White September

By Ezra J. Paulsen

(Previous chapter)

Chapter 3

Mollie came home in late September. Most of the town turned out to meet her at the little yellow station down at the bottom of Academy Street, where the railroad branch came to an end. I was closing the bank a few minutes before train time, when, to my surprise, Daphne drove up to the curb in her roadster and called me. “Jim, come with me to the train,” she invited.

My heart jumped into my throat. Why was she asking me, now of all times? I felt as if I might be sorry, but suddenly I realized I wanted to go the worst way. “Thanks,” I answered, with a shyness I could scarcely understand, “I might as well go to the homecoming, too.”

“Yes, Jim, you might as well. People are gathering at the station as if they expected to witness a hanging.”

I looked into Daphne’s eyes and saw she was greatly agitated.

“It may be my hanging,” she went on.

“Why do you say that?” I asked, startled.

Daphne raised her eyes from under the rim of her soft gray hat, which in some subtle way created a quiet, subdued impression— different from her usual jaunty boldness. “Jim, you don’t suppose you’re the only one in Knowlton who disapproves of me, do you?”

“Listen, who says I disapprove? I—.”

“I’m looked upon as a corrupter of youth. If Mollie doesn’t turn out all right after her fling, who’ll get the blame?”

“You,” I replied honestly.

“But what if she has learned to love this poky little town, to appreciate the home life here? What if she settles down and marries a home-town boy, and rears some fine, exemplary children? What then? Don’t I even get a good word?”

Her voice was soft with tenderness. “Daphne,” I cried, “Is that what you want?”

“Want! Why— why … I’d give my life for it. You know Mollie is everything to me. And life can be so rich for her if— if— she doesn’t make too many mistakes.” She turned her moist, sad eyes away from me, letting her gaze trail off among the frost-bitten flower beds along the edge of the street.

Strange, I thought of the frost. Then, I glanced at her hair. And, in a moment of inspiration, it seemed as if scales had fallen from my eyes, and I saw the real Daphne —the one I’d always loved. She was repentant from unfulfilled dreams and sufferings. Beneath the glittering front she presented to the world, she was trying to help others, and find a little human sympathy for herself.

Only the fact that she was driving the car kept me from giving way to the mad desire to sweep her into my arms. But we were nearing the station. The yard was full of automobiles; noisy groups of laughing young people were honking their horns and chattering in their hilarity at the thought of welcoming Mollie home. The train whistled as it came around the bend in Smedley’s field.

Daphne stood up in her roadster, her hands tensely clutching the windshield. She no longer tried to conceal the tears rolling down her cheeks; her heart giving way to long pent-up emotion was causing her tears to overflow freely, but she seemed more beautiful to me than she had ever done in her most glamorous moments. When she sprang from the car and ran toward the train, I was with her every step of the way. I was also by her side when, with a cry, she and Mollie rushed into each other’s arms. Then, suddenly, I realized many curious eyes were staring at me.

During the week, Knowlton was so busy listening to and discussing Mollie Dangerfield’s European trip there was hardly any other subject of interest. Even Daphne’s announcement of Mollie’s homecoming party was a mere detail belonging to the glamorous Mollie herself. No invitations were issued. everyone was invited. Refreshments were to be served at the Sommers’ home throughout the entire evening, with games and dancing to fill in between.

Mollie completely eclipsed her aunt. Rumors started quickly that she had met a wealthy young man while in Europe, and was planning to marry him.

I looked across at Tom Andrews sitting at his desk, and for once couldn’t resist the temptation to rib him. “Well, how do you and Mollie stand by this time?” I asked.

Tom glanced up at me belligerently, but, seeing I was smiling, he did the same. “Well, there’s nothing particular between me and Mollie. She’s going her way, and I’m going mine.”

This sort of irritated me. “Oh, come now, lovers’ quarrels shouldn’t last forever,” I suggested.

At this, he leveled off his gaze at me and replied, “Yours seems to have lasted forever.”

I felt as if the breath had been knocked out of me. But I’d asked for it, so I had to take it easy. “Well, Tom, why shouldn’t you profit by my mistakes?” His answer was a hard, challenging look.

Preparation for the party was made almost wholly by Daphne, with Tom’s help. How tongues wagged! Mollie’s going to marry the man she met on her trip. Tom and Daphne are surely not a bad match. Poor old Jim Bates has lost out again. Serves him right. But I had my friends, who, from the moment of Daphne’s return, had hoped to see us make up. And Daphne had hers, who had always regretted the way she’d thrown me over.

I went to the party in a state of desperation, determined to give all my attention to Mollie and the younger girls, and never once notice Daphne, beyond granting her the recognition due a hostess.

The old Sommers house held so many memories. I found myself walking among ghosts. From the moment I entered the wide hall, with its polished, mahogany staircase and sliding doors leading into the dining room on the left, and the living room, with its glistening chandeliers and French mirrors on the right, I was conscious of acting a part. I had to throw myself into the gaiety of the occasion and forget, or I was sure I’d die. Fortunately for me, Mollie Dangerfield and the younger set were in an ideal mood to entertain a bachelor banker. After all, I was only thirty-two. Why shouldn’t I seek the attention of girls in their twenties? I was still eligible for them. The thought struck me forcibly and gave me courage. I danced three times with Mollie— and I’ve forgotten how many times with the others, after they rolled up the rugs and set the tables and chairs in the corners. I escorted them by ones, twos, and threes, and in groups to the dining room, where the buffet refreshments were served in abundance.

I noticed Tom from time to time, but I didn’t see him dance with Mollie. Rather, he hung around the dining room doing little chores for Daphne, who was supervising the refreshments. Later, they danced together, but I didn’t look their way.

About eleven o’clock, a lull in my commitments enabled me to pause in the hall back of the stairway to admire an etching which had long been a favorite of mine. I’d always admired the Sommers taste for fine things, their sense of elegance without vulgarity, their ease and grace of expression. Bill Sommers and his wife came to America with something of the best British tradition behind them, and had transplanted in our town a quality which had become a standard for the rest of us.

The chatter and the music in the other rooms seemed to recede for a moment, and I became lost in abstraction. Suddenly, farther down the hall, half hidden in the shadows, I caught sight of Daphne’s graduation picture. I hurried to it. Inside the frame was the lock of her brown hair Fd placed there with my own hands. I was about to take it down from the wall when I discovered that Daphne herself was standing beside me. Our eyes met in troubled confusion.

In her pale blue evening gown, with her beautiful white hair curling around her face, and a single red rose corsage matching the natural glow of her cheeks, she appeared regal; yet her brown eyes smoldered with fire, and her fresh lips trembled with agitation.

”Jim,” she said, in a sweet, tense voice. Her arm slipped through mine. “Jim, you haven’t danced with me.”

”May I have the honor now?” I responded quickly.

Without answering, she led me to the living room, where the player was just beginning a new Strauss waltz. Then she sank into my arms and we glided around the floor.

“Jim,” she murmured after a long silence. I detected the quiver in her voice. “Why have you kept Mollie and Tom apart all evening?”

“Mollie and Tom! Why, have I?” The accusation amazed me.

“I’ve tried hard to get them together. I’m frantic. I counted on this party. Mollie’s eating her heart out over Tom, and I know he loves her. But he’s as stubborn as a mule. He won’t get near her if anyone else’s around. He accused her of being a flirt like— like me. That’s why they broke up last spring, as you already know.” Her voice faded into silence.

“What about the man she met in Europe?” I demanded.

My words brought a half choking sob into her throat, and she seemed suddenly possessed with boundless energy. Tearing herself from my arms, she pulled me through a small side door into the study once occupied by her father. Halfway across the room she steadied herself against the back of a chair.

“Jim,” she cried. “Why don’t you kick me, beat me, kill me if you want, but don’t stand there accusing me with your silence. I know what a fool I’ve been. I’ve died a thousand deaths.” She stopped for breath. “If-if that little idiot of a niece of mine makes the same mistake I made, I’ll never get over it.”

”Daphne!” I whispered. In one swift stride I reached her, and crushed her to my heart. “Darling!”

She swayed, clinging to me as if afraid of falling. I could feel her tremble, as her heart pounded against mine. “Won’t, won’t you try again to love me?” I pleaded.

Her eyes passionately sought mine. “Love you? Love you?” she sobbed. “Whom do you think I’ve been loving all these miserable, moth-eaten years? Whom do you think my broken heart has been aching for? Oh, Jim!”

I drew her tighter to me. All the sorrow and anguish of a decade were wiped out in an instant. “My darling. My precious!”

She put her arms tightly around my neck, covering my lips with kisses. “Jim— Jim— my poor neglected sweetheart,” she murmured through her tears. “Don’t forgive me unless you want to. But love me. Love me forever. I’ll make up for all those lost years I’ll be the best wife a man ever had.”

“I stopped her words with kisses. “Daphne, my angel! You’ve made up for it already. This one moment is worth all the waiting.”

In our great happiness, we forgot the passing moments. The merry-making in the next room seemed far away. Presently, Daphne led me out to the small side porch where we’d spent many a happy hour together long ago. A cold little moon was riding the sky, gilding the valley with pale mellow light.

“Sweet, this is a September night,” she whispered. “You know it starts getting cold up here in Knowlton toward the end of September.”

“So what?” I asked happily, seeking the warmth of her lips.

“So the frost is glistening on the walk coming up the hill. Do you mind?”

“Daphne, you little witch,” I chided. “What are you driving at?”

She cuddled closer, smoothing her hair with her beautiful fingers. “My hair’s the color of the frost,” she whispered. “But I hope you won’t mind it. You know I warned you about it long ago.”

“And he promised I’d adore it,” I cried, pushing my lips passionately in its warm deep fragrance.

“Jim, we’re still young,” she insisted.

“We’ll always be young as long as our love lasts,” I vowed.

Through the window, we saw Tom and Mollie dancing together. By the expression on their faces, and the closeness of their embrace, we knew they’d found each other.

“Now, darling, everything is perfect,” sighed Daphne, as our lips met again in the moonlight.

(The End)