White September

By Ezra J. Paulsen

(Previous chapter)

Chapter 2

Synopsis: Against his will, Jim Bates finds himself again very much interested in Daphne Sommers when she returns to Knowlton after an absence of ten years. Jim, the town banker, worries about his assistant Tom Andrews, in love with Daphne’s niece Mollie Dangerfield, who, like her Aunt Daphne, seems to have a frivolous disposition and seems to take life lightly. Daphne goes to Jim’s bank and borrows three thousand dollars, with the Sommers home as security, to send Mollie to Europe for the summer. “You’ll ruin Mollie,” Jim accuses, as Daphne leaves the bank.

The day seemed to drag out endlessly, and my mind underwent a slow process of disillusionment. My resolve to keep clear of Daphne melted like ice in the sun. It was evident she would cause our paths to cross whenever it suited her purpose. Already I could see I was involved in her schemes, and there was little I could do about it. At first, I thought I’d warn Tom, and urge him to fight back, but second thought made this seem foolish. I’d only get poor Tom into a worse fix than ever.

As soon as the day’s work was over, I saddled my horse and went for a ride. In Knowlton we don’t play golf, but we do take pride in our horses. In fact, you might say we’ve carried the horse tradition down from cowboy days to the present sleek, polished riding club era. But, in my case, riding was a means of getting away by myself. It was a lonely habit, developed during my years of bachelorhood, and prompted by my inherent love for the hills west of Knowlton where I had hunted cows as a youngster. The hills, the valley, the lake— that was my world.

Charger, my brown quarter horse, always followed the cow trail northward from Main Canyon through a low pass near the Ringel place, and headed toward the old Humming Bird mine when I gave him his head. I often rode that way because I liked the view of the valley and lake from the top of the hill. In my abstraction, I hadn’t paid attention to my surroundings until a flock of magpies in the willows made me aware of the small stream running down from the snowbank at my right. The zest of late spring stirred my blood. Throwing off my worries, I took a fleeting glance at the lake nestled in the southern end of the valley, then urged Charger to a gallop. He needed no more than a hint. Down the hollow we raced toward Sleight’s Canyon. We would soon pass the claim cabin on the Jaussi homestead, climb the flat beyond the Long Ridge, and finally reach the Little Valley reservoir from which we would swing back down to the county road, and home.

I began to enjoy the stimulus of unconfined action, letting my fancy go completely free. I was almost reckless with speed as I whirled Charger into the canyon creek, dense with willows. But it all ended in a gasp of astonishment. Charger collided in midstream with a little bay mare, just emerging from the thicket on the opposite side. The force of the impact threw the mare back a trifle on her haunches. I heard a woman scream and saw Daphne Sommers’ terrified face as we both reined sharply, our horses’ hoofs rattling on the slippery stones.

“Oh, Jim!”

”Daphne!”

Both of us spoke with the sharp surprise of people who see the subject of their thoughts materialize before their eyes.

“How did you get here?” I demanded.

“Up Sleight’s Canyon. And you?”

“Came over from Main Canyon. I hope you’re not hurt.” I led her mare gently back to the green plot on the north side of the creek.

“Oh, no, Fm all right,” she replied in a shaky voice. “We really came head on, though, didn’t we?” she added with a nervous laugh.

Daphne’s brown eyes reflected a challenging glint as she swept up the details of my careless, informal riding clothes. Instinctively I realized my khaki riding pants and shirt, together with my shapeless gray hat and high-top shoes were under her critical inspection, and the effect was to remind her that I was still a country boy. She’d always had a flare for clothes, I noted, glancing at her black doeskin breeches and shining russet boots. Her hair was mostly tucked out of sight under her jaunty blue riding cap; and over her cream satin blouse, she wore a trim red vest. She reminded me of a picture in a fashion magazine, but she affected me much more deeply.

“How about riding up to the old mine with me?” I dared, remembering we had once gone up there together in our younger days.

This pleased her. “Why, certainly!”

We both knew the way. I let her lead out. There was little said as we meandered through the aspens and elderberry bushes. But when we reached the mine, we became as playful as two children. She seemed as eager as I to refrain from mentioning the unpleasant past. We fed the wild chipmunks, explored the old bunkhouses, and peeked over the edge of the terrifying shaft, then threw rocks down it, and laughed as they echoed below. Finally, we stood together on the high, weed-grown dump, and looked down into the pleasant valley that had nurtured our childhood.

Here, in one mighty surge of emotion, my love for Daphne returned. I could have taken her in my arms and kissed her and forgiven everything, promising to be her devoted slave forever.

Daphne must have surmised my threatened disintegration, for she ran down the dump to where the horses were waiting, challenging me to follow. Springing on her mare, she started down the trail at a reckless speed.

By the time we reached the reservoir, where the road was wide enough for us to ride side by side, our horses were both reeking with sweat, and we were serious. Then, I discovered what was on her mind.

“Jim, I wish you’d do something about Tom Andrews,” she complained. “He’s making a perfect monkey of himself. At the party he was so jealous it was painful. To cap it all, he demanded his ring back last night.”

If Daphne had deliberately chosen to make me angry, she couldn’t have picked a better subject. ”Surely—surely, you don’t blame him,” I snapped. ”Mollie’s been leading him around by the nose now for over a year. And every day she gets more light-hearted and frivolous.”

“Well, can’t he stand a little competition? Must he lock her up like a cave man, and refuse to let her speak to anyone else?”

“Possibly, that would be a good idea,” I replied ungallantly. “Tom’s too good a boy to have her ruin his life. He’s the best match she’ll ever make. But he doesn’t like to be kept dangling over a flame forever.”

Daphne’s eyes spit fire. “Oh, you men! Tom’s all right. But he’s a prude. He ought to marry a scrubwoman. I want to see Mollie happy. That’s why I’m sending her to Europe where she can meet people and get an idea of what the world is like.”

“You’re ruining Mollie. You’re making her a worthless scatterbrain. Just— just …” I floundered.

“Just like myself,” she said slowly.

My face reddened. “No. That’s not what I was going to say,” I denied lamely.

But Daphne looked at me as if I’d struck her. In an instant, the buoyant, youthful quality which seemed to cling to her, almost as it did when she was twenty, faded. I could see she was suffering, but she took it with great calm.

“All right, Jim Bates, say it. You might as well. So I ran out on you. I was a muddle-headed flirt myself. I was fickle. I loved to keep men dangling. I had no emotional stability. All I thought of was clothes and parties. I was spoiled rotten!”

Her voice broke with a dry little sob, but she recovered in a split second. “Yes, and that’s only half of it. I hated smug, stupid men. And— and— I still do!”

“Why have you interfered with Tom and Mollie?” I pleaded. “Can’t you see you’re breaking them up?”

“If Tom can’t wait a few months, he isn’t much good. It’s just that I don’t want to see Mollie settle down and be a discontented wife all her life. I— I— want her to be the kind of wife I might have been,” she added fiercely. “I want her to know her own heart.”

After this. Daphne seemed unapproachable. I understood in a single moment of anguish why I had lost her. Below the Long Ridge, we let our horses swing into a lazy lope, kicking up the dust which settled like a veil on the greenery of the hills, as we rode back to town.

Mollie Dangerfield left for Europe with a friend of Daphne’s, amid shouting and fanfare, just as Daphne had planned it. Tom Andrews was among the group of admirers who saw her off at the depot, but he wasn’t conspicuous in the role of lover. In fact, several other suitors were becoming bold since the fall of Tom; and when he came back to the bank he was very sober and tight-lipped.

Knowlton settled back into its daily routine. During the summer dancing parties at the lake took up a large share of the younger set’s time, with many of the older folks tagging along, presumably in the role of chaperons, but, actually, to enjoy the fun. The lake has always been one of our most popular attractions.

Meanwhile, Daphne, with Mollie taken care of for the time being, turned her attention to another daring undertaking. She announced her intention to open a millinery and dress shop. A clear note of approval came from the younger set, for who would know about styles and such things better than Daphne Sommers? But a chorus of protests arose also from some quarters. Some of these came from seamstresses who didn’t want the competition. Others came from mothers who didn’t think Daphne’s influence on their daughters was altogether good. She was worldly and extravagant, they said.

Again Daphne came into the bank. “I don’t want to borrow any more money,” she declared, as if conscious of what was at the moment passing through my mind. ”But, Jim, I would like your advice.

I forced an uncomfortable laugh. “As a banker?” I asked.

“As a banker,” she replied.

Seated again in my stuffy consultation room— it only seemed small and stuffy when she was in it —I listened while she explained her plans. “You— see— I learned to be a milliner after I tired of playing,” she said in a tone which made me feel this statement cost her much. Her voice was so low I could hardly hear her, and her eyes, quite unlike her, were riveted on the table.

If my heart had gone overboard for her to my undoing, I was determined my banker’s judgment should not do likewise. Consequently, when I spoke, it was with a cold, professional air I was soon sorry for.

“To be honest with you,” I said, “I don’t see much of an opening here for a milliner, and even less for a dress shop. You know, nearly everyone buys in the larger towns. That’s especially true of the women.”

“There’s nothing here they can buy,” she replied spiritedly. “I think I can draw people. And I know I can give them the best service.”

Suddenly I believed I saw something new in Daphne— something I’d never seen before, and had looked for in vain. It was a touch of humility. Was it possible she was a little afraid, and perhaps somewhat lonely? Unconsciously I must have let my face betray a touch of relief, which she promptly misinterpreted.

“It isn’t easy to come back and start all over again,” she said. “But I’m going to do it.” Her tone became militant. “I’m going to fight to my last breath to show people I’m not what they think I am.”

I loved her for those words. She had always been so glittering, so headstrong. Now, for an instant, she seemed at my level, a person needing companionship, advice, and sympathy. Figuratively speaking, I began to discard my banker’s mantle as quickly as possible. But I was too slow.

Those glorious eyes of Daphne’s flashed. “But why do I tell you these things? I might have known you wouldn’t understand. You bankers— you have about as much understanding of human problems as a piece of pavement.” She swept up her little silver-mounted handbag, and left my office. “I’ll show you, Jim Bates. I’ll make a success of business right here under your nose, right here in this poky little town. And I won’t ask for another dime out of your precious bank, either.”

The soft red plume on her hat seemed to bow mockingly at me as she went through the door, and her slender form for a moment impressed me with the perfection of her gray, pin-striped suit. Daphne was devastating in her hats and suits; and her voice seemed to float back reproachfully to me from the corridor.

A few days later, she opened her business in a small building on Main Street. From then on she avoided me as I did her; and since the reports concerning her enterprise were confusing and contradictory, depending on the source from whence they came, I was unable to get a clear picture of her degree of success or failure. Secretly I hoped she’d fail, or at least not be successful enough to be able to go her own way independently. This was mean of me, but the real reason was the hope that I might have a chance to help her. Not that I expected to play easy with the bank’s money, for I had some of my own. It would have raised my self-esteem immeasurably to have let her have it, so I could feel she would not be able to ignore me. My difficulty with Daphne had always been that she had never seemed to need me; it had always been I who had needed her.

Rumor became current that she had no money and was in debt, and that her business venture was but a forlorn effort to stave off bankruptcy. Of course the mortgage on the Sommers home was a matter of common knowledge. You can’t keep such things secret because they have to be recorded in the courthouse. It was frequently said she’d stay in Knowlton just long enough to have a final fling on the last of her father’s money, then she’d be gone. But she had her defenders, too, and most of them were her admirers and customers. Whatever question had been raised on her solvency was quickly dispelled, when the first quarter’s interest became due on her mortgage. She paid it promptly, adding a small token payment on the principal, but she avoided me when she came into the bank.

Mollie Dangerfield’s letters came pouring back to Knowlton, meanwhile, telling her friends of the wonderful things she was seeing and doing. Tom got his share of the letters, but never dropped me a hint as to what they contained, and I took his silence as evidence that he didn’t want me to know. But, to my amazement, I noticed he was beginning to develop a very close friendship with Daphne. Frequently, I saw him with her in her roadster. She seemed to find any number of odd jobs for him to perform before and after his hours at the bank. People began to talk. Maybe, Daphne was setting her cap for Tom. After all, she was only five years older than he, and they looked wonderful together. By this time I realized I was suffering my second heartache.

(To be continued)