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CHAPTER I
Victoria Herrendeen came up
from the beach with her sandy fin
gers tight in her father’s hand.
Those girls down there had been
mean to her because she didn’t un
derstand the French they were jab
bering with Mademoiselle, and they
had laughed at her. When Dad
had appeared, with his usual smile,
wearing his old blue coat and the
loose old white trousers Mother
sometimes let him wear on a sum
mer morning, he had looked to his
daughter like an angel of light. Here
was her unfailing friend and cham
pion.
He came down from the San
Francisco office when he could; not
every week-end, but at least every
other week-end, and when he was
there Victoria had the companion
she loved best in the world, and
the best time any little girl ever
had on a beach.
Dad was a chemist—whatever
that was.—and worked in a labora
tory with a man named Butler, who
was mean to him, and a lot of other
men who were nice. Victoria knew
about Butler because she had often
heard her mother say, “Butler
wouldn’t put it over on me that
way, Keith. I’d not stand it! I
wonder what you do.’’
They loved each other dearly, she
and her father. They were ex
quisitely happy together. While she
waded, and he made a beach fire
and scrambled eggs and boiled co
coa, they liked to plan dim future
days in which they two would live
alone on a desert island and signal
to the people on the shore for what
they wanted.
She was an odd-looking child, not
pretty yet, but too small to worry
about looks herself. Her mother,
however, was extremely concerned
about them. She had just begun to
realize that Victoria might be quite
lovely some day—or striking, any
way, distinguished-looking—and was
watching her keenly for signs of it;
but Victoria did not know that. Mrs.
Herrendeen said to herself that if
the child ever grew up to that big
red mouth, and if the deep-set slate
gray eyes opened a little more, and
if the thick straight tawny hair were
cut and curled into a becoming
shape, and the dark, freckled skin
cleared, she would be all right. But
the big teeth had to be straight
ened and the hair brushed . . .
Magda Herrendeen might indulge
in a little sigh about it, deep in her
own soul. She was far too fond of
Victoria, far too loyal to everyone
she loved, her own small daughter
included, to give the child any hint
of it. Vicky’s life must be happy,
confident, free; she must never feel
any inferiority or shyness.
Magda had had no trouble with
her own beauty. It had been given
her at about fifteen as a complete
gift from the gods. It was flawless;
it was only comparable to other
perfect beauty.
But it was not anything tangible
or even describable about her that
made her lovely, nor the firm
straight body with its wide shoul
ders and thin hips, nor the fine
nervous hand and modeled arm. It
was a glow, a fragrance, a light
that seemed to emanate from her,
and that was somehow in her voice
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Thurs.-Fri., June 17-18
“PERSONAL PROPERTY”
JEAN HARLOW and ROBERT TAYLOR
Saturday, June 19
“TRUSTED OUTLAW”
808 STEELE
First Chapter of “THE VIGILANTES ARE COMING”
LATE SHOW SATURDAY NIGHT 10:30
“JOIN THE MARINES”
Mon.-Tues., June 21-22
“ROMEO AND JULIET”
norma SHEARER and LESLIE HOWARD
Wednesday, June 23
“ESPIONAGE”
EDMUND LOWE and MADGE EVANS
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too, and in the clothes she wore.
Victoria could not appreciate her
beauty, even when new men were
introduced to her and held her small
sandy hand while they asked her
the question all the other men had:
“Do you know you have a very
beautiful mother?’’
She would look at her mother on
these occasions and smile shyly,
pleased, but a little puzzled, too.
Was it so important?
Evidently it was very important.
Anyway, for that reason or some
other everyone did really make a
great fuss about Mother. She
laughed about it, but of course she
liked it, too.
Victoria’s mother always had
flowers; men brought them when
they came to tea, even in winter.
The Herrendeens did not have din
ner parties themselves, because the
apartment was so small, but even
if Mother did not have a maid at
any other time she always was in
touch with a nice colored girl or a
clever Japanese woman or a young
Chinese in purple and gold and blue,
who came in to serve tea. And
men—or more often a man—came
then, and whoever he was, he
brought flowers.
Orchids and gardenias, and great
soft melting begonias in tones of
peach and warm cream, and long
stemmed roses ar.u sweet dark vio
lets—these were always in Mother’s
rooms. She said that she would feel
really poor without them, and Vic
toria suspected that Dad would do
anything to keep Mother from feel
ing really poor.
He had confided to Victoria that
they were poor, quite poor. He had
been very rich once, and could give
Mother those pearls, and furs, and
everything she liked, and then she
had had flowers—many more than
these even, every day. And then
she had had a great big house to
put them in, and servants to find
vases for them. Mother had had a
maid, and Dad a valet . . .
“And did joo like that, Dad?”
Victoria might ask.
Even when she had had nurses all
to herself she had not liked them.
Nurses liked to talk to cooks and
to other nurses in parks and kitch
ens and hotel dining rooms and on
beaches; to a little girl they had
nothing at all to say.
But this had been in the old days
when they had the big house with
Ferdinand in the downstairs hall
and the dumbwaiter and the chauf
feur. These had faded away, some
where around the time of her sev
enth birthday, and the big motor
cars with them, and the Herren
deens no longer went to great big
hotels and lived in great big rooms
with letters embroidered on the tow
els, and telegrams and flowers in
yellow envelopes and big green
boxes.
They moved to a small apart
ment, and Victoria discovered to
her ecstasy that her own bedroom
was right next to a similarly simple
room where her mother and her fa
ther slept. Now she could go in
her pajamas in the early morning
and sit on their knees while they
were in bed and talk to them. And
now she was never lonely any more,
for there was school and there was
Dad every night.
EARLY COUNTY NEWS, BLAKELY, GEORGIA
He taught her how to cook; choco
late cornstarch custard and baked
potatoes and apple sauce; it was
all fun.
On this hot August Saturday, com
ing back from the beach with her
sandy hand tight in his, she said:
“Did Mother meet you?”
“I don’t think Mother knew I was
coming.”
“00, Dad,” said Victoria, fearful
ly, “she likes you to let her know!”
“I know she does, darling, and I
did. But when I left the station
just now the telegraph man came
out and said: ‘Are you going over
to Cutters’?’ and I said, ‘Yes.’ And
he said, ‘Here’s a telegram then
for some Mrs. Herrendeen —the tel
ephone wires are down.’ And it
looks like my telegram.”
“Oh, yes, they are down,” Vic
toria agreed eagerly, giving a skip
of sheer delight because it was sum
mer, and Saturday morning, and al-
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They Went up the Path.
most time for lunch, and Dad was
here. “I know because she tried to
telephone Johnny last night.”
“Johnny?”
“The polo Johnny.”
“Oh, yes Mr. Kendrick. It
sounded like one of your friends.”
“You’re my friend, Dad,” Vic
toria said, kissing his hand.
They went up the path where the
daisies and marigolds were stirring
uneasily in the soft sea wind, and
past the white gate that always
looked as if it were washed and
blown clean by the winds, and into
the big wide-open porch door of
the boarding house.
Her hand was still in his as they
crossed the hall and entered her
mother’s room—an airy room, with
flowers in it, and the good scent of
the sea.
“Not here,” said Keith Herren
deen.
“She’s playing golf, maybe.”
“Well, what shall we do?”
Victoria, feeling a little uneasily
apologetic for her mother’s absence,
regarded him hopefully.
“What would you like to do?”
"Let’s have lunch first—then we
can decide.” So they went out to
the Salisbury steaks and the corn
muffins and the baked potatoes, and
Victoria had two pieces of peach
pie. “You’ll get fat, Vic,” her fa
ther said.
“Salt air,” said Vic.
They went to a little tent circus
that afternoon; all the children
were going, and Victoria was en
chanted.
The circus was wonderful, too,
and Victoria was tired and blissful
and quiet on the way home; but she
did rouse up when she and her fa
ther went into their big room to find
Mother there stretched out flat on
the bed with the powder-blue taf
feta cover over her, sleepy, deli
cious, affectionate.
“Oh, hello, you darlings,” she
said. She stretched a hand toward
her husband, and he stooped over
her for one of their quick kisses.
“I knew you’d carried her off some
where because the Kinsolvings’
nurse came up here half an hour
ago,” she added, jerking her long
lovely body over so that he could
find a narrow ledge on which to
sit. “Sit there, Keith. Did you
have a nice time, Vicky?”
Victoria burst into a very de
lirium of reminiscence, but as she
presently discovered, neither par
ent was listening to her. Her father
took off his coat and vest and col
lar and began to walk back and
forth between the bureau and the
washstand; there w’as an old-fash
ioned washstand in an alcove, and
he washed his face and hands there,
combed his wet hair, found himself
a fresh collar. Meanwhile there was
a little idle talk between him and
his wife, and Victoria had an un- i
comfortable familiar sense that
something vaguely unpleasant was
brewing.
“Nice down here?”
“Perfect days; that is, except
Tuesday. ’Member that Tuesday
was windy and foggy, Vic?”
“It was cold in town,” Keith Her
rendeen said, without waiting for
Victoria’s answer.
“So someone was saying.” Mrs.
Herrendeen bunched her beautiful
shining fingernails and looked at
them thoughtfully. “Great doings
here for the Harwoods—the news
paper people,” she said.
“Tonight?” the man asked even-1
ly, after a pause,.
"“Small party,” his wife saia
lightly and briefly. “Bridge for
Lady Cuthbertson. She’s here on
the Harwood yacht. They’ve all
gone mad over her.”
“You’ve got to go, I suppose?”
A pause.
“You wouldn’t, I suppose?” An
other pause.
“No,” Dad said briefly and qui
etly.
“I suppose not. But—being bridge
...” Victoria’s mother began hes
itantly. She looked at his face as
she spoke.
“You feel you have to go?”
“Well, Keith,” his wife began,
with an eloquent shrug, “you see,
it’s only two tables,” she went on
making a fresh start.
“That’s all right,” Keith Herren
deen said heavily in a tone that be
lied his words.
“Do you play good bridge, Moth
er?” Victoria asked, to lighten a
certain heaviness in the silence that
had fallen in the room. She was
washing herself now, busily and ef
fectively, the muddy soap squeez
ing in great firm suds through her
fingers, her wet straight tawny hair
dripping on her shoulders. She took
a comb and dragged the damp locks
back severely.
“Now take your fingers and soften
that around your forehead, Vic.—
Yes,” Mrs. Rerrendeen said, jerk
ing another pillow under her head.
“I do play good bridge.”
“Does Dad?” asked Vic.
“He doesn’t like it. Nor dancing.
Nor night clubs. Nor big cars and
yachts and distinguished persons.
Nor anything I like,” Magda might
have answered from the sense of
checkmate, of complete bafflement
in her heart. But she said only the
first phrase aloud. For the rest she
lay there thinking, watching her
husband’s face.
“Victoria and I’ll take care of
each other,” Keith said, in a hard
voice.
“I could telephone and say I’ll be
up after dinngr,” Magda offered.
“What good would that do?”
“Well, that’s just it; no good.
They aren’t dining until nearly
eight. ‘Eightish,’ Sibyl said. You’ll
be all through here by seven.”
“We’ll take care of each other,”
Keith said again.
“There goes the dinner bell,” Vic
toria said, leaping from rock to rock
beside him. “Goody! Are you hun
gry? I’m starving.”
“Mrs. Herrendeen coming to din
ner?” Emma said, giving them
their napkins and setting two
glasses of cut fruit before them.
“No, she can’t come tonight.”
Upon their return to their room
immediately after dinner, Vic and
her father found Victoria’s mother
all ready to go. Her manner was
the prettily careless one that dis
guises in a beautiful woman a sud
den touch of self-consciousness.
“I wonder you’ll speak to me for
being such a runaway!” she said
to them with her appealing smile.
She was always gentle; Victoria
had never seen her mother harsh
or angry.
“You look lovely, Magda,” her
husband said. He said it without
enthusiasm, almost wearily, as he
sat down. The lovely vision stooped
to kiss his foiehead. She caught up
the familiar wrap. Victoria had
seen her catch it up a hundred
times; it was her only one, except
for the two shawls. And Mother
said shawls were not really smart
any mere.
And now she was giving to Dad
and Victoria her familiar good-by
laugh and nod, an excited, triumph
ant laugh and nod, as if she said,
“Now that I’m all ready I’m not
scared; anyone who looks as I do
must have a good time!” and she
was running away.
There was a young man in a light
overcoat outside the French win
dows; there always was. And there
was a rakish low car waiting in the
drive; that was always there, too.
Mother met the one and ran down
to the other, and there was the
roar of a deep engine, and she was
gone.
Dad and Victoria went out to the
front steps and sat there in the
soft summer night.
There was a little boat waiting at
the pier just below the lodge; a
white little boat gushing blots of
white dancing light onto the dark
water.
“They’re going out to that yacht
out there for dinner,” Victoria told
her father.
“Oh, yes,” he said, looking in
the direction of the lodge.
“Dad, why don’t you like going to
the lodge?”
“Well, for one thing I can’t af
ford it, Vic.”
“Can Mother?”
“Ah, but they ask her. They
don’t let it cost her anything.”
“They give her dresses, too,” Vic
toria said, thinking.
“Who does?”
“Mrs. Lester did—that dark blue
dress.”
“I thought she bought that at a
sale?”
“No; Mrs. Lester’s maid, Lotty,
brought it over in a box. And an
other blue dress, too.”
They walked along in silence for
a while. Presently Victoria said:
“We’ve had a happy day, haven’t
we?”
“I’m glad you have,” her father
said, stopping to bend down and
kiss her.
Victoria had to sleep on the porch
cot that night, as she always did
when Dad was there.
In the night she wakened, and
heard their voices—her father’s
and her mother's. Her mother’s
When You Check
Over Your Purchases
and figure the saving effected on each item,
and add up the total you will agree that it
pays to buy your groceries from us. For
though our prices are lowest, the quality of
our merchandise could not be higher.
Fresh vegetables each day.
Choice meats at all times.
Complete stock of fresh groceries.
We sell sweet milk every day—it’s fine.
If it’s something good to eat, just call 180
and you’ll get it quick.
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was almost inaudible, and had a
“please hush” note in it with which
Victoria was entirely familiar. Her
father’s was not very loud, but
clear:
“I’m not saying it’s easy for you,
Magda. I say it’s simply your luck.
We had it—lots of it. And God
knows I didn’t hold out on you then.
Now we haven’t got it any more,
and that’s your bad luck.
Silence. And then Mother’s voice,
very low and gentle:
“Keith, I know how hard it is for
you, dear. And if you feel that way
I simply won’t go. But it does seem
a wonderful chance. We happen—
we four, the Harwoods and Grace
Cuthbertson and I—to play a mar
velous foursome of bridge, and Col
lins—that’s the brother—cuts in now
and then, so it makes it perfect.
They’re only to be gone five weeks.
I could get Victoria’s things
straightened out, and ask Hetty to
get your dinners . . .”
There was another pause. Pres
ently the man said:
“You have no further affection—
no interest in either one of us, I
know that.”
“Oh, please!” the woman’s voice
protested mildly. “I suppose this
will go on into the forties and the
fifties, boarding houses and Pine
street apartments!”
“It won’t be forever,” Keith Her
rendeen said.
“It’ll be until I’m too old to
care!” Victoria heard her mother
say. Then there was a long silence,
while the little girl lay listening on
the porch with her heart hammer
ing like a wild bird’s and her ears
strained, and her whole little body
tensed with fear.
“Go, then,” said her father out
of the pause. They hadn’t gone to
sleep then; the quarrel was still on.
“Oh, no; I won’t go now,” her
mother said gently and sweetly, in
a normal voice.
“Well, now I tell you to go, that
doesn’t suit you!”
“It would be impossible for me to
go now,” Mrs. Herrendeen mur
mured firmly, as if the whole mat
ter were settled.
“Now, why do you want to act
like that about it, Magda?” the
man demanded, with a faint hint of
of change, in his tone.
Silence. Silence. Victoria heard
her father's snore, light at first,
swiftly deepening. Her heart began
to beat more quietly. A night bird
cried in the garden; the sea rushed
and retreated on the rocks.
A whimpering sob broke through
the other sounds; Victoria froze.
Her mother was crying; bitterly,
brokenly crying, and keeping the
noise of it soft, so that no one should
hear.
Victoria suffered as if from physi
cal pain. The crying went on for a
long time; a clock struck one for
some half-hour; struck four. It was
four o’clock!
The world was gray in shadowless
light when Victoria slipped noise
lessly from bed and stepped to the
open window. She looked in. Her
father was asleep, no doubt of that,
for he was still healthily snoring.
It was at the lightly covered form
of her mother that she looked stead
ily; was she sleeping?
No, the beautiful dark eyes were
wide open, fixed on Victoria in the
window. Mrs. Herrendeen beck
oned, and Victoria flew to her arms,
and they kissed each other, the child
hugged down against the tumbled
covers and the little lacy pillows.
“You muggins, what waked you
up?” the woman demanded in a
breath that was less than a whisper.
“Mother, are you all right?”
“Perfectly all right, sweetheart.”
“But, Mother, were you crying?”
“I got too tired, and that’s why I
cried, and I’m a very silly mother.”
Victoria laughed the shadow of
her own rich affectionate little
laugh, and there were more kisses.
Then she went back to her cold
tumbled porch bed, and snuggled
down inside it, and was asleep be
fore the morning’s first chill blan
ket of fog began to creep in across
the level dim floor of the ocean.
When they were at home in the
city, Magda Herrendeen never got
up for breakfast. She always said
that she loved getting up in the
morning when there was anything
to do. But in the five-room apart
ment on Pine street there was not
much to do.
Keith got himself a cup of coffee
and boiled two-minute oats for Vic
toria, or scrambled eggs for them
both. The rest was just bread and
butter, and milk poured from the
bottle.
Magda sometimes got up and got
herself some orange juice, or even
a cup of tea. She would come back
with the mail, the newspaper car
ried with a smoking cup or the
glass. Settling down again, she
would yawn wearily; what horrible
things were in the house for dinner,
and what should be ordered?
At eleven the telephone would
ring, and then there would be a
change. A change in her, and a
change in the general atmosphere.
“My dear, I don’t think I can to
day,” she would say. “But it sounds
too divine! How late would we be?.
... I see. Let me think . .
What are you wearing, Ethyl? .
Yes, I have; I could wear the blue
that Eleanor brought me from Paris
. . . Yes, I know. But let me think
about it and call you again!”
Victoria knew how this went; she
had heard it many times, for after
all she had not been long in school,
and there were always long Satur
day mornings at home. Her mother
would hang up the telephone only
to seize it once more. She would
be all vitality, all energy now. Her
beautiful eyes would be dancing, her
manner absent-minded but sweet
and happy again.
“Vic, could you go down to Flor
ence’s—or wait over at school until
six? Daddy’ll be here early, you
know; I’ll leave a message for him
to call for you . . .”
And while she talked, Magda
would be packing things in her
handsome suitcase, laughing, glanc
ing at the clock, snatching the tele
phone again. Perhaps she would
talk to a man this time.
“Rudy, this is Magda. Ethyl and
all of them are going to Jane’s to
night; are you? . . . Oh, wonder
ful! When are you going down? For
the polo? . . . Oh, fine! Could you
take me along? . . . Well, you’re a
darling ... I know, but anyway
you’re a darling ... In about an
hour? In about an hour.”
But after her eleventh birthday,
after that visit to the beach house,
there was a change between her
parents, and Victoria saw it, or
perhaps felt it rather than saw it.
Her mother was gentler, sweeter,
more affectionate than ever When
she was with them, but she was
with them much less.
On the other hand Victoria’s fa
ther grew silent, and gray, and dis
agreeable, as the months went by
and were years. He rarely spoke
at all at home, and in the evenings
he almost always went out.
(To be continued next week)
LEGAL NOTICE
The First National Bank of Blake
ly, located at Blakely, in the State
of Georgia, is closing its affairs.
All note holders and other creditors
of the association are therefore
hereby notified to present the notes
and other claims for payment.
Dated May 15, 1937.
H. A. WALTON, Cashier.
BLAKELY CHAPTER 44 R. A. M.
Blakely Chapter 44
Royal Areh Masons
meets on the second
WhW and fourth Monday
of each month
Wfr'fijjjjft 1 ** °’ c^ Visiting
pl vjjgfeiy companions invited.
S C. E. Martin,
bfrX* High Priest.
< J. G. Standifer,
■■’■■aw Secretary.