From the Relief Society Magazine, 1950 –

White September

By Ezra J. Paulsen

Chapter 1

You never know what goes on inside a woman’s pretty head. That’s why Daphne Sommers was so baffling to everyone when she returned to Knowlton after an absence of ten years. Though she was barely thirty, her hair was almost white.

In every other way, however, she was as youthful as ever. Her smooth, oval cheeks were full of bloom; her step was vibrant; and her voice had the same golden melody as when she was twenty. Then, there remained the old flare of impudence in her manner. She seemed to be defying the rumors that she’d lived a gay, reckless life in the city.

Being merely the home-town boy whom she’d jilted in search of a more glamorous romance, I might be expected to be a trifle confused. It turned out to be worse than that – I was uncomfortable and afraid. it was unpleasant to have my friends looking down their noses at me again; and, frankly, I began thinking the town wasn’t big enough for the two of us. Sometimes thwarted love makes you feel that way – less afraid of death itself than the possibility of being hurt the second time.

Nevertheless, as president and cashier of the bank, I was too busy to entertain any foolish notions of running away. So Daphne just breezed in, took over the big house left vacant by the death of her father, and began to be very much in evidence. This would have been less disturbing if she had been different, but she was one of those people whose presence creates a new center of gravity – you must either be drawn into the vortex surrounding their personalities, or stay far enough away to be attracted toward some other pole. In a town as small as Knowlton, the latter was quite impossible.

“You see, I’m quite an old woman,” she laughed, greeting her friends. “My hair is white. But I haven’t reached December yet, only September – white September.” She laughed this off very easily. It was her way.

“We like your hair.”

“You look wonderful.”

These were stock answers, especially with the younger set with whom she quickly became very popular. The boys gathered around her like moths around a lamp, to enjoy her wit and gaiety, and to learn from her stock of scintillating, worldly lore. This created talk and suspicion in other quarters, but not among the younger girls, who admired her hair, her clothes, her inexhaustible glamor.

“Oh, she’s grand,” sighed Mollie Dangerfield, her nice.

It was natural for Mollie to adore her, for half the town had already declared she was the image of her Aunt Daphne, even to the extent of following in her flirtatious footsteps.

At best, Mollie’s fiance, Tom Andrews, was playing an uneasy role. Mollie was at the moment carrying on a secondary romance with Paul Ebberly, who spent his summers at the resort on Bear Lake, as well as giving encouragement to several other local boys. Tom was my assistant at the bank. I could easily see he was going through exactly what Fd once suffered with Daphne. And now, with Mollie’s irresponsible, adorable auntie back, I thought he could expect things to grow steadily worse.

Daphne’s first party was a grand affair. Old Bill Sommers’ big Georgian house hadn’t looked so dressed up in years. A decorator and a caterer came up from the city, and fresh-cut flowers were shipped in for corsages. We’re a trifle behind on such matters in Knowlton. Several carloads of young folks, friends of Daphne’s, also came from the city. Paul Ebberly was there, as well as Tom Andrews. Mollie, dressed in a cream-colored evening gown of flowered organdy over taffeta, and looking almost as light and airy as a butterfly on a summer afternoon, danced and flirted to her heart’s content.

The event was a rather trying one for me. I couldn’t be so rude as to refuse the invitation altogether, especially when everyone else was going, and I was sure my presence there would be regarded as evidence that I had outgrown my youthful disappointment. But I hovered in the outer edge of events, keeping in the shadows as much as possible, though circumstances required me to become an active participant once or twice. Even then, I avoided Daphne, or met her with cool formality, and she paid only the most casual attention to me.

Next morning, I was at my desk when Tom came in with a haggard, washed-out expression on his face. ”Well,” he said miserably, after greeting me, ”I guess it’s all over between Mollie and me. I took my ring back last night.” He dropped into his chair and drummed his fingers on his desk, letting his tall, angular form sag lifelessly, and his gray, deep-set eyes wander over my shoulder. ‘Tm leaving Knowlton.”

“Oh, now, Tom, don’t talk like that. We need you here.” I was a trifle alarmed, but felt capable of giving him some good advice right out of my own book of experience. ”Whatever you do, don’t let a love affair destroy your career. I’ve been through the same thing. I know how you feel. But— but I—”

Just then the street door opened, and in walked Daphne, dressed in a chic black suit, and a hat set off with a small white feather. She smiled winningly and walked straight up to the railing in front of me.

“Good morning, Jim,” she greeted.

“Good morning.” I felt like a boy caught in the act of stealing jam. The temperature seemed to rise ten degrees. But, leaning back in my chair, I looked at her cautiously. I knew her presence was a challenge, and accepted it as such. There was a flood of memories, even after ten years, and I had to be on my guard, knowing Daphne was scheming something.

“Jim, may I see you alone— about a matter of business?”

“Certainly.” I opened the door of my private consultation room, and invited her in. When we were seated on opposite sides of the table, I waited.

“Jim, I want to borrow three thousand dollars,” she said evenly. “I’m going to send Mollie to Europe this summer. Poor child, she’s hardly even been out of this poky little place, and it’s about time she saw something of life.”

it was easy to see Daphne was under a strain in spite of her composure. I knew she was smart enough to see ow foolish this proposition sounded to the ears of a banker.

“You can have a mortgage on the old home for security,” she proposed impatiently, as if I’d already refused her. ‘I have some property in the city up for sale, too. I’ll pay the loan off as soon as the sale goes through.”

Bill Sommers’ home was perfectly good security. But I felt as if Bill would turn over in his grave in protest against this plan to throw away his home in order to send his already spoiled granddaughter on an unnecessary trip. Canny Scot that he was, he’d often opposed is wife’s rather extravagant concern about the social future of his children. He’d come from Europe himself, and experienced its hardships and lack of opportunity. No one in Knowlton had ever heard him express a desire to return to the old world, even for a visit; but many had heard him praise the goodness and abundance of America.

For the first time, I tried to look straight into Daphne’s deep, restless eyes, but she hid them behind her long, silken lashes. Then my eyes fell upon her lovely hair. Somehow, it gave her an exotic, sophisticated beauty. In spite of its whitish cast, it seemed warm and alluring; yet, knowing Daphne’s temperament, I couldn’t understand her failure to dye it. Then, a train of memories began.

The Sommers house stood on the brow of the hill on the west side of town, where it commanded a broad view of the valley. From childhood I’d loved the place, running across the street from my own much smaller home on the lower side of the hill whenever I had an opportunity. There was always a thrill in going through the tall picket gate, and up the broad flagstone walk bordered by a maze of shrubbery and flowers. I could always be sure th beautiful Mrs. Sommers, whose hair reminded me of Martha Washington’s, would load me with cookies and let me play with her little daughter Daphne.

Later, it became a habit to call for Daphne on my way to school. And, as we grew up to high school age and attended the academy on the hill, I made it a practice to carry her books up the snowbound trail leading along the lane back of the Sommers house up to the academy. The boys sometimes teased me, and finally gave me so much competition I was frequently left out; but I remained devoted, though Daphne was beginning to show a restless interest in others of the masculine sex. But I still haunted the Sommers house. On summer afternoons I often slipped over and played tennis with Daphne on the clay court at the rear of the lot, when her other admirers were absent. I helped Mrs. Sommers cultivate her flower beds, I cut the law, I ran errands.

But what cut me to heart at the moment was my recollection of the time I first declared my love to Daphne. We were strolling up the front path on a Sunday afternoon. I picked a sprig of lilac and placed it in her hair.

‘This blossom will die, but my love never will,” I insisted.

”Beautifully said, Jim,” she murmured. “But you may want to take it back. My hair will fade very early, just like mother’s.”

‘Then it will be more lovely than ever,” I cried, giving her an experimental kiss.

When we arrived at the house, I playfully cut a strand of her rich brown hair and placed it inside the glass covering her graduation picture, which hung in the broad, paneled hall back of the stairway.

“Well, don’t you think the security’s good enough?” demanded the Daphne of the present from across the table.

I stared guiltily. “Oh, er, yes, very good. You may have the money. We’ll get the papers fixed up at once.” My heart sank, for I didn’t think she’d be able to redeem the place. As for her having property in the city, I didn’t believe it, knowing her father had often sent her money while he lived.

Daphne arose with a smile of relief, which reminded me I had quite overlooked the impatient tensity with which she’d been waiting. “You bankers are so terrifying,” she reproved. “You seem to look right through one as if you suspected some dark plot to steal your money.”

“I’m sorry,” I said, realizing my cheeks were burning.

“Thanks, Jim. You won’t regret it. But you do think I’m foolish, don’t you?”

“Frankly, yes,” I admitted.

“Oh, well, I’m doing it for Mollie. It’s to be her part of the estate, and I want her to have it now while it will do her some good.”

“You’ll ruin Mollie.” I said this against my will— bitterly.

This caught her off guard, but she rallied quickly, much to my discomfort. “That isn’t what I want to do.”

She turned to go, and, with a flash of spirit, added over her shoulder, “You’re still a small town boy, aren’t you, Jim?”

On her way out, she spoke to Tom, as if nothing had happened between him and Mollie; then, with an impudent, triumphant little toss of her head, she left the bank. The mere fact of breaking up a fine young couple like Tom and Mollie appeared to be a trivial detail in her plans.

Instantly, I was furious, then frantic. I started to rush toward the door to call her back and tell her she couldn’t have the money, but stopped helplessly as she glided past the window outside. What a fool I was, I reflected, to let her make me a tool for her purpose of ruining Tom. I was sure she was bent on doing to him just what she’d done to me— all to satisfy her ambition and love of display. How could one with such a lovable exterior be so utterly ruthless, I gasped, almost aloud. I must do something, I must! This thought seared its way through my brain like a streak of fire, yet when I turned to Tom, I realized I was incapable of advising him.

(To be continued)