the idea I know what I'm going to do." 
 
 "What, what?" answered Sally. "Owen, don't 
 pull my dress like that. Excuse me, Connie. Owen 
 was bothering me. What's your idea?" 
 
 "I'm going to have an art shop a gift shop," cried 
 Constance, eager to hear what Sally thought of the 
 project. 
 
 "A gift shop." Sally considered. "Well, it sounds 
 fine. I believe it's a right idea, Constance. There 
 isn't a real one here, and with all the students " 
 
 "Yes, that's what I thought," Constance broke in 
 eagerly, her words tumbling over each other. "If I 
 had it along in between Deacon Street and Sharland 
 Avenue, I'd catch the student trade and the town 
 trade, too. There's a big enough population who 
 like nice things to support a shop, isn't there? I'm 
 surprised that it hasn't been tried before." 
 
 "It has, really," said Sally. "You weren't here. 
 A Miss McGeehan or something started one, but she 
 had it away over on Thompson Street, in the lower 
 story of a house, and her things were too high- 
 priced, and then she got sick and had to give it up. 
 That was about a year ago." 
 
 "I didn't know," replied Constance. "Well, it's 
 time someone tried again. But of course it's getting 
 a little late in the year." 
 
 "I don't think that makes any difference," Sally 
 made answer. "I mean there is a good deal of the
 
 256 SUPPORT 
 
 college year left yet, and then there are the summer 
 school students nearly as many as in the rest of 
 the year, and they have more money, as a rule ; and 
 then there are the resorters that come from the 
 South. They would buy things. And then there's 
 the regular town trade, for weddings and birthdays 
 and holidays; and the people who pick up things 
 that they like when they see them. I believe you're 
 on the right track, Connie. But how about the 
 financial side? Have you money enough to begin 
 with?" 
 
 "I think I have enough. That is, I let someone 
 take it, but I can get it back." Constance hoped she 
 could. "It's enough to make a beginning, I feel 
 sure." 
 
 "That's fine," cried Sally heartily. "You want to 
 get at it, right away. Owen, don't pull so. The 
 sooner the better." 
 
 "Yes, I know. Oh, Sally! I'm so excited!" 
 
 "So am I. Owen, you drive me distracted." Mrs. 
 Rathvon's voice became muffled as she turned to 
 admonish her son. 
 
 "Well, good-by," said Constance, not wishing to 
 hold her friend any longer at the telephone. "I'll 
 let you know later how I get on with it." 
 
 "Yes, don't keep me in suspense." 
 
 Constance hurried back to the house, to give Su- 
 zanne her supper. Her thoughts were full of her 
 new plan. She was troubled about the little girl. 
 "But I think I could have her with me most of the 
 time," she assured herself.
 
 SUPPORT 257 
 
 At dinner Rose said, "What makes you look so 
 queer, Connie?" 
 
 "Nothing," the older sister responded. "I just 
 had an idea, that's all." 
 
 "Have one again, sometime," Rose teased her. 
 "It's becoming." Constance felt that her eyes were 
 bright and her cheeks red with the emotions which 
 her project had aroused. She could not sleep that 
 night for thinking. She held her arm around Su- 
 zanne, and lay awake, planning, fearing, exulting. 
 She thought how she had always loved looking in at 
 the windows of "little shops" in New York, around 
 the Forties; and how she had studied the wares at 
 Ovington's and Vantine's and Wanamaker's Au Qua- 
 trieme ; and explored all sorts of holes and corners in 
 Greenwich Village; and rummaged in antique shops 
 in dozens of New England towns. She had read 
 numberless books on old furniture and china and sil- 
 ver and fabrics and laces ; and had followed the new 
 movements in craft work and the reestablishment of 
 old hand industries. She had spent hours at the 
 Metropolitan Museum, verifying knowledge acquired 
 in books, and comparing details, hall-marks, and re- 
 condite symbols indicative of age and periods. She 
 knew good things when she saw them. She knew 
 colors and lines and money values. She realized 
 triumphantly that for the last six years she had been 
 getting ready for this very business which she was 
 now proposing the turning over of beautiful and 
 distinctive wares, through which she could express
 
 258 SUPPORT 
 
 what she knew and loved. Here was an outlet for 
 her vitality, her education, and her industry. 
 
 "I'll put in my needlework, too," she decided. "I'll 
 have to work hard to get anything done in the be- 
 tween-times. But, oh ! I want to work hard. It will 
 keep my mind off myself, and just leave enough for 
 Suzanne." 
 
 In the morning, leaving Suzanne at Sally's, with 
 Gladys and Owen, she went out to find her place. 
 She discovered it before long a little empty one- 
 story building, a relic of the earlier days, crowded in 
 between a grocery store and a moving-picture thea- 
 ter. The signs of a departing tenant were still in the 
 window. The world was informed that Samuel 
 Sokoloff, Tailor, had moved to a more impressive 
 address. A fresh For Rent sign hung above this 
 announcement. The shop was unattractive in ap- 
 pearance. It needed paint, clean windows, a bright- 
 ness showing through the glass. But it would un- 
 questionably do. The rent would not be large. 
 Peering in, Constance saw that it was heated by a 
 coal-stove, now not functioning. An arched door- 
 way revealed an inner room of good dimensions, 
 with a high back window letting in sunshine and a 
 glimpse of an ice-encrusted tree. Again she had a 
 moment of panic lest someone should snatch her 
 treasure from her. She forced herself to think. 
 She must not be precipitate. Too much depended
 
 SUPPORT 259 
 
 on her judgment. She must above all things be 
 cautious. 
 
 The moving-picture house was propitious. People 
 standing in line for a performance would have her 
 windows within their view. But there was more to 
 be taken into consideration. She had read some- 
 where that before deciding on a place of business, 
 you should count the people who went by it within 
 a given time, and thus calculate your prospects of 
 trade. The idea was not a bad one. She stationed 
 herself at the entrance of the grocery store, as if she 
 were waiting for someone, and counted. The toll 
 was surprising. She crossed the street to a car- 
 station, and watched for a long time, still counting. 
 The sort of people who passed were college students, 
 many of them obviously the offspring of prosperous 
 fathers in up-state towns; and townspeople who 
 were of the kind who would have money hi their 
 purses. Blanchard was a city of homes, where there 
 were few persons actually poor. Still forcing her- 
 self to caution, Constance went back to Sally's and 
 brought Suzanne home for lunch. 
 
 "Any luck?" asked Sally at the door. 
 
 "I think so." Constance was not ready to pro- 
 claim a decision. In the afternoon, she went down 
 again, and was again impressed with the result of 
 her counting. "I couldn't do better. I know that," 
 she said. "I mean, for what the price is likely to be, 
 and for my small beginning." She walked over to 
 the shop, and tried the door. It opened, and the 
 owner of the place came out from the next room,
 
 260 SUPPORT 
 
 where he had been "straightening up," after the de- 
 parture of the tailor. There were shallow shelves 
 and a cupboard along the sides of the front room; 
 and the back room had a sink in the corner, with 
 faucets for running water. 
 
 The proprietor was an old man whom she remem- 
 bered having seen in her previous years in Blan- 
 chard, though she did not know who he was. "The 
 shop isn't rented yet, is it?" she asked him. 
 
 He took off his hat, disclosing a bald head. "No, 
 not yet," he replied, and put his hat back on again, 
 for the room was cold. 
 
 "How much do you want for it?" Constance her- 
 self was rejoicing that nobody had snatched the 
 place away from her. 
 
 "Thirty-five dollars," he said, staring. 
 
 The sum seemed paltry, after New York rents. 
 "That's without heat?" she inquired, wondering 
 whether she appeared business-like, or whether she 
 revealed her inexperience. 
 
 "Yes. The tenant furnishes his own coal." The 
 old man thrust his hands into his pockets, still 
 staring. 
 
 "I'll take it," said Constance. In her mind, she 
 saw the place warm and clean, with fresh paint, gay 
 chintz curtains, and a profusion of fascinating ob- 
 jects dull and bright. "It's cheap enough," she was 
 repeating mentally. 
 
 "You mean you yourself?" The old man sur- 
 veyed her modish clothing and smart hat, with a 
 mystified air. "What do you want it for?" he asked.
 
 SUPPORT 261 
 
 "A shop," Constance answered with assurance, 
 though she had a wild fear that he was going to 
 refuse to rent to her. "A gift shop. Ill take it for 
 six months, if you'll let it go for that length of 
 time." 
 
 "I'd rather rent it for a year," said the owner eva- 
 sively. 
 
 "I'll pay a month's rent in advance, of course," 
 said Constance. "And I'll sign a lease and give you 
 all sorts of references." She pulled her check-book 
 out of her bag. "I'll give you an advance payment 
 now if you like." 
 
 The old man put up his hand. "Wait, wait," he 
 said. "Not so fast, my dear young lady. You'll 
 want to look at the lease first." With maddening 
 deliberation he got a battered leather bag from the 
 other room, and took out some papers, sorting out 
 a long folded sheet, which he held out before him at 
 arm's length, peering at it over his glasses. Con- 
 stance stood first on one foot and then on the other. 
 "What kind of a shop did you say you was going to 
 have?" he asked again. 
 
 "A gift shop little things for presents, you 
 know." It didn't sound as substantial as "A tailor 
 shop" or "A butcher shop" would have sounded, she 
 had to admit. 
 
 He looked puzzled. "Well, I hope it isn't some 
 wild new-fangled scheme," he said doubtfully. "It 
 sounds odd." 
 
 "You'll get your rent," Constance promised him. 
 "If you don't, you can sue me, you know."
 
 262 SUPPORT 
 
 "Suing isn't much good," he mumbled. "You're 
 probably all right, but I don't like renting to 
 women." 
 
 "Women have to have their chance," Mrs. Moffatt 
 returned. "And anyhow, everybody knows us here 
 all the old families, I mean. I'm Mr. Fred Fen- 
 ton's daughter." 
 
 The old man took off his hat again. "Oh ! Fred 
 Fen ton's daughter! Is that so? Well, well. Mr. 
 Fenton used to have an insurance business in the 
 Redfield Building. Lived here a long time. I guess 
 you're all right." He put the lease into her hands 
 to read. 
 
 "Do you want to look up some references? Call 
 up Professor Clarges at the college he's known me 
 for years. Or call up Mr. Foster, of the Foster 
 Hardware Company or " 
 
 The man interrupted her. "Oh, no! it's all right, 
 I guess. Here, you look over the lease, and I'll fill 
 it in, and you can pay me a month's rent. The truth 
 is, I want to get shut of this business, so's my wife 
 and I can start out on a visit to our oldest son, down 
 in Saint Louie. She's got her trunk all packed, and 
 we'd 'a' got off before this, if it hadn't been for 
 rentin' this place, and one or two other little things 
 I've got to attend to. I own seven buildings around 
 in this district, and this little place don't amount to 
 much, but I like to have it bringing in something." 
 
 Constance was trying to read the terms of the 
 lease. The words meant little to her, and her ex- 
 perience with leases for Tsew York apartments had
 
 SUPPORT 263 
 
 convinced her that the advantage was always on the 
 landlord's side, anyhow. After some argument, Mr. 
 Lubbock agreed to share the expense of the painting, 
 and to see that the two rooms were thoroughly 
 cleaned. Constance wrote out her check for the 
 first month's rent, and the lease was filled out and 
 signed. When it came to a question of a witness, 
 Constance, after some hesitation, decided to take the 
 document over to Mr. Foster, Mary Foster's father, 
 in the office of the Hardware Company, and ask him 
 to vouch for her signature; which he did with a 
 quizzical air, as of one who humors a pretty woman 
 in a foolish procedure. 
 
 As she tucked her copy of the lease into her muff, 
 it occurred to her that every business venture is a 
 drama, a thrilling one to the principal in the play. 
 She went to see a painter and to order coal, with a 
 feeling of vast importance. What she was under- 
 taking was a small affair, judged by most standards, 
 but to her, it involved not only her actual support, 
 but the prosperity and comfort of others, and her 
 own peace of mind and independence. She could 
 not resist calling Sally on the telephone, to share her 
 jubilation in the beginnings of her commercial ac- 
 tivity. Also she bought materials for some needle- 
 work, and began making a lunch-cloth with cro- 
 cheted corners, and a cross-stitched tray cloth, as 
 samples of what the public might expect to discover 
 in her miracle-working shop. She did not take her 
 family into her confidence, postponing their com- 
 ments till she felt surer of herself, and till the details
 
 264 SUPPORT 
 
 of her financial backing should have been worked 
 out. 
 
 She called Wilbur up on the long distance tele- 
 phone, and asked if she might see him. He was at 
 first alarmed, lest some accident had happened at 
 home, but became difficult when he discovered that 
 no catastrophe had caused her eagerness to consult 
 him. "Why can't you tell me over the 'phone?" he 
 demanded with impatience. 
 
 "Because I want to talk to you privately," she 
 said. 
 
 "I can't think what about," he grumbled. She 
 suspected that he could think if he wanted to. At 
 last he consented to come down from Caryville on a 
 train which arrived at four-eight. He could go back 
 on the four-thirty-two, he said, and not leave 
 Eleanor very long alone. She was not feeling extra 
 well. 
 
 Constance had to take Suzanne with her to the 
 station, because Mrs. Fenton was too tired to look 
 after her, and Rose was going out. When Wilbur 
 got off the train, he gave an astonished look at the 
 little girl in her pretty blue coat (which Constance 
 had made over from an old one of Rose's), her white 
 tippet and white "kitty" hood. 
 
 "Well, Con," he exclaimed, "I'd forgotten for a 
 minute that you had a little girl. Some youngster, 
 eh?" He shook hands with his sister and patted 
 the cheek of the child, who looked up at him shyly,
 
 SUPPORT 265 
 
 ready to smile. Wilbur sincerely liked children, and 
 in spite of everything, he had "a way" with them. 
 "This is your Uncle Wilbur," he said. "Did you 
 know you had an Uncle Wilbur?" Suzanne nodded 
 happily. Constance had tried to impress Suzanne 
 with an idea of belonging to the Fentons by rela- 
 tionship. "She is a nice little thing, isn't she?" the 
 man went on, over the child's head. Constance 
 thought he looked at Suzanne wistfully. "Wish we 
 had one." His face clouded. 
 
 "I'm glad I had the courage to take her," Con- 
 stance returned. 
 
 "It was reckless of you," Wilbur said with his 
 condemnatory air. He hesitated. His better self 
 gained the ascendancy. "But I'm sort of glad you 
 did," he added in an undertone. 
 
 "I think she'll always be a comfort to me," Con- 
 stance replied. "You know I'm alone now, 
 Wilbur." 
 
 Wilbur made a gesture which indicated compre- 
 hension with disapprobation. They had been mov- 
 ing toward the waiting room of the station, and now 
 found seats in a warm corner, near one of the huge 
 gilded radiators. Constance loosened Suzanne's 
 coat, and gave her a picture book which she had 
 brought. Wilbur looked at the clock over the ticket 
 office. "We haven't much time," he said. "My 
 train was a few minutes late. What do you want 
 to talk to me about, Connie?" He had now as- 
 sumed his benevolent air, which, on the whole, Con-
 
 266 SUPPORT 
 
 stance thought, was more dangerous than the con- 
 demnatory. 
 
 Constance found it difficult to begin. "I've been 
 thinking " she began. 
 
 "Don't think too much." Wilbur was trying to 
 be humorous. "It isn't safe." 
 
 "Well, I have been thinking," Constance re- 
 sponded. "I couldn't help it about that money, 
 you know." 
 
 "Hm," said Wilbur suspiciously. "What about 
 it?" 
 
 "I I'd like to have it back, Wilbur," Constance 
 brought out with a timidity entirely without reason. 
 
 Wilbur made himself look thunderstruck. "Have 
 it back!" he cried. "Why, I've only had it a month 
 or two." 
 
 "Four months," Constance corrected him. "I 
 think it's more, as a matter of fact." 
 
 "Say four months, then. When anyone lends 
 money, he doesn't expect to snatch it back in a few 
 months. Why, it's preposterous. What's eating 
 you now?" he asked jocularly. He loved to use 
 slang, lest anyone should think him pedagogic and 
 pedantic. 
 
 "I've thought of a way to use it," Constance ex- 
 plained. She did not want to tell too much, for she 
 knew that Wilbur would be discouraging. Yet why 
 did she feel like a domestic servant asking a favor? 
 
 "What kind of a way?" Wilbur inquired. He took 
 a pencil out of his pocket and tapped the radiator 
 with it.
 
 SUPPORT 267 
 
 Constance shivered nervously. "I'd like to go into 
 business for myself." She put her hand over on 
 Suzanne's shoulder. The little girl looked up and 
 smiled wonderingly, and then went back to her book. 
 
 "Good heavens!" Wilbur appeared to be over- 
 come by amazement. He struggled to speak, hia 
 eyes protruding. He was wearing round-lensed horn- 
 rimmed glasses. "Business for yourself!" he gasped. 
 "Then I certainly sha'n't give it back. You'd lose 
 it in two weeks. What kind of a business?" It 
 seemed hardly worth while to ask. 
 
 "I don't know that there's any use in my telling, 
 if I'm not to have a chance to try it." There were 
 tears in the woman's eyes. She was frightened but 
 self -con trolled. 
 
 "You needn't be so close-mouthed," retorted Wil- 
 bur. "You might tell your own brother." 
 
 "No, I'd rather not." 
 
 "Well, if I can't find out anything about it, I don't 
 see why I should trouble myself," said Wilbur. "It's 
 my privilege, my duty as a brother, to see that you 
 don't do anything foolish with your money." 
 
 He was staring solemnly. "Does he take himself 
 seriously?" Constance asked herself. "It doesn't 
 seem possible. There's no knowing. People do." 
 She sighed. 
 
 "You needn't sigh like that." Wilbur used a tone 
 of resentment. 
 
 She did not explain her sigh. "Well, how about 
 it?" She tried to be brisk and business-like. "Will 
 you get me the money?"
 
 268 SUPPORT 
 
 "Absolutely not. I'm not going to be a party 
 to your losing what little you have," he made reply. 
 "Besides, it's tied up. I've paid it down on the 
 house. I told you that was what I wanted it for." 
 He frowned with impatience at the absurdity of 
 women. 
 
 She turned her face away, baffled. But she had 
 to make another attempt. "Isn't there some way 
 that you can get the money?" she said at last. 
 "Can't you borrow it from someone else?" 
 
 "No," Wilbur rejoined shortly. He was getting 
 tired of the discussion. "I've used up all my credit 
 and security hi scraping together the money for the 
 house. I can't borrow another cent." 
 
 "You won't try?" 
 
 "I should say not. Absolutively." Wilbur liked 
 would-be-humorous perversions of words. 
 
 Constance got up and studied some railway 
 placards on the wall. She was blinking to keep back 
 her tears, at the same time reproaching herself for a 
 chicken-hearted business woman. A man didn't cry 
 when he found difficulty in raising cash for his 
 ventures. 
 
 Wilbur rose and stood beside her. "Now, see here, 
 Connie," he said. "I want to do what's best for you. 
 It isn't myself I'm considering. You're getting six 
 per cent on your money. That's a reasonable re- 
 turn." Of course no interest had been paid as yet. 
 "You'd be very unwise to take any larger risks. 
 Now, go home and settle down, that's a good girl, 
 and don't indulge in a lot of dreams about getting
 
 SUPPORT 269 
 
 rich quick." He patted her on the arm. "I must 
 get my ticket." 
 
 He went over to the window and secured his 
 ticket. Constance leaned over Suzanne and talked 
 to her about the station, and the trains that took 
 people a long, long way. Wilbur came back. He 
 looked troubled and suspicious. "What is all this 
 about, anyway?" he queried. "You haven't gone 
 and done anything foolish about your alimony, have 
 you?" 
 
 "No. Not anything foolish." Constance took 
 pleasure in being enigmatic. She had a wicked 
 gleam in her eye. 
 
 "You've done something," Wilbur accused her. 
 "I can feel it. Why should you want the money if 
 you hadn't?" 
 
 "I said I wanted the money to go into business," 
 she returned. "The other doesn't much more than 
 support us, there at home, you know." 
 
 "You'd be insane to give it up." Wilbur glanced 
 at the clock. "My train'll be here in a minute. I 
 don't know," he said slowly, unwilling to make his 
 admission, "but what you'd do just as well to marry 
 again, Connie. You've got your decree now, mother 
 wrote me, and you're free. A woman who has a man 
 to look after her is a good deal better off. If you 
 married a man with some money, who wouldn't ob- 
 ject to your helping your family a little " 
 
 "Oh, Wilbur, let's not talk about it!" Constance 
 had had all she could endure. "I'm not thinking 
 about marrying again."
 
 270 SUPPORT 
 
 "Why, mother has given me to understand " 
 
 "Your train is coming," cried Constance desper- 
 ately. Her prospect of marrying again was the last 
 thing she wanted to talk over with Wilbur. "Don't 
 say anything about our seeing each other just yet," 
 she begged. "I've been keeping my affairs to 
 myself." 
 
 "It's a good thing to do," Wilbur conceded. "No, 
 I won't tell." Constance knew that he would do as 
 he agreed. He stooped and kissed Suzanne. "You're 
 a nice little girl," he said. "As quiet as a mouse all 
 this time. I wish you'd bring her up to see us, 
 Connie," he said, and she knew he spoke sincerely. 
 "I'd like to have her come. I think Eleanor would, 
 too." 
 
 "Perhaps I will, when the spring comes on," she 
 answered hurriedly. She was buttoning Suzanne's 
 coat. Her heart was not quite bitter toward Wilbur, 
 because he had praised her child. Wilbur had his 
 good points, and he meant well, she admitted. But 
 he was not going to give her back her money. And 
 she wanted it; she had to have it; she couldn't get 
 along without it. She felt like jumping up and 
 down and screaming as Wilbur kissed her good-by 
 and got calmly on the train. "Sorry I couldn't do 
 what you asked," he called from the platform. 
 "You'll be glad of it, later on." 
 
 The train started. He waved at Constance, and 
 threw a kiss at Suzanne. The little girl threw him 
 one in return, with her small mittened hand. "He's
 
 SUPPORT 271 
 
 a nice Uncle Wilbur," she said brightly, looking up 
 at her foster-mother. 
 
 "I'm glad you like him, dear." Constance led the 
 child along the platform, through the waiting-room, 
 and out into the street. Dusk was already descend- 
 ing, and lights had begun to glow yellowly through 
 the cold blue. Now that Wilbur had gone, Con- 
 stance felt a sinking of despair. It had all seemed so 
 easy a little while ago. Now her project seemed silly 
 and visionary. How did she know that she could 
 succeed with a shop, even if she had one? And how 
 was she going to have one, now, without money? 
 She did not know where she could borrow. She 
 could not ask any sensible person to lend her money 
 without security. And it wasn't fair that she should 
 have to borrow, when she had enough of her own. 
 How stupid she had been to let Wilbur wheedle it 
 out of her! She knew better at the time; but it was 
 so hard to refuse and so easy to submit. Well, she 
 had to do something. She had paid a month's rent, 
 and paid for coal, and had signed a lease. She had 
 committed herself. She must go on. But how 
 how? "I'm certainly in a hole," she muttered. "But 
 I won't cry. I can't break down now. There must 
 be some way of working the thing out." She was 
 shaking with cold and nervousness. "This is our car, 
 darling." She lifted Suzanne, giving her a pressure 
 of love as she put her on the car. "I don't care. 
 I'm glad I've done just as I have," she thought 
 fiercely. In spite of the disasters which seemed im- 
 minent, she was glad that she had made her decision
 
 272 SUPPORT 
 
 about Frank, and she was glad, more glad than she 
 could say, that she had Suzanne. 
 
 She could not go to see Sally until the next fore- 
 noon. Griffith was sure to be there in the evening. 
 She went as early as possible the next day. Sally, 
 in her dark blue silk gown and lace fichu, was hold- 
 ing the baby in her arms. 
 
 "Well?" She inquired eagerly as Constance came 
 in. "What has happened? How are you getting on 
 with the new shop?" She received Constance's kiss 
 abstractedly. "It sounded perfectly splendid over 
 the telephone. It seems wonderful that you should 
 have found just the right thing." 
 
 Constance sat down and threw back her fur. 
 "Well, it's all gone to smash," she said grimly. "I 
 can't get my money." 
 
 "Can't get your money?" repeated Sally. "I 
 thought you said you had it." 
 
 "I said I'd lent it to someone, but I supposed I 
 could get it back." Constance took off her gloves, 
 keeping her eyes down. 
 
 "I didn't understand," said Mrs. Rathvon. She 
 looked sober. "Whom did you lend it to, Connie?" 
 
 "Wilbur." 
 
 "Oh! Wilbur!" Sally had never been keen for 
 Wilbur. "And now he won't let you have it again?" 
 
 "He says he can't." Constance took a piece of 
 crocheting out of her bag. Even though the shop
 
 SUPPORT 273 
 
 seemed fated to vanish, she kept on with her needle- 
 work, hoping that it might find its place. "You see, 
 he's tied it up. He borrowed it to help out in the 
 first payment on a house." 
 
 "I see," said Sally. "And he can't get you any 
 of it?" 
 
 "Not a cent. Absolutively." Constance smiled 
 ironically, as she quoted Wilbur's puerile humor. 
 
 "Well." Sally meditated. "Can't you wrest it 
 away from him?" 
 
 Constance kept her eyes on her work. Her fingers 
 flew swiftly, and her steel needle flashed. "I suppose 
 I could, by law. But one doesn't do that." 
 
 "No. Did he give you any receipt or anything?" 
 
 "No. I didn't like to ask for it." 
 
 "Constance!" 
 
 "Well, Sally, that's the way with money deals be- 
 tween relatives. You don't do things in the same 
 business-like way that you would with other people, 
 and then you get sort of caught. You can't bring 
 any pressure to bear on them." 
 
 "That's true," Mrs. Rathvon agreed. "If you do, 
 they get angry, and make you feel like a beast, and 
 then you weaken and say it doesn't matter : " 
 
 "Exactly." 
 
 "The moral is " said Sally. 
 
 "The moral is clear," Constance agreed with her. 
 "But I'm in a terrible fix now. I can sympathize 
 with Mark Twain, in one of the stories he wrote. 
 He says, 'I have now got my hero into such a pre- 
 dicament that I don't know how to get him out; so
 
 274 SUPPORT 
 
 I'll stop here, and leave the rest to my reader's 
 imagination.' I feel almost like stopping my story 
 altogether, Sally." Laughing miserably, she fum- 
 bled at her work, and tears dripped into her lap. 
 She murmured an apology as she wiped them away. 
 
 "Nonsense!" Sally was sprightly and markedly 
 unsympathetic. "You don't, either. You know you 
 were never so keen for the game." 
 
 "Perhaps." Constance was dubious. "I suppose 
 there is some way out. There never was a problem 
 without an answer, was there?" 
 
 "Never." Sally was decisive. "Now, Connie, this 
 is the solution : I'll let you have the money." 
 
 "Sally, dear!" Constance threw down her work, 
 electrified. "What! Oh, no! I don't think we'd 
 better I didn't know " 
 
 "I have some Liberty bonds. I bought a few my- 
 self, and Griffith gave me a hundred-dollar one, and 
 there is a little more here and there that I can get 
 hold of. You know mother sends me something 
 once in a while, and I stow most of it away. I'm 
 saving it for the children's education." 
 
 "Oh, but " Constance began. 
 
 "No but's. I'm going to lend it to you until you 
 can pay it back out of your business, or until you can 
 get back what you lent to Wilbur. I'm not going to 
 have your plans all smashed up like this." Sally 
 held her baby closer, and looked over at her friend 
 with a line of determination between her eyes. 
 
 "But I wouldn't dare to take it," Constance told 
 her. "It's for the children."
 
 SUPPORT 275 
 
 "Pooh! You aren't going to lose it, Connie. I 
 have more faith in you than that," said Sally. 
 
 "I might lose it." 
 
 "You're not going to." 
 
 Constance sat a long time, not looking at Sally, 
 but out through the window at Emma and Gladys 
 fastening a piece of suet into a bush for the snow- 
 birds. She was not thinking about Emma and 
 Gladys, but about Sally and her money. Here was 
 unexpected deliverance. It had never occurred to 
 her that she could get the needed sum from Sally. 
 She knew vaguely that Sally had money from her 
 mother, and she realized that the Rathvons could 
 not live so easily as they did (though with their 
 modesty) on the salary which Griffith received 
 from the State College, even with the addition of 
 his fees for lecture courses. If she had thought 
 of it at all, she had supposed that the money 
 from Mrs. Needham was used as it came in. Good 
 old Sally! She was a prop and stay, a supporting 
 pillar. 
 
 It was a risk to take another person's money like 
 that. "But I'm not going to fail," said Constance 
 within herself. "I know that. And even if I 
 should which I'm not going to there's always 
 what Wilbur owes me. I could eventually get it away 
 from him, I suppose. I'll take it, Sally," she said 
 aloud, with humility and gratitude. She went 
 and bent over Sally and kissed her, and then she bent 
 lower, and kissed the baby on the cheek. 
 
 Sally held out her disengaged hand. "Keep your
 
 276 SUPPORT 
 
 courage, Con/' she admonished the prospective busi- 
 ness woman. "You'll come out all right." 
 
 "I'm sure of it." Constance hoped that she was. 
 "Well, now, let us come as near to being business- 
 like as we can. I'll give you a note " 
 
 "You needn't," said Sally. 
 
 "But I prefer to." 
 
 "It might be wise," Mrs. Rathvon conceded, out 
 of respect to her arraignment of Constance for not 
 taking a note from Wilbur. 
 
 "And I'll give you my solitaire as a pledge," Con- 
 stance went on, twisting the ring on her finger, 
 "though it won't cover the whole amount." 
 
 Mrs. Rathvon made a gesture of refusal, but she 
 thought better of it. "All right," she said coolly. 
 "Do that if you like." 
 
 "And you know I have some other jewelry," said 
 Constance. 
 
 "Very well. We'll talk it over when I've got the 
 money together. It's too late to-day. I can't very 
 well go down to the bank this afternoon, but I'll do 
 it to-morrow forenoon. And we sha'n't tell Grif any- 
 thing about it just yet," Mrs. Rathvon added. 
 
 "It must be as you choose," said Constance. She 
 had hoped that Griffith was not to know. 
 
 Within the week the money was turned over. 
 Constance gave her note for the full amount, and 
 left with Sally her solitaire and an opal-and-diamond 
 pin. Sally took these with reluctance, giving a re-
 
 SUPPORT 277 
 
 ceipt. It was all an attempt at formalizing what 
 was pure love and pure honesty. It served as a 
 symbol of intangible things. 
 
 Constance told her mother and Rose briefly what 
 she was doing, making no mention of the money. 
 They were in the dining-room, after dinner. The 
 women of the family usually talked in the dining- 
 room if they had anything private to say, because 
 Mr. Fenton, in the study, could usually catch what 
 was said in the sitting-room. 
 
 "Mother, I want to tell you that I'm launching 
 out into business," said Constance with an attempt 
 to speak lightly. 
 
 "What do you mean, Connie?" Mrs. Fenton 
 looked scared. 
 
 "I'm opening a shop, down on Deacon Street, 
 next to the 'Moving .Picture Palace.' I didn't tell 
 you, because I didn't want to bother you until things 
 were pretty well arranged." 
 
 "A shop! What in the world?" Mrs. Fenton 
 looked ready to cry with apprehension and sur- 
 prise. 
 
 "A shop?" Rose leaned forward, astonished. 
 "Why, Con, have^you turned shopkeeper? It sounds 
 awfully jolly. Is it fruit-cakes or crocheted 
 sweaters?" 
 
 "It may be both, after a while." Constance could 
 not help enjoying her importance. She told them 
 her plan explaining about the location and the rent 
 of the shop, and her intention of filling it with fasci- 
 nating wares. She waxed eloquent on the subject
 
 278 SUPPORT 
 
 of chiniz curtains and fresh paint, and brass and 
 pottery and lacquer and embroideries. 
 
 "Dear, dear, Connie!" complained Mrs. Fenton, 
 puzzled and distressed. "It seems like a foolish un- 
 dertaking. Aren't you afraid you'll lose money on 
 it? It's a good thing you have some money coming 
 in, to back you up." 
 
 Constance hid a guilty face by straightening the 
 things on the sideboard. Rose spoke up crisply. 
 "I'm glad you're doing it, Connie, if you aren't afraid 
 you'll lose caste. It'll be awfully interesting, and 
 I'll say you can do as you please. I confess, I think 
 you're a bit of a fool, not to take life a little easier, 
 and have a better time, when' you can just as well. 
 But after all, a part of one's good time is doing as 
 one likes." 
 
 "Quite true," Constance responded, glad of her 
 sister's encouragement. "And as far as caste is con- 
 cerned, so many women are doing active things now, 
 that people are used to it. I'm not giving that part 
 of it a thought." There was one person, she knew, 
 who might think she was losing caste; that was 
 Alison Sharland. She turned from his image to 
 other things. 
 
 "What are you going to do about Suzanne?" 
 asked Mrs. Fenton in her worried way. 
 
 "I'll have her with me," said Constance quickly. 
 She did not want her mother to think that Suzanne 
 was to become a household burden. "There's a nice 
 back room at the shop, and it's warm and pleasant. 
 She can play there, and go to sleep on a couch, and
 
 SUPPORT 279 
 
 she will be just as well or nearly as well off as she 
 is here." 
 
 "You seem to have got it all worked out," said 
 Rose dryly. "I take it that you're not hungering for 
 advice from your family." 
 
 "N-no," Constance returned. "I feel that I'm 
 willing to take the responsibility and do all the suf- 
 fering, if there is any to be done. I'll have to ask 
 for a little help, though. I've got to go to Chicago, 
 to select my goods, and I'll have to leave Suzanne 
 for a day or two." 
 
 "I guess we can manage to look after her," said 
 Rose. Constance noticed that her mother said noth- 
 ing. She sighed, but she knew nevertheless that 
 Mrs. Fenton would try hard to take good care of 
 Suzanne. 
 
 That evening and the next day, Mrs. Moffatt was 
 busy, making out a tentative list of her purchases, 
 getting out some chintz curtains from her boxes in 
 the attic, a rug and a table cover for the back room 
 of the shop; going to the shop and inspecting it 
 (she had a key now), and putting a notice in the 
 shining window, to the effect that "The Cupboard 
 Door Gift Shop" would occupy the premises at 
 no distant date. The name was suggested to her 
 by the big cupboard with long doors which occu- 
 pied a considerable part of one side of the front 
 room. 
 
 She had not heard from Frank or his lawyer, but 
 that fact was not surprising, considering the time 
 that it took for letters to come from New York, and
 
 280 SUPPORT 
 
 the possibility that one or both of the men might be 
 out of town. 
 
 On the train, for the five-hour trip to Chicago, 
 she had plenty of leisure for thought, even though 
 she occupied her fingers with her precious needle- 
 work, which was to form a substantial addition to 
 her merchandise. 
 
 Less than six months before in October, it was 
 she had come back to Blanchard, thrilling with the 
 ecstasy of coming home. She had supposed her 
 problems solved. They had been just beginning. 
 How far she had traveled since then! The best 
 thing that had happened to her was, of course, her 
 bold acquisition of Suzanne. Her heart swelled at 
 the remembrance of the little face that she had 
 kissed when she came away. The most perplexing 
 thing was Alison Sharland. Her thoughts milled 
 about in the turgid stream of uncertainty. Well, she 
 couldn't bother about him now. He probably wasn't 
 bothering much about her. The main consideration 
 now was going through with this scheme of the gift- 
 shop. Was she a fool to go hi for it? And would 
 she be able to combine common sense and "art"? 
 People appeared to think that the two couldn't be 
 combined. She made up her mind to restrain her- 
 self from false enthusiasms, and to confine herself 
 strictly to practical issues. She must select wisely, 
 not put in too large a stock, not have any (or many) 
 duplicates, not price things too high ; she must keep 
 up her stock, too, so that it would not appear scanty 
 or pathetic, must attend closely to business, must
 
 SUPPORT 281 
 
 never neglect her accounts. If things went well, 
 she would put in a few books, after a while choice 
 ones, for a discerning few a piece of old mahogany, 
 a length or two of chintz. There were possibilities 
 in a shop like that. One might enlarge it make 
 quite a good thing of it. 
 
 And there was another phase of the matter: "It 
 isn't just to make money," she said to herself, 
 "though I want support and substance, an estab- 
 lished place for Suzanne and myself; it's the activity 
 of it, the expression of qualities which one knows one 
 possesses or can develop industry, honesty, alert- 
 ness, independence, imagination, the desire to give 
 something, to do something real and as big as pos- 
 sible, to count for something, to give out and take in, 
 to expand, rise, learn to be individual. This is what 
 is more worth while than money." 
 
 She pondered : "How wise men are to realize that 
 love and marriage are the smaller parts of life. The 
 big business of living goes on just the same, outside 
 and beyond these emotional episodes: the business 
 of producing commodities, increasing interchange, 
 commanding the powers of nature; local affairs, 
 affairs of the world, religion, laws, politics, conflict 
 of force with force. Women don't see this truth. 
 They are mesmerized by the belief that all of life is 
 concentrated in the so-called life of love, which is, 
 as often as not, something far less pretty than it 
 sounds, something made up of greed and self-will 
 and strife and suffering. Even when it is better than 
 that, it can't fill the needs of an active intelligent
 
 282 SUPPORT 
 
 woman, any more than it can the needs of a man. If 
 women were not so hypnotized by the notion of 
 loving and being loved, how much beautiful electric 
 energy of the feminine mind and soul could be 
 liberated for the world! This liberation is begin- 
 ning. It will go on. I will help it to go on. I will 
 give my energy and activity, my health and strength 
 and intelligence and hope and insight. What I do 
 may not be much, but it will be something. It will 
 be an example. It will be an atom of freedom and 
 Tightness and truth." 
 
 "Pretty lofty thoughts to flatter myself with, 
 when my great enterprise is only a little one-horse 
 gift-shop," she laughed. "But I know, somehow, 
 that I'm not going to stop at that." 
 
 She undertook the task of buying with a courage 
 that surprised herself. She found a place where 
 gift-shop wares could be secured for sale on com- 
 mission. She rummaged about, also, in department 
 stores and Oriental shops, where there were to be 
 found odd bits of textiles, quaint shapes of pottery, 
 unusual fans and bags and strings of beads, not too 
 expensive, which she could sell at a profit. Men- 
 tally, she was fitting her articles to the Blanchard 
 pocket. There were some people who had a good 
 deal of money to spend, but the majority, as in all 
 towns, possessed moderate means only, and could 
 not afford to invest too much in luxuries. Constance 
 carefully adjusted most of her purchases to this ma- 
 jority, resolutely rejecting things which appealed 
 personally to her, if they were not likely to suit
 
 SUPPORT 283 
 
 tastes and incomes .in Blanchard. In spite of her 
 caution in the matter of price, she was equally rigid 
 in casting aside anything cheap or tawdry or in- 
 ferior in workmanship or outline. Everything, no 
 matter how small or insignificant, was good of its 
 kind, making no pretensions to being other than it 
 was. "Honesty, honesty, that's what I want," she 
 kept thinking. Everything must be right in color 
 and form and workmanship and price. She had not 
 supposed that fitting her purchases to this fourfold 
 standard would give her so much pleasure. She had 
 lost her fear, and experienced only the fascination of 
 her work. When she had finished, she was tired but 
 triumphant. She went back to Blanchard well 
 pleased with this particular stage of her adventure. 
 
 6 
 
 At home she found a letter from Frank's lawyer, 
 formally acknowledging the contents of her tele- 
 gram, and enclosing one from Frank himself: 
 
 Dear Connie, 
 
 Stidgers tells me that you say you don't want 
 any more money. I should be sorry to hear it, if it 
 were not for my natural inference that you are 
 marrying again. It is rather unexpected, but per- 
 haps you have found some old friend out there, and 
 have consented to marry him. You know I am glad 
 of anything that makes you happy. Thinking you 
 may need a few little things, I am sending a check. 
 Best wishes, Connie. 
 
 As ever yours, 
 
 FRANK.
 
 284 SUPPORT 
 
 The check was for two hundred dollars. "How 
 kind of Frank!" Constance exclaimed. He meant 
 well in so many ways. Her first impulse was to 
 keep the money for Suzanne. But in the end she 
 decided to give it up. She sent it back with a 
 friendly letter, saying that she was not planning to 
 be married, but that she had concluded to begin 
 living independently. "I want to support myself," 
 she added, "and my little girl. You will perhaps be 
 surprised to hear that I have taken a child three 
 years old." She felt better when she had sent her 
 note, and could apply herself again to the work in 
 hand. 
 
 7 
 
 It would seem foolishly secretive not to tell Alison 
 Sharland what she was doing. She had seen him 
 once or twice during these days when her plans were 
 maturing, but she had refrained from saying any- 
 thing about her shop. Now when he came to see 
 her, she brought out her news. "I have something 
 exciting to tell you," she said ; "I mean that it's ex- 
 citing to me. I'm starting a shop." 
 
 She wished that he would say, "Bully for you!" 
 as she had wished when she had told him about 
 Suzanne; but she had given up expecting such en- 
 couragement from Alison. One had to be satisfied 
 with him as he was. "A shop!" he repeated in 
 amazement, as others had repeated. "What sort of 
 shop, may I ask?" 
 
 "A gift shop. Down on Deacon Street." 
 
 "Oh! 'The Cupboard Door.' I've noticed the
 
 SUPPORT 285 
 
 sign when I've been passing," he said. She nodded. 
 "Must you do it?" he asked in a voice which would 
 have been plaintive if it had been less masculine. 
 
 "Yes. Now I must. I want to do something for 
 myself," she made reply. "And this idea appeals to 
 me. I've always loved pretty things good ones, 
 I mean. I've given them a lot of thought. Now I 
 can make use of what I know about them." 
 
 "I know you like fine things," he responded; 
 "good lines and colors. You could make an at- 
 tractive home." 
 
 "I'm sorry you didn't see my flat in New York. 
 It was ever so attractive," she answered. 
 
 "I'm sorry, too. But I didn't have time. You 
 could make another just as good, if you had an 
 opportunity." He fixed his eyes on her thought- 
 fully, as if appraising her own decorative value in a 
 home. 
 
 "Yes." She could make a wonderful home, she 
 knew, with freedom and money. The old Sharland 
 house would be a charming place not too much 
 modernized, kept "in tone," with the stuffiness re- 
 moved, and the right atmosphere and colors 
 introduced. 
 
 "I'm sorry you're going in for a shop," Alison was 
 saying. 
 
 "Why?" She felt humiliated by his disapproval. 
 
 "Oh, I don't know. It will tie you down. With 
 that and the child, you can't do anything you'll be 
 a slave. And besides, it's it's not the kind of thing 
 that you ought to be doing."
 
 286 SUPPORT 
 
 "Nonsense! I'm not too good for that," she cried 
 impatiently. "Women are doing that sort of thing 
 all the time. Gift shops and candy shops and tea 
 rooms are the mildest of their activities." 
 
 "I know, but I don't care for it. For some women 
 it's all right," he said, "but for you, Connie " 
 
 She waited for him to go on, but he did not finish. 
 "I'm no different from anyone else," she said. 
 
 "I've always thought you were." His voice was 
 low, as passionate as she had ever heard it. 
 
 Her heart began beating stormily. She hardly 
 knew how she was answering. "I have my living to 
 make mine and Suzanne's." 
 
 "Why, how is that? I thought you were provided 
 for," he returned. 
 
 "I was, but I gave up what I had," she told him 
 shortly. 
 
 His face showed his opinion of her wisdom. "But 
 why did you do that?" 
 
 "I didn't want it. I thought it over, and decided 
 that I preferred to make my own way." 
 
 "It's a hard way for a woman with a child." 
 There was an accent of bitterness in his voice. She 
 perceived that he had not forgiven her for taking 
 little Suzanne. 
 
 "Very well. It will have to be hard, then." Her 
 mouth was a close line of determination and 
 defiance. 
 
 "I think you're very foolish," he said. "You 
 could be much more comfortable if you would."
 
 SUPPORT 287 
 
 "I hoped you'd approve." She could not keep a 
 tremor out of her voice. 
 
 "My opinion doesn't count for so very much/' he 
 replied. 
 
 "Yes, it does. You're one of my old friends. 
 When one takes an important step, the support of 
 one's friends is encouraging." 
 
 "I do support you, Connie, in a way," he returned. 
 "I know you're trying to do what is best. But you're 
 rash. You try to do too much to be too independ- 
 ent. You could live comfortably, and have some 
 leisure for enjoyment and marry again, perhaps." 
 
 Constance sat silent. There did not seem to be 
 anything to say. If Alison did not understand and 
 approve her actions, he didn't, and there was no use 
 in trying to enlighten or persuade him. Rose came 
 into the room, in search of a scarf which she had left 
 on the sofa. She stopped to talk for a few minutes 
 in her animated way; and then Herman Schelling 
 came to the front door and Rose went to let him in. 
 He stood while she put on her wraps, and they went 
 out. There was no more talk with Alison that eve- 
 ning about either the shop or Suzanne. 
 
 7 
 
 The painting was done a soft light gray the 
 curtains were up, making a gallant show of sprawl- 
 ing flowers and long-tailed birds. Gray linen cur- 
 tains with bands of chintz divided the two rooms. 
 A delivery boy from the grocery store had consented 
 to look after the coal stove, and he kept it brightly
 
 288 SUPPORT 
 
 glowing. The goods arrived from Chicago, and 
 Constance unpacked them with girlish exuberance. 
 Each article had in her eyes its individual glamor. 
 
 Constance was coming home at noon from her 
 labors in the shop. She meant to take Suzanne 
 back with her, for she had put in a cot-couch from 
 the Fenton attic, and arranged pillows and covers 
 for the child's afternoon nap. She was feeling es- 
 pecially exhilarated, because her little place of busi- 
 ness was looking so attractive and because her goods 
 seemed, on sober inspection, to have been well and 
 sensibly chosen. 
 
 Suddenly she noticed on the other side of the 
 street a form and overcoat which looked familiar. 
 "It's Alison," she said, half-aloud. Then she looked 
 to see who was with him. It was a woman, someone 
 she did not know; had never seen before. Con- 
 stance's eyesight was keen. It was a dull day, with 
 lowering clouds and a threat of snow, yet she dis- 
 cerned the smart cloak, fur-trimmed, the blue toque 
 over the modishly coiled auburn hair of the woman 
 across the street. She was a tallish woman, almost 
 as tall as Sharland, and not older than Constance 
 herself, probably younger. The two people were 
 talking so earnestly that they did not see Constance 
 or at least Sharland gave no sign of recognition. 
 They turned a corner, leading away from town, and 
 Constance lost sight of them. 
 
 She had been a woman years enough to know the 
 meaning of the jump and sinking at her heart, the 
 pang at her breath.
 
 SUPPORT 289 
 
 She had prided herself on her immunity from 
 jealousy. She had boasted sometimes that she be- 
 lieved in and practiced the principle of live and let 
 live, and had said that jealousy was only an evi- 
 dence of one's own ungenerous spirit. But now, for 
 five minutes, she gave herself up to it. Tears rose 
 to her eyes, her breathing came irregularly, bitter- 
 ness seemed to clog in her mouth. She was not 
 conscious of thinking. She felt only a physical reac- 
 tion to something horribly distasteful something 
 which burned or withered or shrank one into a 
 smaller compass than one had occupied before. She 
 was so bewildered by the shock of this unexpected 
 misery that she hardly knew what was happening to 
 her. She walked along unconscious of her sur- 
 roundings. 
 
 Then she came to herself with a sudden clarity of 
 thought which revealed what she had been feeling. 
 She had flown into a jealous passion because she had 
 seen Alison Sharland walking casually and non- 
 committally with another woman. So this was the 
 sort of person she was; and this was the way she 
 felt about Sharland. She walked faster, as if to 
 leave this new self behind. The woman with Alison 
 might be one of a hundred acquaintances, met in 
 business or in his social diversions. She might mean 
 nothing at all. But intuition whispered to Con- 
 stance that it was not a casual acquaintance which 
 held two people so absorbed in talk, or that marked 
 the demeanor of the two whom she had just beheld. 
 
 This fervor of jealousy needed consideration.
 
 290 SUPPORT 
 
 Constance forced it out of her mind for the rest of 
 the day. Not until she was in bed that night did she 
 hold it up and turn it over fearlessly in her thought. 
 She saw that it did not necessarily betoken love. 
 There is a deal of difference between love and the 
 desire for possession. She did not love Frank any 
 more, and the thought of him with another woman 
 no longer gave her violent pain. What she felt for 
 him was more a tender regretful regard than any 
 deep or romantic passion. She did not love any man 
 in that way now. She did not believe that she loved 
 Alison Sharland. But she wanted him. She wanted 
 his companionship, his admiration, his homage, 
 whatever he had to give. She wanted to reassure 
 herself with his fidelity. She wanted him not to 
 marry, perhaps, but to have, to keep, to possess. 
 
 Constance was not able to analyze her inmost 
 feelings in quite this cold-blooded way. She still 
 permitted herself a warmth of self-delusion. Yet 
 she saw that what she felt for Sharland was not the 
 deepest or the truest of affections, though it might 
 become deeper and truer, if she were sure he wanted 
 it, and if she did not restrain it from finding its 
 honest expression. 
 
 She went back to the days before she was engaged 
 to Frank, trying to remember how she had felt, and 
 whether she had "let herself go." She recalled that 
 it was an uneasy time, of uncertainty and discom- 
 fort, not too poignant; but then she had been fairly 
 sure of Frank's intentions, and Frank was not the 
 reticent, opaque sort of man that Alison was.
 
 SUPPORT 291 
 
 Well, what she had learned was interesting, but it 
 proved not much, beyond the fact that she did not 
 like to see a man who called frequently upon her 
 walking out with another woman. 
 
 The next day she persuaded Sally Rathvon to 
 walk down with her to see the shop, just before it 
 was opened. When they were opposite a flower 
 store, Constance saw a tall, smartly dressed figure 
 pause before the blossoming window. Repressing 
 her excitement, she said in a careless tone to Sally, 
 "Will you tell me who that is?" 
 
 Sally looked across the street. "Who? Where?" 
 she asked provokingly. 
 
 Constance took hold of her arm. "Over there in 
 front of Delaney's, in the fur-trimmed coat and the 
 blue hat." 
 
 "Oh!" Sally's eyes widened. "That? That's 
 Hilda Farrar." 
 
 Constance drew in her breath. Hilda Farrar. 
 She was conscious that Sally was looking at her 
 oddly, but she could not give her thought to Sally. 
 Then Hilda Farrar had not committed suicide. Far 
 from it. She turned and strode away in the bleak 
 February wind with a free step, a lively and sentient 
 mien. She expressed vitality, joy of living, power. 
 What had this auburn-haired woman meant in 
 Sharland's life? It was odd that gossip had not 
 completely discovered. Probably there was not 
 much to know. The two had been friends, and had 
 drifted apart. The Farrar girl went away; Alison 
 went to North Dakota and then to the war. Some
 
 292 SUPPORT 
 
 relationships were so slight that they did not bear 
 the strain of separation Constance recollected two 
 or three such instances in her own life. It was the 
 cousin who committed suicide: doubtless she had 
 reasons of her own. The whole affair had probably 
 been, as far as Sharland and Hilda Farrar were 
 concerned, merely a passing episode. 
 
 But Hilda Farrar had come back. Sally was mur- 
 muring, "I wonder " Constance was wondering, 
 
 too, but she did not give words to her conjectures. 
 They were nearing her shop, and she began to talk 
 rapidly to Sally, telling her about prices, advertising, 
 a clever arrangement of screens which hid the sink 
 and some cooking utensils. She could have a gas 
 plate put in, and could give Suzanne a simple warm 
 lunch something that wouldn't "smell up the 
 place," and she could have a bite herself. She would 
 not have to go home at noon. Sally was all eager- 
 ness to set eyes on the miracle-shop and its fasci- 
 nating details. Hilda Farrar went her way without 
 comment, but not without surmises and suspicion.
 
 CHAPTER XII 
 
 MEANWHILE, Constance could not sit down and 
 think. She had other things to do. The first week 
 in the shop gave her an understanding of how busy 
 her life was to be. She rose early, in order to help 
 her mother with the household tasks. She put in 
 order her own clothes and Suzanne's, and dressed 
 herself to go out. On the days when Mrs. Greening 
 was at the house, she left Suzanne with "Auntie," 
 who brought her down to the shop at noon. Usually 
 she took Suzanne with her. There was a long day in 
 the shop. It was closed at six, except on Saturdays, 
 and Constance had the evenings for her accounts, 
 her clothes, calls, letters, and needlework. Between 
 customers, however, she could often scrawl a note, 
 add up a column of figures, take a few stitches in a 
 tray cloth, or do something to entertain Suzanne. 
 
 Trade started off briskly, if not overwhelmingly. 
 Constance had done a good deal of advertising of 
 "The Cupboard Door Gift Shop," in the newspapers, 
 on hand-bills, and on placards at the State College; 
 but she depended a good deal on her window display 
 to win her purchasers. She loved planning where 
 each article should stand. Her window was not 
 
 293
 
 294 SUPPORT 
 
 large, but it had a good light, and it was well placed. 
 She devised backgrounds of gray velvet or gray 
 linen or silk, and put only a few things on view at 
 one time: a square of lacquer-red Chinese em- 
 broidery, a Russian brass ewer and tray, a blue pot- 
 tery bowl. She remembered how she had felt in 
 looking in at such a window, how she had delighted 
 in a few definite things, and felt irritated at a hud- 
 dle. She wanted people, when they stopped and 
 looked, to gain a distinct impression, and go away 
 saying, "I'd like that tray," or "I'd love to have that 
 bowl." She would let a certain object stay a num- 
 ber of days in the window, to fix it on the vision of 
 the would-be buyer. Then she would combine it 
 with other things. The blue bowl would appear 
 with an orange plate, or a cloth cross-stitched in 
 blue ; or the orange plate would be combined with a 
 straight green vase full of calendulas. It was a 
 breathless decision each time that she planned her 
 window. Each display was a poem, she told herself 
 laughingly. Or it was a game which she played with 
 herself. She could not let anyone know what child- 
 ish delight she took in selecting the pieces of pottery, 
 the textiles, the brasses, for the perfection of group- 
 ing which she desired. "I don't suppose anyone 
 cares whether it's so perfect or not," she said rue- 
 fully. But she found that someone did. An in- 
 structor in the Art Department at the college came 
 in to say, "You work out such charming pictures in 
 color," and bought some of the things which she had 
 admired. A keen-faced man said, "I want to buy
 
 SUPPORT 295 
 
 both those what-you-may-call-its in the window. 
 They seem to jibe, somehow. I don't know what I 
 mean, exactly, but they belong together. My wife 
 will like them." 
 
 A good deal of her trade, Constance saw, was to 
 be with the college students. Red-cheeked young 
 chaps came in to buy something "different" for their 
 girl friends. Girls came in to buy something "dis- 
 tinctive" for one another. The boys bought blun- 
 deringly, as a rule, and were pathetically grateful for 
 assistance. "She's awfully artistic," a young fellow 
 would confide earnestly. "I want to give her some- 
 thing that she'll fall for that she'll think is the real 
 stuff, you know." There were other lads, of the 
 Aubrey Beardsley type, with a supercilious air, who 
 fingered a good many things, made loud and mi- 
 nutely critical remarks, and bought highly colored 
 jars or table-covers. They usually had thin volumes 
 of French verse hi their hands or pockets, and inter- 
 larded their comments with French words and 
 phrases. The girls bought with assurance, too, after 
 asking the price of everything. Sometimes they 
 bought badly, made aesthetic blunders. But the 
 main thing was, as Constance said to Rose, that they 
 bought; and since she didn't have anything in the 
 shop that was really bad, they could not go very 
 far wrong. 
 
 Two or three women came in during the first week 
 and bought things for bridge prizes, pleased at find- 
 ing something "original." This promised well for 
 the future, when it became known that odd and in-
 
 296 SUPPORT 
 
 teresting objects could be secured for prizes at not 
 too great an expense. Some women, even her own 
 acquaintances, were patronizing. Others were inter- 
 ested and sympathetic, remarking, "How you must 
 love this work!" and "How you must hate to see 
 your pretty things go!" She remembered such peo- 
 ple, and watched to see them come again. 
 
 She made a good profit on each article. "They 
 have to pay me for having the things here," she said. 
 She was not greedy, but there was no use in keeping 
 a place of that sort, unless one profited enough to 
 make it worth while. Her needlework was received 
 with loud acclaim, and snatched up with appalling 
 swiftness. As the women customers said to one an- 
 other, "A piece of hand work is always nice, you 
 know. You can give a piece of hand work to some- 
 one even if it's only a towel or a doily and she 
 values it, no matter what she has, or how rich she 
 is." But Constance would not take orders. "I can't 
 be worried by them," she would explain. "I'll do 
 what I can, and put it in the shop, and whoever sees 
 it first can buy it. It would drive me distracted to 
 be trying to fill orders." 
 
 From the first, the little business took on a promise 
 of permanence which filled Constance with hope. 
 She remembered what Mary Foster's aunt, Mrs. 
 Craig, had said, to the effect that cashing a check 
 from somebody else couldn't compare with the thrill 
 of earning a dollar yourself. "It's true," Constance 
 admitted. "Even now, before I've really succeeded, 
 I wouldn't go back to checks for anything." She be-
 
 SUPPORT 297 
 
 gan to dream, with a good deal of definiteness, of a 
 little flat where she could live with Suzanne. 
 
 Mrs. Fenton fretted. "It's not the kind of thing 
 I'd like you to be doing, Connie," she said dolefully. 
 
 "Why not?" asked Constance without rancor. She 
 did not care much now, what anyone said. 
 
 "Oh, selling things a public place," Mrs. Fenton 
 stammered "standing in that shop with your hat 
 
 off!" 
 
 Constance laughed. "I might wear a bonnet or a 
 cap," she said. "How would a lace cap do, with 
 purple bows?" 
 
 "Connie! How can you joke?" Mrs. Fenton re- 
 proved her. 
 
 "Why not joke, mother?" 
 
 "Oh, well," Mrs. Fenton sighed. "I'm glad if it 
 pleases you and brings you in something. But you 
 needn't be doing it, and it seems so foolish." 
 
 "I may as well tell you," said Constance suddenly, 
 after a pause, "that I do need it. I wrote to Frank 
 and his lawyer that I wouldn't take any more money 
 from them." 
 
 Mrs. Fenton gave a cry that was almost a scream. 
 "You didn't, Connie ! I can't believe that you'd do 
 such a thing." Her face expressed the feelings 
 which halted on her tongue. 
 
 "Now, don't get excited about it, mother," Con- 
 stance begged, keeping her own poise uninvaded. 
 "You see, I'm getting my business started, instead, 
 and it ought to bring in just as much, as time goes 
 on perhaps more, when I get it all completed. And
 
 298 SUPPORT 
 
 I feel so much better about it. Can't you see how 
 I felt about taking money from Frank, now that 
 we're separated forever?" 
 
 "No. No. I don't understand any such notions," 
 said Mrs. Fenton harshly. "I should think that was 
 the very reason why you should have something. Oh, 
 dear, dear! Where did you get such strange ideas? 
 I'm sure I never expected that any daughter of mine 
 
 would be so queer so " The older woman 
 
 choked, and went out of the room, pulling the door 
 to with a hard swing, behind her. 
 
 Constance smiled sternly. "It's just as well to get 
 it over," she thought. "Mother was so upset that she 
 didn't think to ask me where I got the money for my 
 enterprise. I sha'n't tell anybody if I can help it." 
 
 Rose could not suppress her delight in the shop, 
 though she was not willing to put it into words. 
 "It's a dog's life," she said. "It keeps you working 
 day and night." She was rather wistful, Constance 
 thought. "I suppose you get a good deal of fun out 
 of it," the younger sister suggested. 
 
 "No end," exulted Constance. "I never was so 
 happy as far as the work is concerned." There 
 were things which blurred her happiness, but of those 
 she had nothing to say. "I'm sure you envy me, 
 Rose," she said in a teasing way. 
 
 "I wouldn't admit it if I did." The glint in Rose's 
 eyes showed that Constance was right. "I knew 
 you'd be happier out of the house than in it," she 
 added. "I think you were awfully clever to think 
 of such a scheme, and to put it through in such a
 
 SUPPORT 299 
 
 high-handed way. You're a bold hussy, Connie dear, 
 in spite of your ladylike manners." 
 
 "I wish I were," Constance complained. "I don't 
 mind saying that I've been a bit scared at times, and 
 I haven't got over it yet, by any means. I have to 
 be honest, too, and admit that if it hadn't been for 
 Sally Rathvon, I should have given up gone and 
 hanged myself, or something." 
 
 "You didn't expect any moral support from your 
 family," said Rose; "or from your men friends. 
 Poor Connie!" She put her arms across her sister's 
 shoulder, and gave her an unexpected caress. After 
 that, Constance felt a little nearer to Rose, and real- 
 ized that the girl understood more than she ex- 
 pressed. 
 
 Wilbur had, of course, heard of the gift shop, 
 through his mother's letters. He dropped in on 
 Saturday afternoon. Trade was brisk, and he did 
 not have much opportunity to speak with Con- 
 stance. "So this is what you were up to?" he said 
 pettishly. "You were bound to go ahead with it, 
 anyhow, regardless of my advice." 
 
 "Yes. I felt that I had a right idea, and I wanted 
 to carry it through," she answered briefly. There 
 was no use, she discerned, in going into the question 
 of money, or in getting involved in an argument with 
 Wilbur. 
 
 Her brother came to her elbow again, after she had 
 waited on someone. "You won't make a go of it," 
 he prophesied. "You may be doing a little now, be- 
 cause it's new. But people soon tire of this sort of
 
 300 SUPPORT 
 
 thing. It has a little vogue, and perhaps becomes a 
 fad for a while, but it soon dies out." 
 
 "Oh, I don't think so," Constance replied coolly. 
 "People are learning large numbers have already 
 learned to like artistic things in their homes I 
 mean good things, with some individuality, not just 
 department store stuff, and furniture-shop ready- 
 mades." 
 
 Wilbur shrugged. "Well, I hope you're right," 
 he made answer. Constance was amused at his pa- 
 tronizing mien. "How did you manage about the 
 money?" he asked stiffly, his curiosity overcoming 
 his reluctance. 
 
 "That's a secret," said Constance solemnly. A 
 woman came in just then, seeking a birthday present 
 for her daughter. Wilbur went away, shrugging 
 again. He was a good deal bewildered, Constance 
 knew. Eleanor's house did not have such queer 
 things in it bright-colored dishes, and Chinese 
 trays, and big-figured chintzes, and enamel-edged 
 mirrors, and copper coffee-pots; but he tacitly re- 
 spected Connie's taste, and felt that her metropoli- 
 tan experience lent her wisdom. Connie had always 
 been the artistic one of the family. Wilbur could 
 not precisely refute what she said, especially since she 
 seemed actually to be selling things for real money. 
 Henceforth he looked wise and said little ; though of 
 course he could not lend his unqualified approval to 
 a financial undertaking upon which his advice had 
 not been asked or accepted. 
 
 Alison Sharland had gone to Chicago and else-
 
 SUPPORT 301 
 
 where, on business, and was spared the flurry of the 
 opening of "The Cupboard Door." He sent Con- 
 stance a note and a new book of one-act plays, but 
 he made no reference to the shop or to Suzanne. 
 "Or," she said to herself, "to Hilda Farrar." 
 
 Sally Rathvon invited Constance for dinner, re- 
 marking at the same time that Grif was going away 
 on the eight-forty. He was going to see his old 
 mother in Indiana, and give some lectures at Val- 
 paraiso University. Constance left Rose to put Su- 
 zanne to bed since Rose had offered, apparently in 
 good faith and went over at half-past six. The din- 
 ner was good, and Griffith was more than commonly 
 agreeable, so that the occasion was happier than 
 might have been expected. After two cups of coffee 
 and a cigar, Griffith got himself into his overcoat, 
 took his bag, which Sally had packed, kissed his 
 wife and the baby good-by (the other children were 
 in bed), shook hands with Constance, and departed. 
 The two women settled down before a log fire in the 
 sitting-room, for a "good talk." There was some 
 comment on the progress of the shop, but Constance 
 had other matters in mind. She lost no time in get- 
 ting at the questions which under all the activities 
 of the recent days had been vivid in her thought. 
 
 "Sally," she said with a bluntness which exposed 
 her eagerness, "I have to ask you something." 
 
 "Yes," said Sally. She opened her work-bag and
 
 302 SUPPORT 
 
 took out some knitting. This time it was a jacket 
 for the baby. 
 
 "You know we saw Miss Farrar Hilda Farrar 
 the other day on the street/' Constance began. "I 
 had seen her the day before, with Alison Sharland." 
 
 "Yes," said Sally imperturbably. "She's visiting 
 some relatives, I believe." 
 
 "You know perfectly well," Constance went on, 
 "that she had something to do with Alison in times 
 past. I've heard about it vaguely. What do you 
 know?" 
 
 Sally made a grimace. "Not very much," she said, 
 as if willing to evade the question. 
 
 "You might as well tell me what you do know." 
 
 Sally's needles clicked. "It's not a great deal 
 what I actually know, I mean. It came to me from 
 Buford Clarke." 
 
 "Ah!" 
 
 "Buford told me, just before he went away to the 
 war. He said that Alison Sharland had told 
 him " Sally paused, picking up a dropped stitch. 
 
 "Well what?" asked Constance, moving im- 
 patiently in her chair. 
 
 "That he and Hilda Farrar had spent a week to- 
 gether at a summer resort in Northern Michigan." 
 
 The heart of Constance gave a bound. Her first 
 impulse was jealousy; her second, incredulity. 
 She held herself steady. "Did you believe it?" she 
 inquired, knowing that her voice was h&rd and 
 constrained. 
 
 Sally consulted a book of directions for knitting
 
 SUPPORT 303 
 
 baby-jackets. "Why shouldn't I believe it?" she 
 said, not looking up. There was a hint of bullying 
 in her tone. 
 
 "There might have been a mistake," conjectured 
 Constance, she did not know why. "Buford may 
 have been mistaken, or Alison may have boasted 
 of what wasn't true. Men do that, sometimes." 
 
 "Cads do," said Sally, "and hardly any man can 
 resist boasting if it is true." 
 
 Constance was contemplating the information 
 which she had secured. "Is is Hilda Farrar that 
 sort?" she demanded. 
 
 "She's not supposed to be," Sally returned. "I 
 don't know much about her. But she goes in the 
 best society; not that that means anything." 
 
 Constance made a shrewd estimate of Hilda Farrar 
 high-headed, self-sufficing, self-possessed. She 
 was not a simple girl, carried away against her will. 
 "But there may have been a mistake," she persisted. 
 She could not be hasty to think ill of any women. 
 She did not want to think ill of Alison Sharland. 
 
 "To tell the truth," Sally confessed, "I always sus- 
 pected that Buford lied. And then, again, maybe 
 he didn't. It's hard to say." 
 
 "What made you think he lied?" asked Constance. 
 "I never felt that I knew him as well as some of the 
 other men that we went with. But I do remember, 
 once or twice, he told me things that weren't true 
 about matters of no importance. Once it was about 
 a gun he bought of Tom Elwood, and another time 
 about his going into Judge Brent's office."
 
 304 SUPPORT 
 
 "Buford got queer, toward the last," Sally made 
 explanation. "He turned against Alison, you know. 
 They were furious enemies." 
 
 Constance sat marveling. "No, I didn't know 
 that. I supposed they were fast friends David and 
 Jonathan, or something of the sort. Alison gave me 
 to understand that they were." 
 
 "They were" said Sally; "but- something came be- 
 tween them. I don't know what. I think it was 
 Hilda Farrar. I think Buford wanted her himself." 
 
 "Oh!" 
 
 "He hated Alison like poison. He came in here 
 one day, all pale and shaking. He called Alison a 
 white-livered hypocrite I think he'd just seen Ali- 
 son and Hilda together. And then he told me 
 what I told you. It may have been true. I think 
 he cared for Hilda. He'd gone about with her a lit- 
 tle. She never cared for him." 
 
 "An unpleasant muddle," murmured Constance. 
 Her hands were cold and unsteady at her inevitable 
 needlework. 
 
 "Buford was broken," Sally continued. "When 
 he went away to the war, he didn't want to come 
 back." 
 
 "Did he ?" asked Constance vaguely. Many 
 
 obscure tragedies, not of opposing armies, had taken 
 place during the war. 
 
 "I don't know," Sally responded. "Nobody knows 
 unless it's Alison. It was said that he was killed 
 in action." 
 
 "I hope he was," breathed Constance.
 
 SUPPORT 305 
 
 "I think it probable," Sally returned. "There's 
 no use in prying into those things." 
 
 "No." 
 
 There was a long space when the two women were 
 wordless, over their wools and linens. "Confusion," 
 muttered Constance, just audibly. 
 
 "A good deal of life seems to be that." Sally un- 
 rolled a length of yarn from her ball, with a lovely 
 sweep of her bare arm. "Anyhow, I never could 
 make out whether Buford lied." 
 
 Hilda Farrar came into the shop the next day. 
 
 Constance, alone in the shop, was busy with a 
 piece of hemstitching. Suzanne was asleep on the 
 couch in the next room. The door-latch clicked, and 
 there was Hilda Farrar with her smart clothes, her 
 touches of distinction, her aroma of expensive per- 
 fume. The eyes of the two women met with an in- 
 quiry and a challenge. 
 
 "I saw a lacquer box in the window that I liked." 
 Miss Farrar 's voice was high, but cultivated in tone, 
 with an Eastern accent not too exaggerated. 
 
 "I'll get it." With formal politeness, Constance 
 brought the box, dull red with gold figures. "It's 
 a teabox," she said. She opened the lid, and showed 
 the metal lining. 
 
 "It's delightful." Miss Farrar considered, her 
 gaze on the women-shapes which circled the box. 
 She lifted clear red-brown eyes to the face before 
 her. "How much is it?"
 
 306 SUPPORT 
 
 "Seven dollars." 
 
 "I'll take it." The young woman had a faint 
 savor of ostentation in her bearing. 
 
 Constance, wrapping the box in tissue paper, and 
 then in her special lavender sheet, found herself say- 
 ing mentally, "I know something about you. I know 
 that you spent a week in Michigan with " 
 
 "Oh, what an attractive lunch-cloth," cried Miss 
 Farrar, spying the square of folded linen which lay 
 under glass at her elbow. Constance had finished 
 the cloth at Sally's, and had washed it out that night 
 at home, and ironed it in the morning. It was fresh, 
 flawless, a perfect example of her most careful work. 
 She cringed at the note of patronage in the voice 
 of the woman across the counter. "Did you do it 
 yourself?" 
 
 Constance nodded. She did not want Hilda Far- 
 rar to have that lunch-cloth. 
 
 "May I see it?" 
 
 Constance held back. "It's hardly dry yet," she 
 said. "It would rumple it to handle it." 
 
 "I'll be very careful." Hauteur and insistence 
 compelled the reluctant shopkeeper to exhibit her 
 treasure. She drew it from the glass case. "I know 
 something about you," she was repeating, but not 
 aloud. "I could humble you if I chose." 
 
 "It's lovely." The gloved fingers lifted the 
 squares, as Miss Farrar peeped at the patterned cor- 
 ners. The cool red-brown eyes were raised again. 
 "How much do you want for it?" 
 
 "You can't have it, you can't have it!" shouted
 
 SUPPORT 307 
 
 Constance, but not aloud. She delayed her answer, 
 then named a price which was several dollars more 
 than she had intended: If it were too much, per- 
 haps the other woman would not take it. 
 
 "Very reasonable indeed." Miss Farrar reached 
 into her bag for her purse. Her manner just escaped 
 insolence. "I need a lunch-cloth of that sort," she 
 said. Why should Hilda Farrar be needing lunch- 
 cloths? 
 
 Constance stood gaping. She passionately rebelled 
 against doing fine needlework for Hilda Farrar. 
 But she could not evade the catastrophe. She could 
 hardly say now that she wanted the cloth for her- 
 self. She was mesmerized by the cool gaze of the 
 other woman. "Very well." She began wrapping up 
 the parcel. "You can't have it," she was saying in 
 her soul. Yet her hands were busy with paper and 
 string. The aroma of the expensive perfume came 
 to her from the muff which lay on the counter, a fine 
 handkerchief protruding from its satin lining. 
 
 "Thank you." Hilda Farrar took the square pack- 
 age, and laid down a half-dozen green bills. "You 
 have a most interesting shop. I shall come in 
 again." 
 
 "Yes, do. You spent a week in Michigan with 
 Alison Sharland." Constance hardly knew how 
 much of this speech she had uttered aloud. Hilda 
 Farrar was a high-headed "piece" as Mrs. Fenton 
 would say ; yet Constance could not repress a twinge 
 of envy. She wished that she could hold her hand 
 like that, sail in and out of a room in that way, be
 
 308 SUPPORT 
 
 supercilious and still not openly insolent. No, of 
 course she didn't want that, either. But there was 
 something enviable and compelling about this tall, 
 self-satisfied creature in the smart cape-coat and the 
 close blue hat. Constance measured herself beside 
 the other, and felt small and baffled. 
 
 "Good day," said the high, perfectly controlled 
 voice. 
 
 "Good day." Constance stood leaning against the 
 counter, rigid, indignant. Her mind was whirling. 
 The thought which she distinguished in the turmoil 
 was this: "Men don't often marry the women 
 whom they have led into compliance. Yet some- 
 times they do, if there is lure enough." Sometimes 
 they did; and after all, perhaps Buford Clarke had 
 lied. 
 
 Suzanne woke, whimpering. Constance went to 
 her and took her into her arms with a possessive ges- 
 ture which said, "I have this, anyhow." Suzanne 
 flung her arms around her foster-mother's neck, and 
 kissed the flushed, shamed cheek pressed harshly 
 against hers. 
 
 4 
 
 Alison did not come to see her very often now. 
 It was as if he hesitated as to whether he should 
 keep on coming or not. On the next evening after 
 Constance's encounter with Hilda Farrar, he called 
 late in the evening, making an excuse for not stay- 
 ing long. They sat in the dining-room, for Rose 
 and Schelling had come in from having dinner at
 
 SUPPORT 309 
 
 the hotel, and were talking and laughing in the draw- 
 ing-room. Suzanne was in bed, but the thoughts of 
 Constance dwelt upon the little creature snuggled 
 in blankets in the room overhead. Suddenly, with 
 the courage of inspiration, she said, "A friend of 
 yours was in my shop yesterday." 
 
 "A friend of mine?" he replied. "I have a good 
 many friends or acquaintances, at least. Who 
 was it?" 
 
 "Miss Farrar." Her tone had a dare in it, which 
 said, "Tell me about this woman." 
 
 "Oh. Hilda Farrar," he said. He looked down at 
 the table, tracing the pattern of the cloth with his 
 forefinger. It was the first time that he had pro- 
 nounced her name in Constance's hearing. 
 
 "I've seen you with her once or twice." Constance 
 held her fingers tensely against the arms of her 
 chair. 
 
 "Yes. She has been here about a week," he an- 
 swered. He sat staring down at the table. He was 
 so still, and the pause was so prolonged that Con- 
 stance shuddered with nervousness. "Hilda and I 
 went about a good deal together, for a while," he 
 said at last. "We were we liked each other pretty 
 well." 
 
 Constance wanted to say. "I know. I know the 
 secret of Hilda Farrar." But she only said, "Yes, I 
 believe I heard something about it." 
 
 "From whom?" he asked. 
 
 "From Sally and one or two others." 
 
 Sharland colored darkly. "I don't know what
 
 310 SUPPORT 
 
 Sally's been saying about me/' he challenged her. 
 His eyes narrowed with resentment. 
 
 "Nothing very much. In fact, it was my mother 
 who first mentioned Miss Farrar," Constance made 
 response. "She thought she had committed suicide." 
 
 Sharland looked at her angrily. "The papers got 
 it garbled. It was her cousin, Wilma Farrar. 
 Hilda's had a hard time to live it down." 
 
 "To convince people that she is alive?" smiled 
 Constance satirically. 
 
 "Something like that." 
 
 "Of course these things didn't happen here," said 
 Constance. 
 
 "No. In Ohio. They have the old home there 
 a place in the country." 
 
 "The cousin" Constance could not keep from say- 
 ing "did she was it " 
 
 Sharland's skin showed white as his angry flush 
 faded. His features were contracted into a kind of 
 grimace, whether sardonic or pained, Constance 
 could not tell. "It was jealousy," he said. "She 
 was a nervous sort of girl. She was insanely fond of 
 Hilda, and yet insanely jealous of her looks, clothes, 
 manners, opportunities, attentions everything. 
 There was no other cause none at all," he repeated, 
 as if defending himself. 
 
 "No," said Constance. She wanted him to feel 
 that she was convinced. 
 
 "Hilda thought that I'd been unfair to Wilma 
 that I'd made Wilma think I cared for her," he went 
 on. "I hadn't. Wilma didn't care for me. She
 
 SUPPORT 311 
 
 was furiously jealous, that was all. She may have 
 supposed " He broke off. "Well, anyhow, she 
 left a note one day, saying she had gone to the Lake. 
 They found her the next morning." 
 
 "Terrible," Constance found breath to say. 
 
 "Hilda blamed me," Sharland' went on. "She 
 wouldn't believe that I hadn't had something to do 
 with it. We didn't see each other for a long time 
 not till she came back, recently." 
 
 It was a dark story. How much darker it would 
 be if all were told, Constance could not conjecture. 
 Perhaps there really had been something between 
 Wilma and Alison. Or perhaps Wilma had sus- 
 pected what had gone on between Alison and Hilda. 
 Perhaps that was why she had killed herself in 
 horror or jealousy. Perhaps it was remorse that had 
 kept Hilda so long from Alison though as far as that 
 was concerned, she didn't look like a person who 
 would suffer from remorse or any form of repentance. 
 
 There was always the chance that Buford had not 
 told the truth. Constance had known him to lie. 
 He wanted Hilda himself, so Sally had said. He had 
 hated Alison; and he had been "queer" toward the 
 last. 
 
 If one could only say to people, "Did you do so- 
 and-so?" If she could only ask Alison whether 
 what Buford had said was true! 
 
 But suppose it was true? What difference would 
 it make? That is, as far as Constance herself was 
 involved? 
 
 Sharland sat thinking, remembering, regretting,
 
 312 SUPPORT 
 
 perhaps. Constance sat dumbly, holding the arms of 
 her chair. She heard her father stirring about in 
 the sitting-room. Her father had had his romances, 
 too. Now he was old and fretful and complaining. 
 Alison would be old sometime. The fires would die 
 out. The decisions would be made, and the results 
 of them long over: the romance faded, life reduced 
 to dullness the round of meals, the newspaper, the 
 pain in the back. 
 
 Here was Alison now young, good-looking, de- 
 sirable. The very imputation against him made him 
 more desirable, in a way. He was not so cold and 
 correct as he had seemed. He was not, at least, a 
 graven image of conventionalism. 
 
 She started, turning away from these meditations 
 to the cry, "Why did it have to be a man like this? 
 Why did it have to be a situation like this? Why 
 couldn't I have found the right man, free and un- 
 trammeled, who could have cared for me unequivo- 
 cally, and whom I could have loved in return?" 
 
 Alison drew a long breath and moved in his chair. 
 He reached out for the book on the table. "You said 
 you had finished this, didn't you? I'll take it along." 
 
 "I enjoyed it so much." One must go back to 
 formalities. She went with him to the hall. Rose 
 and Schelling were still talking in the drawing-room. 
 
 "It goes on, the same as ever?" Alison said, with 
 a curl of his lip. 
 
 "Yes. The same as ever." Constance felt un- 
 comfortable, humiliated by his contempt for the 
 man Schelling, as if somehow Schelling belonged to
 
 SUPPORT 313 
 
 her against her will. Alison seemed to recede from 
 her, to be drawn away by an implacable force. His 
 "Good night" had in it something of a permanent 
 parting. 
 
 5 
 
 There was tension about the house, a suspicion 
 in the air, something that could not be outlined or 
 formulated. "What is Rose up to?" Constance 
 asked herself. The younger sister was going irregu- 
 larly to her classes, staying in her room a good deal. 
 Her color was not so vivid or her eyes so bright as 
 usual. Constance was restless and apprehensive. 
 Her own problems stood in abeyance. "What are 
 we going to do about Rose?" she asked her mother. 
 
 "About Rose?" Mrs. Fenton looked vague. "We'll 
 just let her go on, I suppose. There never has been 
 anything else to do." 
 
 "She acts queer," said Constance, frowning. 
 
 "She always acts queer," Mrs. Fenton returned. 
 "What is it now, Connie?" 
 
 "Oh, I can't just say. It isn't anything definite. 
 I just feel something." 
 
 "It's nothing new. You're nervous, Connie," 
 Mrs. Fenton said. "You work so hard. You'll 
 break down, trying to do so much." 
 
 "I'm all right, mother. You know I love the 
 shop. And it's going so splendidly that I ought to 
 be glad." Constance did not have to simulate her 
 satisfaction in the little business which promised so 
 well and kept her so happily occupied. "But I've
 
 314 SUPPORT 
 
 been thinking that we ought to have Mrs. Greening 
 in a little more. Then I shan't have to do so much 
 at home, and she will relieve me a bit with Suzanne." 
 
 "Well, just as you say, Connie. It would be a 
 help. But I wish you wouldn't insist on keeping a 
 shop, when you could " 
 
 "Oh, mother!" Constance cried out impatiently. 
 Her mother had never ceased to wail over the lost 
 allowance. It was patently gone forever, for Frank 
 had made no effort to reinstate it. 
 
 "I'll try not to say any more," Mrs. Fenton sulked. 
 
 "We were talking about Rose," Constance began 
 again. "I hope that I'm not fussy. But I care so 
 much about her that I can't help worrying. I want 
 her to be happy to make something of herself. 
 She has a lot of ability if she would only try to 
 bring it out." 
 
 "I don't know." Mrs. Fenton's mouth drooped. 
 "One gets so that one hardly dares to make any 
 plans for one's children." 
 
 This Constance knew to be a stab at herself. She 
 kept silence and went on with her needlework. She 
 was thinking how she could have a tiny little flat, 
 with just herself and Suzanne and Mrs. Greening 
 in to help. It wouid not be long till Suzanne would 
 be going to the kindergarten for a part of the day. 
 She would try to get Wilbur to give her back a hun- 
 dred dollars or so, and then she would not owe so 
 much money to Sally. It was going to be slow, at 
 the best, keeping up the shop, supporting herself 
 and Suzanne, and putting in something at home for
 
 SUPPORT 315 
 
 the support of her father and mother. But it could 
 be done. She was turning over her stock with great 
 rapidity, and making a good profit. She could pay 
 the rent of her shop with her handiwork alone; for 
 she worked swiftly, her towels and traycloths were 
 quickly taken, and the returns were almost all pure 
 gain. 
 
 That evening, when she went to her sister's room 
 for a spool of thread which she had lent and needed, 
 she found Rose crying. "What's all this about?" she 
 asked with a mock-blustering air, knowing that Rose 
 did not take kindly to sympathy. 
 
 "Nothing. I just feel blue," said Rose, hastily 
 suppressing her tears. 
 
 "Won't you tell me why?" begged Constance. She 
 felt shy as she asked the question, for- Rose's con- 
 fidences were not lavishly given. 
 
 "Can't one feel blue if she wishes?" pouted Rose. 
 
 "Certainly. If one wishes it very much." 
 
 "Well, I do," said Rose shortly. 
 
 "All right then," Constance made cheerful answer. 
 If Rose would only say something would only tell 
 what was troubling her ! Of course it had something 
 to do with Schelling. There was no doubt about 
 that. Perhaps Rose was deciding to give him up, 
 and he was making it hard for her. That was the 
 most hopeful view to take. There were other possi- 
 bilities not probabilities, thank heaven which 
 Constance refused to entertain. 
 
 It was with a warmth of relief that Constance 
 realized that Schelling had not been at the house for
 
 316 SUPPORT 
 
 several days. This relief offset the fact that Alison 
 Sharland had not come to the house again. Rose 
 appeared nervous, but not depressed; she was ex- 
 hilarated, rather, in an excited and sparkling way. 
 Her eyes were big and bright now, flashing, as it 
 were, defiance. Her step was hurried. Her body 
 palpitated with activity. Her restlessness sounded 
 in the house, upstairs and down, 'with her quick 
 heedless motions, her exaggerated laugh and song. 
 
 Then came a wet day in March, when the house 
 seemed suddenly silent and void. Constance had felt 
 it at noon, when she came home to get Suzanne, 
 leaving a high-school girl in charge of the shop. 
 She felt it again when she came in, a little after six. 
 She said with a prescience of evil, "Mother, where is 
 Rose?" 
 
 "Why, I don't know," returned Mrs. Fenton 
 blankly; "out somewhere, I suppose. She's doing 
 quite a lot of studying at the library now." 
 
 "She hasn't been in, all day, has she?" Constance 
 queried. "She didn't come home after I left, this 
 noon?" 
 
 "No. But she sometimes eats at the cafeteria, 
 when she has a class or something early in the after- 
 noon," said Mrs. Fenton. 
 
 "Did she say anything about doing that, to-day?" 
 probed Constance. 
 
 "No, I don't remember that she did." Mrs. Fen- 
 ton wrinkled her forehead reflectively. 
 
 "I wish she'd come home." Constance spoke im- 
 pulsively. She had heard her father utter the same
 
 SUPPORT 317 
 
 words in the same tone of apprehension which she 
 was using. 
 
 "Nothing can happen to her," said the mother 
 quickly. 
 
 "No. Perhaps not." Constance went to give Su- 
 zanne her supper, and to put the child to bed. Her 
 own supper was deferred. She was not hungry now, 
 though she had been when she left the shop. She 
 sat beside Suzanne, encouraging her to eat her 
 potato and gravy. Suzanne had not entirely over- 
 come her unwillingness to eat, though she was grow- 
 ing sturdier and more nearly normal. 
 
 "If I'll eat it, will you tell me a story?" the little 
 girl craftily inquired. 
 
 "Yes. Two little short stories, maybe," Constance 
 consented with absent-minded readiness. 
 
 "The one about the little Red Hen?" Suzanne per- 
 sisted. 
 
 "Maybe ; but that's such a long one." 
 
 "I want that one." Suzanne stuck out her lips. 
 "Mummy, I want to hear the story about the little 
 Red Hen." 
 
 "All right, then. Just that one." Constance was 
 thinking of Rose how lovely she had looked that 
 morning with her wide, brilliant eyes frightened, 
 perhaps and her over-red cheeks. The older sister 
 had wondered in passing whether Rose were fever- 
 ish or too lavishly rouged. "I wish she'd come," she 
 repeated aloud. 
 
 "Who, Mummy?" Suzanne looked up, spoon in 
 hand.
 
 318 SUPPORT 
 
 "Auntie Rose. She hasn't been here since this 
 morning." 
 
 "I wish Auntie Rose would come," Suzanne agreed. 
 "Mummy, she'll come, won't she?" 
 
 "I don't know," murmured Mummy. "Why, yes, 
 of course she'll come," she corrected herself 
 briskly. "Hurry up, now, and get through, so that 
 you can have your pudding." 
 
 When Suzanne had eaten, Constance took her up 
 to bed, calling out to Mrs. Fenton, "You and father 
 go on and eat. I'll come down before you've fin- 
 ished." 
 
 Constance put Suzanne on the bed, and began un- 
 buttoning the child's shoes. Her hands faltered at 
 the task. "See if you can't take them off, darling," 
 she said. She got up from her knees and went into 
 Rose's room. Her fingers were clumsy as she lighted 
 the gas. The room looked extraordinarily neat. The 
 white counterpane was fresh and smooth ; the dresser 
 scarf was unblemished, and no toilet articles lay 
 upon it. There were no articles of clothing lying 
 about. Rose was not especially careful with her 
 belongings, and there was usually a hat in evidence 
 in her room, or a pair of shoes, or a glove "or a scarf. 
 Now there was nothing of the sort to be discerned. 
 The room seemed ominously bare. 
 
 Constance stepped to the door of the clothes-closet 
 and threw it open. Clothes hung thinly on the pole 
 which supported a row of coat-hangers. What was 
 missing? Constance, numb with fear, fumbled 
 among the garments. The silk kimono was gone,
 
 SUPPORT 319 
 
 the dark blue satin dress, the winter suit, of course 
 (Constance had bought it for Rose in the autumn) ; 
 Rose was probably wearing that. The best after- 
 noon dress was not to be seen, either a dull-blue 
 crepe, skillfully made over from one of Mrs. Mof- 
 fatt's though it might be hanging in the hall ward- 
 robe. Other things were lacking slippers, a velvet 
 toque which Constance had copied from one in 
 Vogue, and which Rose wore with a ravishing grace. 
 A search in the dresser revealed an absence of humble 
 necessaries, like brush and comb, hand-mirror, and 
 hair-pins, to say nothing of the pile of fresh hand- 
 kerchiefs which Constance herself had put into the 
 top -drawer. 
 
 Constance pushed the drawer shut. She found 
 herself saying over and over, "Oh, God! Oh, God! 
 she's gone!" just like a woman in a play. She stood 
 wringing her hands and sobbing without tears. 
 
 Then she controlled herself. She was acting in 
 a silly melodramatic fashion. Probably Rose had 
 merely gone to stay with someone Agnes Errol, 
 possibly, or Cynthia DeVoe. Of late, Rose had seen 
 but little of her college friends, because she had been 
 so much with Schelling; but she kept up a desultory 
 association with a few of them. Constance thought 
 of telephoning to Cynthia, then shook her head. "I 
 won't say anything," she muttered. 
 
 She had forgotten Suzanne; but now an injured 
 voice came from her own room : "Mum-mee ! Mum- 
 me-e-e! Aren't you comin' back?" 
 
 Constance hastened to undress Suzanne, with
 
 320 SUPPORT 
 
 apologies for her delay. Hardly aware of what she was 
 saying, she repeated the story of the Little Red Hen. 
 Suzanne corrected her a dozen times on important 
 details in the story what the cat said, and what the 
 rat said, and the course of the retribution which fol- 
 lowed upon indolence. 
 
 The older sister could not eat any supper. She 
 tried gulping down some meat and bread, but they 
 choked her. Mrs. Fenton was reading the Evening 
 News. "It says here," she announced, "that H. 
 Schelling, of the Clinton Street Garage, has been out 
 of town for several days, on business. I wish he'd 
 go oftener," she made comment. 
 
 "M-m-m," answered Constance. "Did you order 
 coffee, mother?" 
 
 "Goodness! no." Mrs. Fenton laid down the 
 paper, and half rose in consternation. "I forgot it. 
 There won't be any for breakfast, and your father 
 will be up in arms." 
 
 "I'll go out to the delicatessen on the Avenue. It 
 will be open." Constance was glad of the errand. 
 Her soul was heavy with forebodings. Rain was 
 falling and the wind swirled wetly round the cor- 
 ners. "Oh, poor Rose! poor Rose!" Constance kept 
 repeating, as if she knew her sister to be lying de- 
 fenseless in the storm. 
 
 When she came back with the coffee, her father 
 had gone to bed. He had a pain in his back, Mrs. 
 Fenton explained. "He said I ought to sit up till 
 Rose came home." She looked queerly at her daugh- 
 ter, through the dimness of the hall.
 
 SUPPORT 321 
 
 Constance felt her hands shaking as she took off 
 her cape. "Mother," she said thickly. 
 
 "What?" Mrs. Fenton's voice had in it a rasping 
 of unadmitted fear. 
 
 "Mother, you go up and look in Rose's room," said 
 Constance, keeping her face immobile. 
 
 "Why? What's there?" Mrs. Fenton shrank. 
 
 "Well, just go and look. I left the gas burning." 
 
 Mrs. Fenton turned obediently and climbed the 
 stairs. Constance hung up her wraps with machine- 
 like motions. She was cold, but her shuddering had 
 left her. In a few moments her mother came heav- 
 ily down the stairs. Her expression betokened re- 
 lief. "I don't see anything. It looks all right," 
 she said. 
 
 Constance turned her gently about. "Won't you 
 look again? Look in the clothes closet. Look in 
 the dresser." 
 
 "Connie, what in the world?" The older woman's 
 face was curiously obstinate. 
 
 "Go and look." Constance stood tense while her 
 mother, breathing hard, went up the long red-car- 
 peted stairs. "I couldn't tell her," the younger 
 woman justified herself. She heard sounds upstairs 
 her mother's step on the floor, the opening of the 
 closet door, the shutting of dresser drawers. 
 
 Mrs. Fenton came down the stairs, blundering a 
 little on the lower steps. Her face was a gray ter- 
 ror, mixed with scorn for her consent to fear. She 
 stood holding to the newel post. It seemed a long 
 time before she spoke. "She hasn't she wouldn't
 
 322 SUPPORT 
 
 " the woman panted. "Oh, Connie! what do 
 
 you think?" 
 
 "I don't know what to think, mother," said Con- 
 stance. "I dare not think. Maybe she's all right." 
 
 "She must be all right." Mrs. Fenton began shak- 
 ing violently, with a palsy-like tremor. "The paper 
 said he'd gone out of town," she added, hardly able 
 to speak. "What can we do? Oh, what can we 
 do?" 
 
 "I don't know," said Constance. "I think we'll 
 have to wait." 
 
 "What time is it?" Mrs. Fenton looked around 
 vaguely, as if she expected to see any number of 
 clocks materializing in the hall. 
 
 Constance went to look. Her mother followed her 
 into the sitting-room. "Only ten minutes after 
 nine. She may come at any moment now." 
 
 But they both knew that Rose was not coming 
 home that night. They stood staring, their mouths 
 open, their hands reaching out unsteadily. Then 
 the mother was holding to a chair a tall woman 
 broken by weeping. Her shoulders were heaving 
 horribly under her gray knitted jacket. 
 
 Constance put her arm around her. "Come, 
 mother," she begged, "don't do that. We don't 
 know she may be all right. Come, mother." 
 
 They sat there in the sitting-room till two o'clock. 
 Now and then Constance went down and put more 
 coal upon the furnace fire. Each hour was inter- 
 minable. Upstairs Mr. Fenton made no sign. He 
 was a heavy sleeper; and the women kept quiet for
 
 SUPPORT 323 
 
 fear of disturbing him. "I hope she'll come back 
 before her father knows," whispered Mrs. Fenton, 
 as if even mentioning her husband's name were 
 dangerous. 
 
 Most of the time they said nothing. Mrs. Fen- 
 ton sat huddled up, her hands working nervously in 
 her lap, or clutching at the frayed upholstering of 
 her chair. Sometimes she nodded, jerking herself 
 upright with a guilty start. Once she gave a stifled 
 shriek, "Perhaps she's drowned herself!" 
 
 "Nonsense! Of course she hasn't," the daughter 
 answered promptly. "That's not like Rose. You 
 needn't give that a thought." Some people consid- 
 ered drowning a mild disaster compared to some 
 other things, she was thinking; but it was not neces- 
 sary to give voice to such opinions. 
 
 Constance could not sit still. She moved about, 
 from one chair to another, tiptoed up to see if Su- 
 zanne were warmly covered, and to put out the gas, 
 still flaring accusingly in Rose's room. She heated 
 milk in the kitchen, and made her mother drink it; 
 and gave anxious attention to the fires. She took 
 up books and papers, and put them down again, 
 tried to crochet, to sew, to cross-stitch, but flung the 
 work aside. At two o'clock, she said, whitening, "It's 
 of no use, mother. She isn't coming home. You 
 must go to bed." 
 
 Mrs. Fenton stood up, haggard and trembling. A 
 change came over her face. She turned savagely 
 upon her daughter. "It's your fault, Constance 
 Moffatt (there was repudiation in her use of the
 
 224 SUPPORT 
 
 married name). You've encouraged her in this, I'll 
 warrant. You've egged her on 
 
 "Mother!" Constance was aghast, quivering at 
 the insult. "You know yourself that that's untrue." 
 'But there was no use in showing resentment at what 
 was said in the insanity of grief. 
 
 "Have we got to have another disgrace in the fam- 
 ily?" The older woman fell to crying again, her 
 face twisted, her wrinkles deepened by her anguish. 
 "I can't bear it ! I can't bear it ! " She lifted up her 
 voice in a wail, regardless of who might hear. 
 
 There were sounds above and on the stairs. Mr. 
 Fenton, pale, inadequately dressed, appeared at the 
 doorway of the sitting-room. His jaw was moving 
 up and down in his effort at speech. His blue eyes 
 protruded, like Wilbur's. The two women gazed at 
 him, dreading his wrath. 
 
 "Where's Rose?" His voice was hoarse. "Hasn't 
 she come in?" They were silent, shrinking. "Hasn't 
 she?" he echoed himself fiercely. 
 
 "No but " Mrs. Fenton began. 
 
 Mr. Fenton took a step forward. "Where is she, 
 then?" he shouted. 
 
 "We don't know, Fred," his wife found courage to 
 say. His arrival had had the effect of turning aside 
 her accusations. 
 
 "Don't know? Why don't you know?" This was 
 mere bluster, to cover fear. 
 
 Mrs. Fenton was moaning. "Oh, Fred, she's gone. 
 You know as well as we do that she's gone." 
 
 "Constance, do you know where she is?" The old
 
 SUPPORT 325 
 
 man faced his daughter, an almost physical threat in 
 his clenched fists. 
 
 "No, father, I don't." Again Constance realized 
 the futility of anger. 
 
 "You do, too." He came toward her, glowering. 
 
 "Don't be foolish, father." She marveled that she 
 could speak quietly, unresentfully, without con- 
 tempt. 
 
 He stepped back, growing limp, mumbling apolo- 
 gies. "Of course she's gone with that damned 
 hound," he brought out, snarling, "but I wouldn't 
 accuse anyone else of helping her to get away." 
 
 Somehow they subsided, lapsed into stolidity, 
 forced each other off to bed. There was no sleep for 
 them except the fretted stupor of weariness. 
 
 In the morning, they were white, heavy-eyed, too 
 wretched for discussion or reproach. Suzanne was 
 hungry and eager, asking incessantly for Auntie 
 Rose. "She fixes my orange juice for me," she cried, 
 in her high little voice ; "and she puts lots of sugar 
 on my oatmeal." 
 
 "She'll come pretty soon, I think," said Constance. 
 "Don't talk, dear. Grandma feels sorry about 
 something." 
 
 "About Auntie Rose?" the merciless little voice 
 retorted. 
 
 With a gurgling oath, Mr. Fenton set down his 
 coffee-cup, pushed back his chair, and left the table. 
 
 "Oh, I can't bear it!" Mrs. Fenton put her head 
 down and sobbed. 
 
 Constance hurried Suzanne out of the room.
 
 326 SUPPORT 
 
 "Let's eat our oatmeal in the kitchen," she coaxed. 
 "It's so nice and warm by the coal-stove." 
 
 It was a dark day, with a cutting wind and flur- 
 ries of rain a day fitted to make one's sorrows the 
 gloomier. Mrs. Fenton showed her ravaged face at 
 the kitchen door. "You aren't going to the shop 
 to-day, are you, Connie?" 
 
 Constance had been rejoicing that she could take 
 Suzanne and escape, since there seemed nothing that 
 she could do at home. "Why, I have to, mother," 
 she said. "I have my new stock to unpack and ar- 
 range, and I've told a number of people about things 
 that were to be ready for them to-day. I don't see 
 how I can shut the shop up entirely. Besides, it 
 would be too conspicuous." 
 
 "I thought Lida might stay there," ventured Mrs. 
 Fenton. 
 
 "She has to go to her classes; and anyhow, she 
 doesn't know about the new things. They aren't 
 marked or even unpacked." Constance went into 
 the dining-room, and put her arm around her moth- 
 er's shoulders. "See here, mother," she went on as 
 gently as she could, "we have a lot of family pride, 
 haven't we? We aren't going to say anything about 
 this till we have to. Are we?" 
 
 "No, no! Of course not, Connie." Mrs. Fenton 
 wiped her eyes, and pressed her hand against her 
 lips. She steadied herself. "I don't intend to say 
 a word. Your father won't, either. He doesn't even 
 want Wilbur to know." 
 
 "Wilbur least of all!" exclaimed the other, fer-
 
 SUPPORT 327 
 
 vently. "Rose may come back at any minute, and 
 explain where she has been, and this will all blow 
 over. We don't want to get Wilbur on the war- 
 path." 
 
 "No, no!" Mrs. Fenton consented. 
 
 "I'll keep Suzanne with me. You go on just as 
 much as you can as if nothing had happened," Con- 
 stance urged. "You can call me on the telephone if 
 you hear anything. It's a good thing I succeeded 
 in getting it installed. I'll call you once in a while, 
 too." 
 
 So convinced were they all of Rose's flight with 
 (or to) Herman Schelling that they did not even 
 consider any other aspect of her absence. Their 
 only hope was that Rose might repent her rashness 
 before disaster became irrevocable. 
 
 Constance, dressing to go out, saw her own face so 
 white in the looking-glass that she rummaged for a 
 box of rouge, which she seldom brought into requisi- 
 tion. With her high color and the proud poise of 
 her head, she gave an impression of ease and satis- 
 faction which accorded ill with the deadly sorrow in 
 her heart. In the shop, she had a day more than 
 ordinarily busy. The arrival of new goods neces- 
 sitated the rearrangement of the cupboard and the 
 shelves. It seemed, too, that every time she made a 
 carefully-worked-out display in the window, some- 
 body bought one of the articles of which it was com- 
 posed, and she had to think the whole thing out 
 again. Between tasks she was at her hand-work, 
 hemming guest towels for their crocheted borders.
 
 328 SUPPORT 
 
 Suzanne was in a romping mood, and claimed her 
 share of attention. 
 
 Once an hour, Constance called her mother on the 
 telephone: "Any news?" 
 
 "No, not any." The reply would be given in a 
 broken voice, trailing off into sobs. 
 
 "I'll come home as early as I can," said Constance, 
 in misery for her mother's suffering. "Don't you 
 want Mrs. Clarges or someone to come and stay with 
 you?" Her father, she knew, was but small conso- 
 lation. 
 
 "No! no!" anwered Mrs. Fenton, almost wildly. 
 "We can't have anyone wondering and prying. I 
 couldn't bear that." 
 
 "Well, don't give way. Please don't," the daugh- 
 ter pleaded. "It may come out all right, yet." 
 
 "I don't see how it can." 
 
 "Well, I'll come home a soon as possible." It was 
 goading pride which forced Constance to go about 
 her shop as if nothing had happened. Once she saw 
 Hilda Farrar passing, on the other side of the street, 
 but she hardly gave her a thought, so full was her 
 mind of anguish and terror for the absent little sis- 
 ter. 
 
 Early in the afternoon, Sally Rathvon telephoned 
 breathlessly. "Oh, Connie! I've heard of a little 
 apartment over on College Avenue that's going to 
 be for rent, right away. It's so hard to get anything 
 at this tune of year, that it seems almost a miracle 
 to hear of one. Don't you want to go and look at 
 it?" Sally, of course, knew nothing of Rose's flight.
 
 SUPPORT 329 
 
 "My dear Sally," said Constance, herself almost 
 breathless at the very thought of a "little apart- 
 ment" that she might at least "look at" "I don't 
 want to hear about it. I can't afford an apartment, 
 and I can't leave mother alone." 
 
 "Alone! Good gracious, there are your father 
 and Rose; she had them before you came, and per- 
 haps was just as happy." 
 
 "Perhaps," said Constance, with a pang. In spite 
 of her efforts and intentions, she had not succeeded 
 in making her mother happier. "How does that flat 
 happen to be for rent?" 
 
 "Why, one of the instructors in Grif s department 
 had it, that young Doctor Kohlsaat, you know ; and 
 he's been called to the University of Colorado, to 
 take the place of someone who died or something, 
 I don't know exactly what. He and his wife are 
 moving right out. They have a year's lease, of 
 course, but they want to sublet." 
 
 "It's a great chance!" meditated Constance. "I 
 wish I could have it, Sally. Do you know how many 
 rooms there are?" 
 
 "Three or four, I don't know which. I called on 
 the Kohlsaats, but I've forgotten. You could make 
 the place look a lot better. It's a kind of cheap flat, 
 you know, Connie up two flights, and at the back 
 of the house, and one of the bedrooms has a sloping 
 roof, I think Mrs. Kohlsaat told me. The rent is 
 almost nothing. Oh, Connie!" Mrs. Rathvon's 
 voice vibrated with her eagerness that her friend 
 should have a home. "It would be wicked not to
 
 330 SUPPORT 
 
 take it, when you want a place of your own so 
 much!" 
 
 "I know, dear." Even in her wretchedness, Con- 
 stance felt herself thrilling at the prospect of a place 
 
 of her own. "But " 
 
 "Don't turn it down without thinking it over," 
 Mrs. Rathvon admonished her. "Promise me that." 
 "I won't." It was easy to promise, but harder to 
 think. 
 
 "Is there anything the matter?" asked Sally sus- 
 piciously. "Your voice sounds queer." 
 
 "There's always something the matter," answered 
 Constance with an evasive laugh. 
 "Is there anything new?" 
 
 "I can't tell you now. There's someone coming 
 in." Constance left the telephone, and went to wait 
 on a customer. "A cheap little flat!" she was saying 
 to herself. "Just room enough for Suzanne and me; 
 and the rent almost nothing." It would seem silly, 
 she knew, to lookers-on, for her to leave a big house, 
 in which she could be with her father and mother, 
 and take a ratty little place under a roof, just to be 
 by herself. It would look as if the family couldn't 
 get along together as if they had quarreled, or as 
 if she had made herself unpleasant. It would be a 
 ridiculous thing to do. She shrank at the thought 
 of what Wilbur would say. 
 
 Wilbur. He had a home now. She remembered 
 with what quickened pulses she had listened to his 
 description it had trees, a garden, a vine over the 
 porch. There was a good deal of difference between
 
 SUPPORT 331 
 
 that sort of home, and the three little rooms, two 
 flights up. But then, she had Suzanne; and Wilbur 
 had no child. After all, things were evened. It was 
 right that Wilbur should have a home. It was too 
 bad to pay out everything one earned for rent. It 
 had been hard, too, for both Wilbur and Eleanor not 
 to have the free use of what Wilbur earned. They 
 had given up a good deal for Mr. and Mrs. Fenton. 
 "I'm glad they can have their home, anyhow," Con- 
 stance was thinking, "even if a little of my money 
 had to go into it. But now they mustn't complain if 
 I want a little corner that I can call my own." It 
 was not a question of space, she argued. It was a 
 question of individuality of unhampered develop- 
 ment for herself and for Suzanne. 
 
 Lida, the high-school girl who helped her, came at 
 five o'clock. With a few hurried instructions about 
 the new stock, Constance took Suzanne and went 
 home, unwillingly, and yet with speed. Hopes and 
 forebodings urged her on. Suzanne trotted happily 
 beside her. "Will Auntie Rose be home?" she asked, 
 holding close to her foster-mother's hand. 
 
 "I hope so, dearie." Constance was sick with 
 apprehension when she reached the door. 
 
 Her mother met her with a letter in her hand. "A 
 special," she said. "It came just a minute ago." 
 
 Constance felt her hand shaking as she reached for 
 the letter. "Is it good news?" she found voice to 
 ask. 
 
 "No, except that she's alive." 
 
 The letter contained only a few words: Dear
 
 332 SUPPORT 
 
 mother, I thought you might be worrying about me. 
 Don't. I'm all right. Rose. 
 
 "The postmark?" cried Constance, turning over 
 the envelope with anxious haste. 
 
 "It was mailed on the train. The mark is blurred, 
 too." Mrs. Fenton spoke without hope. 
 
 Constance put down the letter with a baffled ges- 
 ture. For a moment, she had had a vision of herself 
 rushing off to whatever town the postmark bade, 
 snatching her sister from agonies and perils. "Oh, 
 well, mother, we're thankful that we've heard," she 
 said. "And all we can do is wait." She knelt to 
 help Suzanne with the ribbons of her kitty-hood, 
 which had a way of getting damply knotted. Con- 
 stance's head was swimming. She had neither slept 
 nor eaten, she had had a hard day, and now the sud- 
 den hope and its destruction left her weak. She 
 fumbled at the ribbons, hardly able to lift her 
 hands. Trembling, she drew the head of her child 
 to her breast. "Oh, Rose! Rose!" she cried. "Oh, 
 darling, your lovely Auntie Rose!" For a space not 
 even courage could suppress her grief.
 
 CHAPTER XIII 
 
 THAT night, Mrs. Fenton, exhausted and at least 
 a trifle relieved, went to bed early. Mr. Fenton shut 
 himself into the study. Suzanne went obediently to 
 bed at her usual hour. Constance had regained con- 
 trol of herself, and had been refreshed by a substan- 
 tial dinner. "Why shouldn't I go and look at that 
 flat?" she asked herself, when the house had settled 
 down to silence, and she had finished putting the 
 kitchen in order. She was tired beyond all expres- 
 sion too tired to sleep and too nervous to sit 
 calmly down with needle or book. "It will distract 
 my attention from my troubles," she said. 
 
 She put on her wraps and went quietly out. She 
 had looked up the address of the Kohlsaats in the 
 College Directory, so that she was not at a loss to 
 find the place. It was in a good, though not elegant, 
 part of the Avenue, and the house was a modern 
 wooden structure which had been turned into flats. 
 She found the young couple in the midst of packing, 
 bewildered but happy in the prospect of a bettered 
 position. There were really four rooms, besides the 
 bath: a living room, two bedrooms (one with the 
 sloping ceiling), and a tiny clean white kitchen. The 
 
 333
 
 334 SUPPORT 
 
 rent was laughably low to anyone who had paid 
 the prices demanded by New York landlords; but 
 even so it presented a terrifying aspect to Constance, 
 whose income was not yet assured, and whose con- 
 science was still heavy with the debt to Sally. The 
 flat was steam-heated, so that there would not be 
 any question of buying coal that precious com- 
 modity which was purchased at such a heart-break- 
 ing price and which vanished away with such sicken- 
 ing rapidity. Even though she furnished it 
 meagerly, there would be a considerable expense 
 involved in getting moved and settled. And there 
 would be other expenses those things mount up so. 
 Dare she attempt it? She bit her lips, pondering. 
 The Kohlsaats were eager to close with her. Mrs. 
 Rathvon, it seemed, had assured them that she 
 would take it, and had urged them to save it until 
 she came! Misery makes people reckless. "I 
 couldn't be much worse off than I am now," thought 
 Constance, at the same time permitting herself the 
 smallest glimmer of a hope that sometime Rose 
 would come back and would accept a refuge. She 
 assured the Kohlsaats that she would take the flat, 
 paying rent from the beginning of the month, which 
 was only a few days off. She gave them a check for 
 ten dollars, to bind the bargain. 
 
 She went home seething with surprise, distrust, 
 anxiety, and self-condemnation. No doubt she had 
 done a foolish thing, which might have to be cor- 
 rected, with chagrin. But again she had done what 
 she desired, and again her heart exulted. She could
 
 SUPPORT 335 
 
 stand the humiliation, if it came; and there was a 
 chance that her little domestic venture might not 
 fail. Back in the sitting-room at home, she devoted 
 some hours to financial calculations; and she wrote 
 a letter to Wilbur, asking him to find her a hundred 
 dollars. She made her petition urgent, but humble, 
 as became a sister asking a favor of a brother. She 
 made no mention of the tragedy of Rose. 
 
 During the dreadful days which followed, she 
 worked harder than ever, grateful for the labors 
 which kept her from losing her mind with worry. 
 At home, Mrs. Fenton was half-distracted with her 
 new affliction. She spent a good deal of the time in 
 tears. Mr. Fenton was morose and wordless. He 
 stayed nearly all the time in the study, reading or 
 brooding. Sometimes he paced back and forth, with 
 mutterings. When callers came they had not many 
 and mention was made of Rose, they said casually 
 that Rose had gone away for a few days hoping 
 fervently that their statement was true. Suzanne 
 began to droop again under the influence of gloom. 
 She asked continually for Auntie Rose. "I feel as if 
 I must keep her out of the house," thought 
 Constance. 
 
 The news of the apartment fell upon listless ears. 
 Where a few days before, there would have been 
 angry opposition, there was now only weary indiffer- 
 ence. The disappearance of Rose so overshadowed
 
 336 SUPPORT 
 
 everything else that the idea of Constance's moving 
 was regarded with incredulity and later with resigna- 
 tion. It would be a little while before the flat could 
 be put in order some of Constance's furnishings 
 were to come on from New York and in the mean- 
 time there were other things to think about. Con- 
 stance privately decided not to wait for the favors 
 which the freight departments of the railroads might 
 confer upon her. She made furtive preparations for 
 taking up her abode in the bare little flat. Wilbur 
 had, almost to her amazement, sent her the hundred 
 dollars. He explained that Eleanor's father had lent 
 it to him, counting it as a help in buying the house. 
 He intimated that her getting "hard up" was no sur- 
 prise to him, and he hoped that she would not go to 
 smash entirely. He sent love to his father and 
 mother and Rose. 
 
 Sally was overjoyed at the courage which Con- 
 stance had exhibited in taking the flat. "You and 
 Suzanne couldn't go on living there in the house," 
 she said. "It would have been too much for both 
 of you." 
 
 "It's a frightful economic waste," said Constance 
 guiltily; "keeping up two establishments where one 
 would serve as well." 
 
 "You could say that of any two families," Sally 
 retorted. "Mr. Brown and his wife and children 
 might live with Mr. Smith and his wife and children, 
 and they would all save money. But they want 
 their individual homes." 
 
 "I see," answered Constance. "But don't you
 
 SUPPORT 337 
 
 think I'm cruel, to go and leave mother?" This was 
 the question which had given her the most concern, 
 in spite of her financial shortage. 
 
 "No, I don't," said Sally, with a burst of her un- 
 wonted brusquerie. "I believe she'll be happier 
 when you've gone. She doesn't approve what you 
 do, and Suzanne worries her; and now that Mrs. 
 Greening comes in more frequently, she won't miss 
 your help around the house quite so much as she 
 would have missed it a while ago. You're out so 
 much that she has got used to your absence. Now 
 she'll see you every day, but without the annoyance 
 of a closer contact." 
 
 "But Rose " began Constance, feeling brave 
 
 enough to speak. Then all at once she was leaning 
 on Sally's shoulder, gasping out the story of the little 
 sister gone. 
 
 Sally waited till the gust of emotion had passed. 
 Then she gave her comforting pronouncement: 
 "Well, Connie, don't take too hopeless a view of it. 
 If she's married him, it's unfortunate, but not eter- 
 nally tragic. You've proved, yourself, that an un- 
 desirable marriage can be dissolved. If she hasn't 
 married him, so much the better. It's less, hi a 
 way, to work out of. But anyhow, you can't man- 
 age her life for her. She'll have to be an individual, 
 like anybody else." 
 
 "I know it." Constance found herself seeing the 
 affair more sanely. "I feel, myself, that individu- 
 ality is the greatest thing in life. The attempt to 
 dominate another person's life is the greatest crime."
 
 338 SUPPORT 
 
 "You're more than half right. And I'm strongly 
 of the opinion that Rose will come back. Try to be 
 as sensible as you can, dear. You have your own 
 plans to think of. If you have those in order," Mrs. 
 Rathvon continued sagely, "you'll be hi a far better 
 state to do something for Rose when she needs it." 
 "Oh, if I only can!" Constance pressed the hand 
 which was caressing hers. "Well, I'll go ahead with 
 the flat." 
 
 "I would." The commonplace good sense which 
 Sally just escaped overdoing had a bracing effect 
 upon her friend. "I was going to say that there are 
 one or two things around the house that I could let 
 you take for a while, until you feel more like spend- 
 ing money on furniture. There's that Canton chair, 
 and there's that mirror in the hall upstairs, and let 
 me see some cushions and bookshelves, and a few 
 other things. You have bedding, I suppose?" 
 
 "Yes, and table-linen, and curtains and such 
 things, and a rug or two the sort of thing that I 
 could pack into boxes." 
 
 "Goodness me ! Your flat is furnished already. I 
 know you hate a cluttered house and a lot of flub- 
 dubs around, as much as I do. Tell me something," 
 said Sally suddenly, "are you seeing anything of 
 Alison?" 
 
 Constance started. She had been so absorbed in 
 the affairs of the home that she had hardly had time 
 for Alison. She shook her head. "Not very much," 
 she admitted. "He doesn't approve of my having 
 the shop "
 
 SUPPORT 339 
 
 "Of course he wouldn't!" 
 
 "And then there's " 
 
 "Hilda Farrar." Sally supplied the name over 
 which the tongue of Constance stumbled. 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Is he going back to her?" 
 
 "I don't know. It looks like it." Constance 
 turned her face away. 
 
 Mrs. Rathvon took hold of her arm. "Con- 
 nie " she said. 
 
 "What is it?" Constance faced her with an effort, 
 biting her lip. 
 
 "Nothing. I won't say it." 
 
 Constance went over to the flat that evening, after 
 Suzanne was in bed. She let herself in and turned 
 on the lights. Her heart, heavy as it was, managed a 
 leap of happiness. She stood visualizing the home 
 as it would be. Boxes and pieces of furniture stood 
 where the draymen had left them. Mentally she 
 placed the old mahogany secretary-on-legs which her 
 mother had given her from the sewing-room at 
 home; the gate-legged table which was to come 
 from New York; Sally's Canton chair and book- 
 cases ; the cot-couch which she had found in the attic 
 brother to the one that had helped to furbish up 
 the back room at the shop; the two Baloochistan 
 rugs; the low willow chair which she had bought. 
 Impulsively she darted forward, and began pushing
 
 340 SUPPORT 
 
 the furniture about, forcing each piece to take a po- 
 sition where it would count for the most. She pried 
 open the boxes, dragging out a couch-cover, cush- 
 ions, the two rugs. She spread the rugs and the 
 cover, plumped the pillows, pinned up a square of 
 Chinese embroidery with thumb-tacks, stuck up a 
 Japanese print over the bookcase. She couldn't get 
 the covers off the boxes of books; so they had to 
 wait. But even with that disadvantage, the place 
 began to take on a semblance of a home. She had 
 brought a parcel of curtains, shortened and freshly 
 pressed; she put them up, rejoicing in the curtain- 
 rods ready at hand. She pushed and hauled the full 
 and half-empty boxes to the kitchen, and then stood 
 again in the middle of the sitting-room, exhausted 
 but triumphant. Here was the poor little "corner 
 which she could call her own," and already she loved 
 it more than any other home she had ever had. 
 
 She could not refrain from going on, to the bed- 
 rooms. In one of them stood a white iron bed, 
 salvaged from Sally's storeroom (a mahogany one 
 was coming from New York). She got out linen 
 and made the bed, and rummaged successfully for 
 blankets. She would buy some second-hand pine 
 furniture, and paint it, for the bedrooms. Until 
 then, and until her things came on from the East, 
 she would have to "camp out." It didn't matter. 
 She would love that, too. 
 
 When she got home, her mother was sitting up, 
 faintly reproachful. "You were out a long time," 
 she said.
 
 SUPPORT 341 
 
 "Why didn't you go to bed?" Constance still bore 
 in her face the exaltation which had flashed upon 
 her when she glimpsed the unfolding of her home. 
 "Mother, my flat's almost ready. Suzanne and I 
 could get on very well there now." 
 
 Mrs. Fenton half started from her chair. "Don't 
 go, Connie! Don't go yet," she cried. "Don't go 
 till Rose " She could not frame the rest. 
 
 Constance sat down, uncertain how to reply. "I 
 wish I could promise, mother, dear," she said. "But 
 it may be a long time " 
 
 "Well, wait a little while," the older woman 
 begged. 
 
 "I will." 
 
 Mrs. Fenton turned to her daughter, saying for 
 the fiftieth time, "Oh, if she is only married!" That 
 thought now filled her mind. 
 
 Constance's lip curled. She weighed her answer, 
 and then made none at all. After a while she said, 
 "Mother, won't you go to bed?" 
 
 Mrs. Fenton rose heavily with the motion of an 
 old woman. Constance had never seen her body 
 yield quite that gesture, before. "It's hard, wait- 
 ing," said the mother of Rose. 
 
 After all, they did not have long to wait. The 
 next evening, Rose came home. Constance was in 
 her room, putting it in order after Suzanne had gone 
 to sleep. All at once there was a ringing in her
 
 342 SUPPORT 
 
 ears, and she had a suffocated feeling in her throat. 
 She had heard the opening and shutting of the street 
 door, a wild exclamation, a hurried confusion of 
 voices. "Rose!" Constance closed her eyes, steady- 
 ing herself against the nearest solid thing at hand. 
 Her relief almost equaled her fear. 
 
 She heard Rose saying, "Not now, mother " 
 and then, brokenly, "I want Connie." 
 
 Constance flew to the top of the stairs. Rose was 
 coming up. Her father and mother stood, awed and 
 protesting, below. Rose had lost the spring in her 
 step, but she came swiftly. Constance received her 
 without a word, almost without a caress merely a 
 touch of love upon the cheek. 
 
 "My room," said Rose imperiously. Constance 
 drew her into the room and lighted the gas. She 
 shut the door, and turned to her sister. Pity and 
 anger and sorrow weighed upon her heart. "Oh, 
 Rose! Rose!" was all that she could say. 
 
 Bravado fell from the girl like the garment which 
 she tossed upon the bed. "Oh, Connie ! " She threw 
 herself into a chair, and bent her forehead to her 
 arms. She was trembling and convulsed, yet she did 
 not weep. 
 
 "Poor, poor child!" Connie put her arm tightly 
 over Rose's shoulder, and stood waiting for the 
 paroxysm to spend itself. 
 
 "Oh, Connie, Connie!" There seemed no more 
 words within Rose's power of speech. 
 
 For a long time the sisters stayed thus. Rose kept 
 her face hidden. Constance wanted to say, "Tell
 
 SUPPORT 343 
 
 me," but she restrained herself. "I don't want to 
 force her to tell me anything," she thought. "It 
 wouldn't be fair." 
 
 Rose raised her head, with her eyes closed, her 
 hands clenched, and made a despairing gesture. 
 Then she sank back into her former posture of grief. 
 
 "Listen, Rose," said Constance firmly, shaking the 
 girl's shoulder, "you're back at home, now. Every- 
 thing is all right. Stand up. Take off your hat. 
 There, that's better. Where are your gloves? Here 
 they are. You're all wet. It's a horrible day." 
 
 "Yes, a horrible day," echoed Rose, wincing. 
 
 "It's over now." Constance was grim and prac- 
 tical. "Take off your skirt. It's drabbled, short as 
 it is," she said with a humorless smile. Rose obeyed, 
 as if glad to humble herself to her sister's commands. 
 "Take off your shoes. I'll get my kimono." Con- 
 stance went into her own room. In the glass, her 
 face looked strange and harrowed. Back in Rose's 
 room, she bustled about, pulling down the shades, 
 turning back the counterpane, and replacing the 
 pillows. "Now lie down and rest. You're worn 
 out." 
 
 "Yes worn out." Rose lay down, cuddled like 
 a child, with her knees up. She closed her eyes, 
 sighing. Her lips trembled, and at intervals she 
 shivered. 
 
 "Now you must have something to eat," said Con- 
 stance. 
 
 "No, no!" 
 
 "Yes. You haven't eaten anything, all day, have
 
 344 SUPPORT 
 
 you?" Constance was standing by the bed, looking 
 down at the girl's white face. 
 
 "I don't think so. I can't remember." 
 
 "Lie still. Don't think about anything." Con- 
 stance brought a light covering and tucked it about 
 the supine young creature on the bed; then closed 
 the door, and went downstairs. 
 
 In the hall, her mother clutched at her. "How is 
 she? What does she say?" 
 
 "She's all right. Just tired. She doesn't say any- 
 thing. What is there to say?" Constance spoke 
 coldly to quench her mother's burning fears. 
 
 "Is she is she " 
 
 "Married?" Constance supplied the word. "I 
 hope not," she said vehemently. 
 
 Mrs. Fenton drew back shocked, as at some blas- 
 phemy. "How can you?" she cried, putting up her 
 hands. 
 
 "What good would it be?" 
 
 "It's bad enough but it's better than not," the 
 older woman defended herself. 
 
 "Is it?" Constance heard her father pacing in the 
 study. "There isn't much for him to say," she 
 thought swiftly, remembering his past. She was 
 glad she had not said it to him. Old age was pun- 
 ishment enough, without the cruelty of gibes. Mrs. 
 Fenton crept to the study door. Constance went on 
 into the kitchen, and prepared a hot dish on a tray. 
 She hurried with her task, uneasy at leaving Rose 
 alone. Then she went up the back stairs with her 
 tray.
 
 SUPPORT 345 
 
 Rose had not moved, but she was not dozing. Her 
 eyes were open, staring at the ceiling. Constance 
 put her tray on the stand beside the bed. In her 
 mind was a passage from the New Testament, "and 
 he commanded that something should be given her 
 to eat." She could not place it. 
 
 She made Rose sit up and eat the food before her. 
 The face of the girl took on more color. She ate 
 mechanically, but with growing gratitude. "It was 
 what I needed," she confessed. 
 
 Constance put the tray aside. She leaned over the 
 girl. "Rose!" she whispered. 
 
 Her voice and face had in them so much tender- 
 ness that all reserve gave way. Rose put up her 
 arms and held her sister's cheek to hers. "How can I 
 go on?" she said at last. 
 
 "You've left him?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Did you were you ?" 
 
 "Married yes. At Waukegan. He had a license ; 
 he went on ahead." The voice was almost 
 inaudible. 
 
 Constance hesitated. "But why " 
 
 "I don't know. I don't know." The girl's body 
 writhed with shame. "I don't know why I did it. 
 How does one know? I suppose it was because I 
 thought it would be daring and because everybody 
 was so opposed to it because everybody was 
 against me." Her voice broke. "I can't see what 
 else could have made me do it." 
 
 Constance sickened with regrets. "Poor child!
 
 346 SUPPORT 
 
 We ought to have done something, some of us," she 
 murmured. 
 
 "You couldn't," Rose returned honestly. "Noth- 
 ing would have done any good. I just had to go 
 through it, I guess." 
 
 The older sister tried to console herself with thig. 
 Presently she began again. "Did he was he ?" 
 
 Rose shuddered. "I had to go. It wasn't " 
 
 she tried to explain "I mean he " She could 
 
 not go on. 
 
 "You mean he wasn't really unkind," said Con- 
 stance in a matter-of-fact tone. 
 
 "Yes, that's what I mean. But I couldn't " 
 
 She turned away and shuddered. Tears ran slowly 
 down her cheeks. 
 
 Constance fell upon her knees and held her sister 
 hard in her arms. For a long time there was no 
 sound in the room but the sputtering of the gas, the 
 clap-clap of a shutter wriggling in the wind. Con- 
 stance was not conscious of thinking at all. She 
 was conscious only of an ache, as if her own soul, 
 instead of Rose's, had been hurt and bruised. 
 
 "I can count on you," breathed Rose, after a 
 grievous space, "to to understand?" 
 
 "Yes. You can count on me." Constance got up 
 and took the dishes away. 
 
 In the hall, her mother clutched at her again. 
 The older hands were shaking. "Did you find out 
 anything? Is she married?" 
 
 "Yes." The daughter spoke almost mockingly. 
 "Set your mind at rest. She is."
 
 SUPPORT 347 
 
 "Thank God." 
 
 "I don't believe God has anything to do with it." 
 Constance knew that she was speaking without 
 wisdom. 
 
 "It's terrible to hear you say such things as that," 
 wailed the older woman, cringing. 
 
 "I know I shouldn't do it. You don't understand. 
 
 I only meant " There was not much use in 
 
 trying to explain, but she would try, thought 
 Constance. 
 
 Her mother interrupted her, her thin frame stif- 
 fening. "I can't help feeling that you're to blame 
 for it all!" she flared. 
 
 Constance only looked at her and then walked 
 on. She was not even wounded now. These words 
 of reproach meant so little that she could afford 
 to disregard them. "Where's father?" she said, 
 looking over her shoulder from the dining-room 
 door. 
 
 "In the study. He won't say a word." 
 
 "That's the wisest course we can any of us take," 
 said Constance. She went back to Rose. "Don't 
 you want to see mother?" she asked, with gentleness. 
 "She feels dreadfully not to see you. And Poppy, 
 too." 
 
 "No!" Rose moved fretfully on the pillow. Then 
 she repented. "Yes, I will," she said. 
 
 "It would be better," Constance made answer. 
 "You don't want to hurt them too much." 
 
 "I suppose I have already," said Rose faintly. 
 
 "We all felt worried," Constance replied. This
 
 348 SUPPORT 
 
 was no time for an elaboration of past miseries. "I'll 
 call mother. She'll be so glad." 
 
 Mrs. Fenton came into the room, her lined face 
 tremulous. Rose lifted herself on her elbow. "Hello, 
 mother!" she said in a casual tone. 
 
 "My dear, dear child!" Mrs. Fenton bent and 
 kissed her daughter dramatically. Rose gave her 
 cool lips in return. "We've been nearly crazy!" 
 wept Mrs. Fenton, unable to restrain the recollec- 
 tion of the previous days. Constance discerned, 
 however, her mother's great relief in the certainty 
 that Rose had been a victim of nothing worse than 
 lawful wedlock. 
 
 "You needn't have been." Rose was growing 
 petulant, shrinking from a discussion of her 
 escapade. 
 
 "Won't you bring father?" Constance was eager 
 to avoid recriminations. 
 
 Rose lay back and closed her eyes. Mr. Fenton 
 came, gaunt and distressed. There were tears in his 
 eyes. Constance had thought to warn him against 
 upbraidings; she saw now that there had been no 
 need. He took Rose's hand as it lay loosely on the 
 counterpane. "We're glad you've come home, Little 
 Girl," was all he said. 
 
 "I'm glad, too, Poppy." Rose smiled up sidewise 
 at him. He looked down at her sadly and went 
 away. 
 
 "You'll sleep with me?" said Rose to Constance. 
 "Suzanne won't mind?"
 
 SUPPORT 349 
 
 "No. She won't wake up. Of course I'll stay 
 with you if you want me to." 
 
 "How is Suzanne dear little thing?" 
 
 "She's well, I think but a little strained and 
 nervous. She's asked about you a good deal; and 
 she felt that there was something wrong in the 
 house. She is more sensitive than one would think." 
 
 "This is no place for her," said Rose with sudden 
 passion. 
 
 "I don't believe it is what she ought to have," 
 Constance agreed. 
 
 They made ready for bed. All night the two 
 sisters clung to each other in a fervent long embrace. 
 The younger one slept at last, but the elder lay 
 tense and wakeful, as she had done on that first 
 night with Suzanne. 
 
 Her thoughts were solemn, but not devoid of hope. 
 Rose would never go back to Schelling, she knew. 
 She doubted whether he would even have the bold- 
 ness to ask for her return. There would be another 
 divorce in the family, she thought with an ironical 
 smile. It was too bad. How her father and mother 
 would hate it! And Wilbur her imagination re- 
 fused to envision Wilbur on the war-path. 
 
 And Rose must somehow take up life again. She 
 was broken, humbled, shamed. She had done a 
 ridiculous thing an inexcusable one, running away 
 with a man whom she didn't want, whom she 
 couldn't live with for a week. Her experience had 
 horrified her, shattered the high-spirited, self-con- 
 fident Rose, and made her over into something dif-
 
 350 SUPPORT 
 
 ferent and new. She would pretend to self- justifica- 
 tion, or even callousness; but in spite of pretense 
 she was shocked at her own folly, was abased, tor- 
 tured, almost destroyed. 
 
 "I'll have to take care of her," thought Constance. 
 "She can come to my house. She never could bear 
 it here. Sally must have foreseen something of the 
 kind when she insisted on my taking the little flat." 
 
 So this was the way it was to turn out. She had 
 her business, her home, her child, and Rose two 
 children, one might really say. She must lift and 
 carry the burdens for them all, must go forward with 
 other people's loads until those other people were 
 able to support their own. 
 
 Once or twice she let her mind turn toward Alison 
 Sharland; but the sting of remembrance was too 
 strong. Her thoughts leaped back from what they 
 could not endure, and faced again the practical 
 problem of living. That was what she was to be 
 concerned with now: dollars and cents; buying and 
 selling; cleaning and cooking and sewing; figuring 
 and scrimping to make both ends meet, to fulfill the 
 demands which had been laid upon her by her own 
 choice, partly, and by forces which she could not 
 control. 
 
 She sighed, moving her cramped limbs cautiously, 
 lest she should waken Rose. The younger sister 
 stirred, giving an uneasy, quivering cry, like a sick 
 child's. "Connie!" Twitching and shivering, she 
 tightened her arms around the shoulders of the older 
 woman.
 
 SUPPORT 351 
 
 Constance soothed her. "I'm here, dear. Don't 
 worry. Everything is all right now." The clutch 
 of Rose's arms relaxed. The girl fell back into sleep 
 again; and Constance returned to her unending 
 round of thoughts. 
 
 Early one evening, a week later, Constance was hi 
 her little kitchen, hurrying with the after-dinner 
 work. The telephone bell rang. Sally Rathvon was 
 speaking. "I'm coming over, Connie," she said in 
 what seemed like an unnecessarily strained voice. 
 "Grif's just gone to his Psychology Society meeting, 
 and I can run away for a minute." 
 
 "I'm awfully glad. Come right along." Con- 
 stance went to wash her hands, and to put the sit- 
 ting-room to rights. Rose was in the bedroom, tell- 
 ing a story to Suzanne. 
 
 Constance heard Sally toiling up the stairs, and 
 ran out to the landing. "It's quite a climb for a 
 stout lady," laughed Sally, panting a little after the 
 two flights. She was really only pleasingly plump. 
 
 "You'll have to get used to visiting the tene- 
 ments," Constance assured her. 
 
 Sally held a newspaper in her hand. "I found it 
 in the entry below," she said. "I thought it be- 
 longed to you." 
 
 "Yes, the Evening News" said Constance care- 
 lessly. "I didn't go down for it. One never knows 
 just when it's coming." 
 
 Sally handled the paper as if it were obnoxious to
 
 352 SUPPORT 
 
 her. "Take it," she said with an odd look at her 
 friend. 
 
 Constance did not notice. She was leading the 
 caller into the sitting-room, with a motion of pride 
 toward the picture which the shaded yellow light 
 disclosed : a rather bare but skillfully arranged room, 
 homely and attractive. 
 
 "How nice you look here," Sally went on. "And 
 how smart you are, Connie, to do so much with 
 every little thing! You have the home-maker's 
 touch; there's no doubt about that." 
 
 Constance gloated over the simple place. "I can 
 make it forty times nicer, as time goes on," she said, 
 "when I get my own things, and have more money 
 to spend." She pointed out some of the changes 
 which she had made since Sally's most recent 
 call. 
 
 "Where's Rose?" asked Sally. 
 
 "In my bedroom with Suzanne." 
 
 "How is she?" inquired the guest. 
 
 " 'Doing as well as can be expected/ " returned 
 Constance, as she placed a chair for Mrs. Rathvon. 
 "She's coming back to herself rather well, I think, 
 Sally. She cried a good deal, you know, the day the 
 marriage announcement came out in the paper, but 
 she has been somewhat relieved ever since. It had 
 to be done, of course." 
 
 "Yes. Of course. She won't see Schelling?" asked 
 Sally in a low voice. 
 
 "No. She says she's had her settlement with him, 
 and there's nothing more to say. She admits that
 
 SUPPORT 353 
 
 she's been unfair to him ; but she can't help it now, 
 and she can't hash it all over." 
 
 "How does he accept that?" 
 
 "Pretty decently, so far. I wrote and told him 
 that Rose wasn't able to go into any arguments with 
 him," Constance explained, "and he has let her 
 alone. But I suppose we'll have to fight it out with 
 him, sooner or later." 
 
 Sally meditated. "It's hard on him, in a way," 
 she remarked. "But there was no excuse for his 
 letting Rose do as she did or urging her into it, 
 or whatever it was he did." 
 
 Constance frowned. "I don't know exactly how 
 it was. I haven't asked her, and she hasn't told me. 
 She's so glad to be here, that she hardly wants to 
 talk about anything else." 
 
 "It's the best thing for her," said Sally. 
 
 "She can't make up her mind to go back to college, 
 but I think she will in the fall. In the meantime, 
 she'll help me. She wants to learn how to do the 
 needlework she told me so to-day and she can 
 take care of Suzanne, and look after the house, and 
 perhaps help in the shop, if she can bring herself 
 to it." Constance was anxiously enumerating the 
 ways in which Rose was to become active and useful. 
 
 "I infer that Mr. Schelling is not going to be asked 
 to support her," interpolated Sally, smiling. 
 
 "Not asked or permitted," Constance replied. 
 "Mother said something to Rose about asking for an 
 allowance from Herman, and Rose nearly had a fit. 
 She gets dreadfully hysterical once in a while, you
 
 354 SUPPORT 
 
 know. Anyhow, she's firmly set on never taking a 
 cent from her husband." Constance could hardly 
 bring out the word its relation to Rose seemed so 
 unreal. 
 
 "You've set her a shocking example," grinned 
 Sally. 
 
 "Haven't I?" Constance sighed. 
 
 "You had a bad time with Wilbur, didn't you?" 
 queried Mrs. Rathvon. 
 
 "Pretty bad," Constance admitted, with a grimace. 
 
 There was a pause. Sally moved uneasily and 
 nodded toward the newspaper on a chair. "You 
 haven't read it to-night?" she said. 
 
 "No." Constance caught a hidden significance in 
 Sally's tone. "Is there anything important in it?" 
 
 "I suppose it might be called that. I think you 
 
 ought to see it before " Sally looked toward the 
 
 door of the bedroom. 
 
 Constance wondered. "What is it?" she asked, 
 beginning to be afraid. 
 
 Sally reached for the paper and looked through 
 the closely-printed sheets. Then she folded them 
 back. "Here," she said, with sternness in her face. 
 
 Constance took the paper, and held it down into 
 the radius of the light. Engaged, the headline ran. 
 "The engagement is announced Miss Hilda Farrar 
 Mr. Alison D. Sharland Miss Farrar is Mr. 
 Sharland is the Citizen's Bank " 
 
 It was all confused before her eyes. Only the two 
 names stood out: Hilda Farrar Alison Sharland. 
 
 So it had come.
 
 SUPPORT 355 
 
 Constance sat unmoving, the paper held down be- 
 fore her. She heard Sally's voice a long way off, 
 saying violently, "Don't you care, Connie! Don't 
 you care!" 
 
 Constance laid the paper down. She breathed in 
 little groaning gasps which surprised her, and 
 seemed somehow detached from her, as if she were 
 listening to someone else. "I expected it," she said 
 at last. "I knew it was coming, Sally. But oh ! it's 
 hard! it's hard!" She bit her lips, quivering and 
 straining with her efforts at self-command. 
 
 "I know." Sally's hands were holding both of 
 hers. "You didn't really care for him, did you, 
 Connie?" 
 
 Constance let her shoulders sag wearily. "I / 
 could have cared." In her face was conscious dis- 
 illusionment as well as wounded love. 
 
 "You could have if he had been worthy of you, 
 you mean," cried Sally "if he had been a man. 
 But, Connie, my dearest, he isn't the shadow of a 
 man he isn't worth a second of your precious time. 
 Why, he isn't " she sought vainly for a charac- 
 terization of the man whom she so scorned "he 
 isn't anything!" 
 
 Connie drew her hand away to press it to her 
 eyes. "Isn't that just the tragedy of it?" she said. 
 "Sally, that's the thing that has hurt me that has 
 killed me more than anything else to feel that I 
 had so much to give to him (I know I had) and 
 was so willing to pour it out for him to look back 
 and see that I was ready to give myself so generously
 
 356 SUPPORT 
 
 to a man that didn't care that couldn't care that 
 wasn't wasn't anything!" She broke down, hold- 
 ing her hands to her breast to still her sobbing. 
 
 "Women are fools," said Mrs. Rathvon, solemnly. 
 "But some of them escape the rewards of their fool- 
 ishness. You ought to thank the Lord, Connie, that 
 you're no worse off than you are." 
 
 "Meaning?" Constance wiped her tears. 
 
 "That at least you haven't got into the muddle of 
 a marriage with Alison Sharland." 
 
 "He never asked me!" Constance laughed, 
 though her lips trembled. 
 
 "He didn't have sense enough," snapped Sally. 
 
 "The fact remains." Constance sat drooping, with 
 her hands folded in her lap. "Well," she said, "it's 
 a relief to know that it's all over, anyhow." 
 
 "You have things before you," said Sally, "so 
 much bigger and better than the things which life 
 with him would mean." 
 
 "I know that's true," answered Constance slowly. 
 She was thinking: A better man would have meant 
 so much more to her would have hurt her so much 
 more in the renouncing. It was far more bearable 
 as it was. "I'm tired now. To-morrow or the next 
 day, I shall be courageous. I shall be glad for what 
 I have." 
 
 "You'll find it a good deal," her friend reminded 
 her. 
 
 "I'm sure of it. I shall go on enlarge my busi- 
 ness, add to it, branch out into other activities; 
 have a better home, buy one, I think." Constance
 
 SUPPORT 357 
 
 glimpsed the future. "I'll help Rose, and look after 
 mother, and bring up Suzanne. And I'll find time 
 for reading, too, and studying and thinking even 
 traveling; it's not impossible. I'll interest myself 
 in women's clubs and public needs, and politics 
 political affairs, I mean. I shall have a full life, and 
 I shan't feel any lack." 
 
 "You will be too busy and too happy to regret," 
 said Sally Rathvon. 
 
 The door of the bedroom opened, and Rose stood 
 on the threshold. Her dark hair framed a face less 
 vivid than it had been, but lovelier and finer. She 
 stood poised, uncertain. Her eyes turned to her 
 sister with confidence and love. Constance went 
 over to her with the gesture of a mother, and kissed 
 her on the cheek.
 
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