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About The frontier. (O'Neill City, Holt County, Neb.) 1880-1965 | View Entire Issue (Sept. 21, 1939)
By MARTHA OSTENSO e MARTHA OSTENSO—WNU SERVICE SYNOPSIS lovely, independent Autumn Dean, re turning home to British Columbia from abroad without her father's knowledge, ■tops at the home of Hector Cardigan, an old family friend. He tells her that she should not have come home, that things have changed. CHAPTER I—Continued —2— “What a lovely thought,” Autumn observed eagerly. “But was Grand mother Odell such a heart-breaker. Hector? I have never been told much about her. For that matter, they have never spoken much of mother, either—and I have always wanted to know—” Her voice faltered and she shrugged her shoulders as if to dis miss the subject. Hector took the bell from her hands and held it thoughtfully on his palm, stroking the satiny tex ture of its semi-spherical upper half with his eloquent fingers. “The Odell women,” he said slowly, “had small respect for hearts.” Autumn leaned back, resting her elbows on the mantelpiece behind her, and glanced up at him diffi dently from beneath her lashes. “Even mother?” she asked. He swung the bell Just percepti bly, and the eerie threne of it, a vanishing wraith of sound, caught at her throat. It might be the mingled tears and laughter of a ghost heard from infinity. Hector did not reply at once. “You knew mother very well, didn’t you?” she prompted him. “She couldn't have been more than ten yeais younger than you.” “Millicent Odell—” It might have been the wine he had had. Autumn thought, but it seemed to her that for an instant he was quite oblivious of her presence. His narrow, brown face with its myriad fine seams glowed as though he were listening ardently to the music of that name, the name of her mother, twenty years dead. Then he glanced down at the bell once more. "I have fashioned a little conceit about this bell. Autumn. Perhaps you would like to know what it is.” “Do tell me. Hector.” He smiled boyishly "It is like the Odell women. Its beauty casts a spell over a vast distance. Its mu sic echoes and reechoes into eter nity—and haunts you forever. It has an elfin soul, my dear, and its power is blackest magic.” Autumn clasped her hands and laughed with delight, although an in comprehensible tremor stirred with in her. “You were meant to be a poet. Hector—not a collector of an tiques,” she said gayly. The doorbell rang and Hector went quickly to answer it. Autumn’s lug gage had arrived. Autumn Dean reined in where the road curved out to a steep incline above the town, and looked back down upon the diamond-studded val ley she had left. When she was a little girl she had thought of the town of Kamloops by night as a jew eled brooch lying on a bed of black velvet, the river a ribbon of dim silver festooned about it. The miles slipped away behind her, and now she recognized the fea tures of her father’s land, the be ginning of those thirty thousand acres that led sheer up into the dusk of the southern mountains, and spread fan-wise to the river on the north. There on one side of the trail was the somber promontory now, that jutted out like a monk's cowl above the abandoned copper mine, and on her right the grassy trail that led through ghost-gray hum mocks of sage up a steep hillside and down again to the sheltered val ley where the lambing corrals were. She paused to listen for a moment, and across the dim solitude came the lonely tinkle of a sheep bell. The sound carried her poignantly back to her childhood, when she had ridden her pony on spring evenings such as this—the Laird’s disapprov al notwithstanding—to visit old Ab solom Peek, the faithful herder, where he tended the lambing ewes. At the sweet thrust of memory her eyes filled with tears. She shook the reins and followed the trail west ward along the valley. Here, at last, was the little school bouse, with its pile of seasoned fire wood, its pathetic little outhouses, and its elfin host of memories that lurked in every shadow and danced before her under the pale light of the stars. What had become of that troop of boys and girls with whom she had romped in the days when she herself had been one of them? The Careys and the Cornwalls, the Lloyds and the Murrays? Just there, under that dark pine, young Larry Sutherland had washed her face with a handful of the first snow of the year. And here young Sandy Cam eron had fought with Bruce Landor who had elected himself her cham . pion—though she had been a mere slip of eight or nine years at the time, and Bruce had been five years her senior—Bruce Landor, whose fa ther had shot himself down there in the little ravine that ran through the northern end of the Dean acres. She had often thought of Bruce, the wistful-eyed young dreamer, always a little sad because of the tragedy that had befallen him, and of his spirited mother, who had struggled along somehow and ruled the Lan dor ranch with a fierce will that had won the respect of the country side. It was ten years since he had bade her a rather lofty and grown-up good-by when, at eight een. he went away to college. She had been thirteen then, and had wept despondent, little-girl tears at the departure of her hero who had outgrown her. Before his return for the summer vacation, she herself had been despatched, protesting, to England. Three miles beyond, she came to the massive pillars of field stone that stood at the entrance to the Castle of the Norns. The name still suited the place as it had done when she was twelve years old. her fancy steeped in ancient lore. Her father had been pleased with the name she had chosen for that odd pile with its curious gray stone turrets and para pets, the like of which had proba bly never adorned another ranch house in all the world. Uncharita ble people in the community had called it “Old Dean’s Folly,” but Autumn had adored it from her ear liest memory. She checked her horse to a walk as she rode up the gravel approach between the tall pines. A light was discernible now in the east tower of the Castle. Her father’s study was there, and he himself would proba bly be seated now in his deep leath er chair, lost to his surroundings in the pages of one of his old and be loved books. Except for the subdued glow of the light in the spacious hall “I tell you it’s me, darling!” the house was in darkness. Old Han nah, the housekeeper, who had been Autumn’s nurse, would have gone to bed long since. Now from within the house a dog barked—once, twice, a deep-throat ed and ominous sound. Autumn hur ried up the steps and glanced through the heavy glass panel of the door. Her father’s great Irish wolf hound was coming down the stair case with his loping, magnificent gait. She tried the door, found it unlocked, and entered. Old Jarvis Dean, his heavy Driar stick in his hand, was coming slow ly down behind the dog. At the first sight of her he let his cane fall and supported himself with one hand on the shining black balustrade. The other moved slowly across his brows. Autumn rushed up the staircase. “Hello. Da!” she cried, and flung her arms about his stooping form. “Don’t faint, darling, it’s really me! Down, Pat, you jealous old thing!” "God bless my soul!” Jarvis ex claimed. "What's this, what’s this!” “I tell you, it’s me, darling!” Her father placed an arm trem blingly about her and held her for a moment without speaking. Present ly she heard his voice, a voice al most a whisper, the defenseless voice of a sleepwalker. “Autumn—my little Autumn!” She thrust him back from her, laughing with excitement. “Oh, Dad dy—let me look at you!” He stooped and picked up his cane, then turned and took a couple of steps up the stairway His great voice resounded in the hall. "Han nah! Hannah! Comedown!” He beat his cane sharply on the stairs "Han nah, I say!” The old woman’s voice responded from above, breathless from excite ment. “I’m coming. I’m coming What in the world has happened?” “Come down, you dunderhead, and see for yourself!” He turned to Autumn and put his fingers to his lips to warn her against crying out. Then he began walking uncertainly down the stairs. Autumn moving before him, her voice vivid and young in the austere silence of the lofty hall. “Oh, Da! I can’t tell you what it means to be home again.” She turned upon him suddenly and threw her arms about him once more. “I didn’t say a word to you about my coming, darling, because I—I didn’t want you to know. I wanted to sur prise you.” He looked at her sternly. "Don't lie to me, you young brat,” he warned her, with enough humor in his eyes to take the sting from his words. “You didn’t tell me about it because you knew I’d forbid it. That’s why.” Autumn kissed him and laughed. "What difference does it make, you dear rascal! We belong together— and we belong here. That ought to be reason enough for anything.” "Reason? Reason? There is no reason in anything you do. You're a woman, and the devil himself is in women! But go into the room there and get some light on you so I can see what you look like." Autumn turned from him and skipped toward the doorway that opened into the drawing room. She pushed the button on the wall and the long room became flooded with a pleasant amber radiance. Autumn clasped her hands as she stood still for a moment, her senses possess ing the room, making its simple harmonies her own again. Jarvis seated himself before the white marble fireplace, where a pink glow slumbered in the violet-colored ash. From a tiny, lemon-hued satin settee opposite, Autumn looked at him. His long, bony hands were clasped above his cane, his leonine head jutted forward, and there was in his eyes a naked look of—was it fear or mere perplexity? Autumn did not know. A hideous feeling came upon her that this was not her father at all who sat facing her, but some gro tesque old changeling with a demon ridden soul. His eyes burned as he searched her face, his massive hands clenching the arms of his chair. A tremor took possession of her so that her shoulders quivered invol untarily. She twined her fingers tightly together and bent forward. “Tell me—what is wrong?” she said softly. The old man’s body seemed to sag, exhausted, into the depths of his chair. "Your mother’s hair—bur nished as October,” he said absent ly, then lifted his head slowly. “Nothing is wrong, my child, noth ■ - t» mg. The sound of Hannah’s footfall on the stairway broke the moment’s spell and Autumn got up as the old housekeeper hurried nervously into the room. “Hannah!” The woman halted suddenly, her hand clutching at her breast. She eyed Autumn incredulously, then drew her breath in a quick gasp. Autumn hurried toward her and put her arms about the bowed shoulders. “Hannah—don’t you know me?” The only immediate response was a sob that shook the old woman’s frame as she clung to Autumn. “My baby—my baby!’’ Hannah said at last, her voice thin and bro ken and incredibly old. Autumn drew her close and soothed her with little words of en dearment remembered from her childhood. "Hannah, Hannah! Little old Muzzy-wuzzy!” Jarvis Dean drew himself up pon derously in his chair. “Come, now!” he thundered. "There’ll be time enough for that! Put the kettle on the fire and make us a pot of tea.” Hannah drew away and Autumn patted her affectionately on the shoulder. “Yes, Hannah, make us some tea We’ll have days and days to talk. I’m never going to leave home again.” The old woman pattered away to the kitchen and Autumn sat down again on the satin settee. “So you are counting on staying here,” her father said. “If I have to turn sheep and run with the flock. Da,” Autumn laughed Jarvis Dean’s head sank forward on his chest. "Were you not well enough off with your aunt, then?” he asked her. "1 have nothing against Aunt Flo, Da She has always been lovely to me.” "What brings you home, then?” Jarvis Dean’s voice was deep, his breathing labored. "I'm fed up with all that mean ingless existence—and this is my home.” Autumn's voice quivered and broke at the realization of the fantastic heartlessness of the situa tion. Bewildered and appalled and crushed, she struggled to regain control of her voice. "Do you mean —you really don’t want me here, Da?" she asked. The old man shifted uneasily in his chair "Here? What kind of a place is this for a girl like you?” he demanded Autumn's eyes darted helplessly from one object in the room to an other. as though she were seeking refuge from the overwhelming and cruel stupefaction that had come upon her. “Why—whatever can you have against my being here—I can’t believe—” Her father held up his hand with a peremptory gesture. "What did I tell you in England last Christmas when you wanted to come back here with me?” "I never believed that you really meant that I couldn't come back. Why, it’s—it’s the most unreasona ble thing I’ve ever heard of. We’ve always had such wonderful times to gether and I—” Jarvis Dean rose abruptly to his great height and the anguish in his face wrung her heart in amazement and mystification. “Let’s talk no more about it,” he said with an ef fort. "You have come and you will have to stay—for a decent length of time, anyhow—or people will have something to wag their damned silly tongues about. I’ll not have them saying things—about the Deans.” A change came over him, so swift and brilliant that the horrible thought swept through Autumn that perhaps he had, for the agonizing period just past, been mentally de ranged. His head, with its smooth waves of white hair, rose proudly, a half mocking smile played about his stern mouth, but his eyes were wistful as he came toward Autumn with his hands outstretched. She got up quickly and put her arms about him. beating back the tears that threatened. “Poor old Da!" she said softly. "1 should nev er have come if I—" “Enough of that! You are here." He turned from her. "What’s keep ing you. Hannah?" "I’m coming directly," Hannah replied querulously. The old man shook his head slow ly. “She’s about done, that one," he muttered. “She’s more misery to me than she is help, but there’s nothing I can do about it I can’t kick the old dunderhead out at her time of life. "The more need you’ll have for me about the place, Da,” Autumn ob served archly. Her father turned on her brusque ly. "It’d be a poor creature that couldn't get along better without ei ther of you," he told her. “That’ll be enough of that fool talk for this night,” said old Hannah as she entered the room and came to ward them bearing her loaded tray. Autumn laughed and placed a small table before the fireplace as her father sank once more into his chair. CHAPTER II Jarvis Dean stood before the great windows in the hall, looking out upon the world where the Light of early morning was aflame above the spires of the pines. He moved away once and called up the stairs to as sure himself that Autumn was get ting ready for the ride she had in sisted on taking with him into the sheltered ravine where the lambing was in progress. When she replied, he strode back to the window and looked out upon the softly lighted mosaic of the world that was his. As he stood, weary and haggard from a sleepless night, it came to him that it had been better had he sold it last winter when he had had a substantial offer for it. Why had he not sold it? He was getting old. Pride, pride! Pride and vanity. Van ity of possession, of power, of tri umph! Ves—that had been it—tri umph! The triumph, as he had thought, of his own conscience over a catastrophe of twenty years ago That was why he had stayed on here, stubbornly, bitterly, when his world had seemed ready to crash about his ears after the death oi Geoffrey Landor, and then—Milli cent. t Ah, Millicent, forever loved, for ever lost! Her slender red smile, red still as she died in fever, red ir the undying love of another, slender in hatred of himself, seemed tr pierce the brooding east now as he stared at it with vacant eyes. “Fool, fool!” he muttered to him self. “I might have known—I migh' have known!” He turned as Autumn, dressed for the ride, came down the stairs. “Let’s go!” she sang out, anr stood before him slapping her boot; with her quirt. Two horses stood before the door Jarvis Dean’s big black and Hecto Cardigan’s hunter. In a momen they were in the trail and headinr eastward over the way that Autumi had come the night before. They were on their way to visi old Absolom Peek at his camp if the ravine. When they turned a last from the main trail and took i winding path that led toward thi camp. Autumn remembered t roundabout and more picturesqu> way to the place, down through i gully where a tiny creek ran ant where the white birch grew in a dense wall up either slope. Landor't Gulch it was called locally, parti? because one-half of its length market the boundary between the Landoi and the Dean acres; partly, too, be cause it was down there beside thi creek among the birches that thi body of Geoffrey Landor had beer found years ago by one of his owr men. The years had dimmed th< details of that tragic story, thougl they had served only to deepen the legendary color that invested it Years ago. old Hannah had told Au tumn that sheep herders had en countered Geoffrey’s ghost among the white birches there, of a moon lit night in spring, and had heard hi? voice calling to his sheep-dogs when the wind came up from the river Autumn had all but forgotten tht legend, but its memory smote her now as she drew rein and turned her horse toward the gully. “Come on. Da!” she called. "Let’s go down this way.” Jarvis drew up short and looked at her. "There's quicksand along that creek," he replied. "Don’t you re member?” Autumn laughed. “Come on! I used to find gold pebbles down there. I want to see if there are any left.” Jarvis exclaimed under his breath. “Damn it, my girl, I have no time for such fooling! Are you riding with me or are you not?” Autumn held her horse for a mo ment in perplexity, then followed her father along the trail of his own chotffeing. One of these days, she thought to herself, it would be neces sary to warn Jarvis Dean that his daughter was grown up and would not be spoken to as if she were no more than a child. But there would be time for that. (TO BE CONTINUED) New Look Is Given to Autumn Styles by Bustle Silhouette By CHERIE NICHOLAS WHAT’S in a name? Well, plen ty. judging from the conster nation and furore the mention of “bustle” in connection with the new fashions for fall and winter has caused. Immediately, at the mere suggestion of bustles being revived in modern styling, came visions of the amusing monstrosities we of this day have come to associate with the “has been” fashions of the long ago. As a matter of fact the bustle motif that has succeeded in giving to contemporary fashions such a de cidedly new look is far and away from the antiquated bustle of our ancestresses. A more accurate way of expressing the bustle theme as is today, is to speak of it as back-fullness, to achieve which de signers are most ingeniously intro ducing clever drapes, bows, and peplum effects done in a conserva tive manner. The emphasis given to back-full less in current styling has opened ivenues of thought to designers, in consequence of which the dresses ind coats and jackets shown in the ieason’s collections have taken on in entirely different and refreshing rote of interest. With the new back ullness the simple black dress that s heralded as a perfect autumn ‘first" becomes a model of high ityle distinction. The various treatments of the pack-fullness theme as demonstrat ;d in the illustration conveys the nessage that there are back ullnesses and back-fullnesses being nterpreted throughout the mode, with not necessarily any two being ilike. See the afternoon dress of voguish /elveteen shown to the left in the picture. It shows clever manip llation via the peplum method. The spectator sports dress centered In the group, of lightweight woolen, modifies its peplum fullness to a conservative degree. The sheer black afternoon dress to the right has a wide sash tech nique which arrives at back-fullness in most pleasing fashion. The hat, designed to complement the bustle silhouette of the dress, has its own bustle, which goes to show that milliners are also subscribing to the bustle theme. In the inset a pretty evening for mal again illustrates the prevailing idea of bustle effects. The' bustle is detachable, to be worn at will. Stiff, crisp silk taffeta yields beautifully. This matter of back-fullness is not confined to dress design. The new coats have had to be tuned to the bustle-like fullness of the gowns over which they must be worn. In consequence many of the smartest coats of the season are styled with that thought in mind. Some take on fullness at the waistline; others are made with lines that flare from neckline to hem at the back. Un furred dressmaker coats of this type, made of fine broadcloth or velvety surfaced woolens, rank at the height of fashion. With them a separate fur piece is inevitable which is met in the revival of long fur boas and stoles that recall quaint fashions such as our revered grandmothers wore. Reaction to the new bustle vogue is seen in the revival of stiff, hand some silks as they so successfully yield to bouffant drapes and bows. • Released by Western Newspaper Union.) Amber in Fashion Featured colors this season in clude a series that ranges from lightest beige and cinnamon tones to vibrant copper tones, with spe cial emphasis on browns from light to dark. Paris plays up these colors both in fabrics and in furs, and then to carry out the color scheme in perfect harmony adds amber jewel ry. The revival of amber will prove welcome news to women who dress with distinction. Note the attrac tive bracelet, necklace and clip of amber as worn by the fashion-wise young woman pictured. For Slim Lines To give slim lines to your dressy fur coat, long-haired and bulky furs are being combined with bands of all types of material. Satin-Top Jacket Dress for Autumn — For a neat practical dress of ac credited style, a dress that will serve admirably for immediate wear, and that will start the season off in the right direction, choose one of the very smart daytime jacket dresses, preferably of black, either silk crepe or lightweight wool. These are shown with either the sep arate black satin blouse or the satin is worked into the dress itself in a blouse top. With this comes a cun ning bolero of the identical material that fashions the dress. Sometimes there is an applique of the satin on the bolero. The advantage of the separate satin blouse and skirt is that it gives opportunity for inter changeable blouses. The combining of satin with other materials is significant fashion news. Topcoats as well as dresses are trimmed with satin this year. Sweater Collars In Great Variety Bengaline and faille are fall fa vorites for neckwear. There is a little satin and there are taffeta ruf- | fled collars and full three-quarter j Bishop sleeves with wrist frills that are to put on over a sleeve or with short sleeves to give a new juvenile look to a plain dress. There are deep cuffs with double rows of box-plaited ruffling, deep Dutch collars with the same finish. Bibs are still shown and sweater collars are imperative both for the school girl and the older woman. This fashion gives a clean, fresh, laundered look to our woolly outer knits that make them seem feminin# and less casual. Strange Facts V Prying Railroads Home Products * Desert Increase * In the early days of the rail roads, travelers often aroused sus picion and station agents frequent ly asked them personal questions. But the Liverpool & Manchester railway went further. Up to 1837 this road made each passenger fill out a ticket application that not only asked his name, address and the purpose of his trip, but also his age, occupation and place of birth. In "The Westphalian Last Sup per,” a stained-glass window in St. Mary’s cathedral in Soest, Westphalia, Germany, Christ and His disciples are depicted in their customary places at the table, eat ing Westphalian ham and pumper nickel and drinking Westphalian beer and kuemmel. * • * Scattered throughout England are some 400 “camping coaches,” or remodeled railroad cars, in which about 50,000 persons each year spend their summer vaca tions. The coaches, permanently located on beautiful country sid ings, accommodate private par ties of f/om 4 to 10 and cost from $10 to $25 a week, which includes linen and tableware. * • • Soil erosion, now ravaging a large part of the world on a scale unparalleled in history, is believed to have formed about a million square miles of new desert in the past 25 years.—Collier’s. Voltaire Born Arouet The great French poet, drama tist and philosopher known to the world as Voltaire, was Francois Marie Arouet, born in 1694, the son of Francois and Marie Mar guerite Daumart Arouet. At the age of 24 he was imprisoned in the Bastile for writing verses that dis pleased the regent of France. Dur ing this imprisonment he changed his name to Arouet de Voltaire. But as time passed the “Arouet” was dropped and he became knowm simply as Voltaire. The3R’s Quaker State Motor Oil has a back ground of over half a century of scientific refining ... is recognized by car owners, the world over, as the quality lubricant for automotive use. Acid-Free Quaker State Motor Oil is refined exclusively from the finest Pennsylvania crude oil. All impurities are scientifically removed. Each drop of oil is pure, heat-resistant lubricant ... assuring maximum reliability. 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