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Beauty’s
Daughter
A NEW SERIAL
KATHLEEN
NORRIS
O •
Read Every
Installment!
CHAPTER II
"Is Dad worried about business
these days, Mother?” Victoria, four
teen years old, asked one day.
"I don’t think so especially, dar
ling. I think he was a little cross
because they wanted me to be in
the theatricals.”
"And shall you be?”
"I don’t know. I’m trying to
think it out. I hate,” Mrs. Herren
deen said, smiling through the sud
den tears that filled her beautiful
€ y es — “I hate to trouble Daddy.
But he does seem to me unreason
able. Men have their pleasures,
and women have theirs. It isn’t
my fault that the nicest—actually
the nicest—persons in this part of
the world have been so extraordi
narily generous to me.”
"But why don’t they invite him?”
"But they do, my dear! Os course
they do! Daddy could go every
where that I go, if he would. But
he doesn’t enjoy it.”
Victoria pondered this awhile in
silence.
"When I’m asked to a smart din
ner, or the opera, or to stay down
in Hillsborough for some special par
ty, am I to hang my head and say,
‘Oh, thank you, but Mr. Herrendeen
likes me to be at home nights’?”
"I don’t think he’d mind if it
was only now and then,” she sug
gested uncertainly.
"Ah, but that’s the trouble, Vic.
You can’t play fast and loose. In
three months they’d all have for
gotten me. Their lives go too fast.
They go abroad, or to New York or
Hawaii; there are always mar
riages—people coming and going—
changes—”
"Divorces,” Victoria supplied
simply, as her mother paused.
Magda laughed, with a little touch
of color in her face.
"Well, yes, divorces. Everything
is whirling all the while —visitors
from the East, the polo teams, the
golf people. You can’t let go. To
get out of it for two months—to de
cline five invitations m a row, Vic —
would mean you were out forever.”
Again Victoria looked at her
thoughtfully, puzzlealy.
"And would Dad like you to do
that, Mother?”
"Why, he’s been so glum and si
lent these last months I hardly
know. Ever since you and I went
down to Santa Barbara last summer
he’s seemed to feel he has a griev
ance.” Again the beautiful affection
ate eyes filled with tears.
Victoria’s heart ached for her
with a fierce wrench of pain and
sympathy. She knew of what her
mother was thinking on these hot
days; she was thinking of her
friends at Tahoe, and up on the
Klamath river, and down on the
cool shores of Pebble beach and
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Santa Barbara.
Presently Magda came back to
the question:
“You do see that it’s hard for me,
Victoria? What would you do?”
"Oh, yes; oh, yes,” Victoria
agreed. “It’s—it’s hard on us all!”
"Hard on you, too, dear?” Her
i —nr
® 13
II Wi W
k I
I • ill OR
"And Would Dad Like You to Do
That, Mother?”
mother asked quickly, in a tone
that shrank away from pain.
"Hard to see you unhappy and see
him unhappy,” Victoria said, her
eyes watering.
There was a ring at the door.
Victoria was glad to go to answer
it; the conversation had gotten com
pletely out of hand. She came in
with a great box of flowers; there
were often boxes of flowers, but not
often as large as this.
Victoria ran about getting vases
for them.
“Ahd what’s in the box, Mother,
the little box?”
Mrs. Herrendeen was smiling su
perbly, shaking her head. The card,
twisted and wired in a wet envelope,
was in her hand; the little square
jeweler’s box with it.
"What’s in it, Mother?” Victoria
insisted.
“I hate to look,” the woman said.
“I know it’s going to make me
angry.”
"Angry?”
"I think «o. Oh,” Magda mur
mured, under her breath, "he has
no right to do that!”
"Do you know who it is before you
even read the card, Mother?”
"I think I do. I think it’s my
very rich friend, Mr. Manners,”
"The Spanish one?”
"He is half Spanish, I believe.”
Magda slowly brought forth the
card, glanced at it, crumpled it to
pulp. Victoria’s eager eyes were
upon her as she opened the little
box, cutting its heavy cords and
breaking away the wax seals. There
were a cardboard box, a light
wooden box, a lined jewel case in
which a heavy diamond bracelet
was flashing and gleaming on a
satin cushion.
“What does the note say, Moth
er?”
"Just—well, nothing, really. Ri
diculous!” the woman murmured,
her expression partly amused, part
ly pleased, partly impatient.
"It’s beautiful,” Victoria said, of
the bracelet. “Are they expen
sive?”
"Only a few thousand,” her moth
er answered carelessly. She fitted
the bracelet carefully back in its
case; replaced the wooden box, the
cardboard box, and yawned.
"Don’t you like him, Mother?”
"Who? Ferd Manners?”
"Is that his name? It doesn’t
sound very Spanish.”
"It’s Ferdinand de Something
Manners. I believe his mother was
an Argentine heiress. He’s lived
there a great deal.”
"Yoil might know he was Span-
EARLY COUNTY NEWS, BLAKELY, GEORGIA
ish,” Victoria said brightly, "or he
wouldn’t think he could send a mar
ried lady jewelry!”
"True for you, Miss Herrendeen!”
her mother agreed, going into the
bedroom with the box. Until she
could return it, she would hide it,
Victoria knew. Dad must know
nothing of this.
The afternoon dragged. After a
while Victoria put on her old white
serge skirt and a white thin sweat
er, pulled a small white hat over
her bobbed head, and went to the
library to get a new book. When
she came back at five, her mother
was entertaining a caller. It was
a square, dark - skinned man,
sprawled in a low chair, a glass of
champagne between his big brown
hands.
"This is my little girl, Mr. Man
ners.”
“Come, it was to be Ferdinand!”
the man said, his voice and accent
instantly betraying the Latin.
“It was not,” Magda countered
simply, smiling. She was in some
thing soft and cool and pale blue;
she had had time to dress, time to
draw shades and set the flowers
about advantageously.
“Are you going up to Helen’s?”
he was presently asking. He paid
no attention to Victoria. Magda
shook her head. “You’re not?” the
man demanded surprised.
"My little spare tire,” Victoria’s
mother said, her arm about her.
"But good gracious, take her!
Connie’s girl must be about her
age.”
“No,” Magda said, gently shak
ing her head. “Not just now, any
way. But it must be lovely up
there! I’ve never been there, you
know. Phyllis was telling me of
some place—the Braverman place
right on the water—”
“But that’s just the place I am
going to buy!” Ferdinand Manners
exclaimed. When Magda presently
went out of the room to bring him
her Spanish shawl, he asked Vic
toria if she knew that she had a
very beautiful mother. He bent his
russet head over the shawl. "Yes,
that is a fine shawl,” he said. “What
does the man offer you?”
Victoria was shocked. Was Moth
er going to sell the famous old
shawl? She saw that her mother
hadn’t wanted her to know.
“He offers me three hundred—
Marsh. It’s to be edged with fur
for a wrap. They’ll take all this
off.” Magda ran her fine thin hand
through creamy silk fringes so stiff
that they looked like cotton.
Just a week later Victoria brought
in a great box just delivered from
Marsh’s; the shawl was inside. It
had been changed into a sumptuous
evening wrap with a border all the
way about it of soft white fur. And
this gift her mother did not return.
She put it away in the great trunk
that always stood in her room; there
was small closet space in the apart
ment.
That same week, on another
sticky sultry night, Keith Herren
deen came in looking tired and pale
at six o’clock, apparently more than
ordinarily wearied by the burden
and heat of the day. He sank into
a chair in the sitting room that was
also the dining room, where Victoria
was already setting the table.
“I brought you a little present,
Magda,” he said, his face suddenly
bright with a smile. "It’s not much,
my dear.”
It was an Emporium box; a white
linen jacket, unlined, with a smart
dark blue stripe about the collar
and cuffs. The tag was still on
it; he explained that she was free
to exchange it if she liked. Vic
toria sent a quick apprehensive
glance toward her mother. The
bracelet that had cost thousands
had been sent back, but the re
mains of the great crate of flowers-,
and fresh flowers, were everywhere,
and deep in her mother’s trunk was
the beautiful shawl with its new
border of pure white ermine.
Mrs. Herrendeen stood fingering
the linen jacket. The staring “$3.95”
on a tag was in her hand, as the
fringe of the shawl had been a few
days ago.
“It’s very sweet, Keith,” she said,
holding her tone low. But it was no
use; in a minute she was crying
convulsedly, bitterly, senselessly,
standing at the window, with her
shaking shoulders to the room.
"Don’t mind me,” she said thickly.
“I’m crazy. Don’t pay any at
tention to me!”
"I’ll be damned if I understand
you sometimes, Magda,” Keith said
wearily.
It was on this night that there was
the first talk of sending Victoria to
a boarding school. Victoria’s heart
rose on a bound of joy at the
thought.
This seemed to be a time of
thrilling plans. It appeared almost
immediately that she and her
mother were going up to Tahoe to
visit Anna Brock. Mrs. Brock was
an old friend who had a daughter
Catherine; Victoria and Catherine
had known each other, not very in
timately, all their lives. They had
always rather shyly liked each oth
er.
“Dad, will you be up at all, week
ends?”
“That’s a pretty expensive trip,
Vic.”
"But once? If we can afford to
stay there, surely you can afford
to come up once?”
“I’ll try.”
“It isn’t going to cost us very
much,” said her mother. “The cot
tage belongs to Anna’s sister, and
our food won't be much.”
“Oh, are we sort of boarding,
Mother?”
"Something like that.”
Keith Herrendeen, putting them
on the train, gave Victoria a little
box in parting.
“That belonged to my mother,
and her mother before her—you’ve
seen it, the pearl and onyx set. I
want you to have it.”
Victoria clung to him. “Dad,
you’re not going to have much fun.
I wish you were going!” And she
called back to him over her shoul
der: “I’ll write you—l love you!”
For the first day or two Mrs.
Brock and Magda talked together
confidentially and inexhaustibly.
Catherine and Victoria did not
care, for they were embarked upon
the most enchanting adventure of
their lives. All day long, and far
into the beautiful summer nights,
the two girls talked and laughed,
swam and cooked and walked to
gether, giggled their way through
adventures that supplied them with
endless material for laughter and
reminiscence.
The little cabin was on the east
side of the lake; it was so small
that the happy party had the feel
ing of living out of doors.
A mile or two to the west was the
hotel, in a settlement of informally
grouped lake homes; the Brock
place was all by itself, with a little
triangular sandy beach of its own.
Anna and Magda and the two girls
concocted for themselves the sort
of meals that women love in sum
mer: salads, bowls of berries, boxed
cookies, fruits.
Victoria’s beautiful mother had
for a friend one of the homeliest of
women. But Anna Brock had an
odd abrupt charm of her own, and
she was extremely brilliant. She
spoke French and German, and in
September she was going to New
York to teach Latin in a boy’s
school. And then Catherine—joy of
joys!—would be placed with Vic
toria in the San Rafael boarding
school. They would still be togeth
er!
"Mother, how can we afford
that?” Victoria asked one day.
Magda and her daughter had
swum out through the shallow clear
water to a great rock and were
basking on it.
"This is a good chance to talk to
you, Vic, without Anna or Kittsy
hearing,” Magda said, byway of
reply, after a moment’s hesitation.
"Vic, I don’t want you to feel
badly about this,” her mother pres
ently began. I’m getting a divorce
from Dad. We’re in Nevada —did
you realize that? Aunt Anna’s cabin
is well over the line, and on that day
when we took a long drive we went
to Reno and arranged it.”
Victoria was looking at her
mother steadily; she had not moved
a muscle. Now she swallowed with
a dry throat.
There were tears- in Magda’s eyes
and in her voice; and she stopped
short and looked away over the daz
zle of blue water.
"Oh, the break is terrible, I know
that —I know it now! But after a
few weeks —after a month or two —■
everyone gets used to it—and the
two persons who have grown nerv
ous and irritable and wretched to
gether are free!”
“But then when will I see Dad?”
Victoria asked, tears gushing from
her eyes. “Can I write to him?”
“My darling, of course. And he’ll
come to see you at school, take you
out to movies! Why, I’m writing
him today, and I’ll put your love
in.”
It seemed less strange the next
day; Dad and Mother separating.
Still Victoria tried to adjust her
thoughts to all the amazing angles
of this new turn of affairs, thought
that she would go and see Dad
often, too, if she could get away
from school. And perhaps next
year he and she would have their
little dream house on the shore for
a few weeks, and cook waffles and
scrambled eggs.
This was late August. It was in
early October that Victoria, slim
and busy and happy in the dark
blue Dominican uniform, with the
dazzling collar of her bluejacket’s
blouse turned back at the neck, and
the pale blue scarf that marked
her as a freshman blowing in the
autumn wind, was stopped as she
was racing in Catherine’s wake
across the school playground.
“Letter for you, Victoria,” said
Sister Beata, extending it in a clean,
cool hand.
"Oh, thank you, S’ter,” Victoria
gasped, seizing it. It was from her
mother, who was down in Santa
Barbara with the Arnolds. It told
her happily, simply, that her mother
and Ferdinand Ainsa y Castello
Manners, “for you may as well
have his whole name, my darling,
although I’ve only got the first and
the last on my new cards,” had
been married that day at noon.
Her father came to see her now
and then, on Sundays. They were
oddly silent, oddly ill at ease with
each other.
Victoria saw her stepfather only
in flying glimpses for the remainder
of her school life. He and her
mother were at the big Manners
cattle ranch down in the Argentine
for two years, and when they came
back Victoria was preparing for a
second trip to Europe. Mother Ray
mond had written to her mother
about leaving her in the school there
for the final year of French and
music and culture generally, and
Victoria had only one real visit with
her mother before it was time to go.
Ferdinand Manners had leased
the big. Chalmers place in Burlin-
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game j”Magda was back among her
friends again and giddy with happi
ness and triumph.
Victoria spent a somewhat be
wildered yet happy Easter vacation
there, exploring all the garden paths
and all the big rooms.
She came back to California at
another Easter time, eighteen years
old, and ready to graduate with her
class. Her mother met her in New
York, and they made the transcon
tinental trip together.
Ten weeks later Victoria’s hand
some bags were packed again, and
she went down to the Chalmers
place for the summer.
The beautiful Chalmers house was
open to summer breezes and filled
with summer flowers; the Chinese
butler, discreet in his purple and
blue silks, motioned her upstairs.
Another Oriental took her bags;
her mother’s maid, who had crossed
the continent with them a few weeks
before, met her at the top of the
stairs. Vic asked to see her mother.
Magda was in her magnificent
bedroom, a large airy apartment
flanked by an enormous bath, by a
complete dressing room, by an awn
inged upper balcony.
Victoria found her mother
stretched on a couch by a window;
she was not reading the magazine
she held, and her eyes were absent
and reddened a little from recent
tears. At the sight of the girl she
began to cry again, and they
clasped each other closely.
“My darling, you’re home at last!
If you knew—if you knew how I’ve
wanted you!” Magda sobbed. She
instantly regained control of herself
and smiled with trembling lips,
straightening the collar of Victoria’s
blouse as the girl knelt beside her.
“Was it all wonderful?” she said.
“It was perfect. And at the end
we all cried because we weren’t
fl, jfjrT S
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Victoria Spent a Somewhat Be
wildered Yet Happy Easter
Vacation There.
all going to be back in September!”
Victoria laughed. “But, Mother
dearest, you’re not well?”
“I’ve been feeling—wretchedly.
Something,” Mrs. Manners said
hesitantly— “something rather hor
rid happened last night, and Ferdy
was arrested.” Her eyes filled
again, she straightened the collar
again. “It was all rather horrid,
and it’ll all be forgotten this time
next week,” she said cheerfully.
“So let’s not talk about it”
"Arrested” Victoria echoed,
aghast. “Why—what happened?”
"There was an accident. I don’t
know just what happened,” Magda
said, her eyes watering. “It was
all so horrible He had been drink
ing, of course, and he was driving
May Finee home —they were both
in the car asleep, right near where
the smash was.’
“Who were?”
"If it had been anyone but May”
Magda sighed. “However, they say
the _poor fellow’ll get well, a_nd
r erdy can stand the Tlamages. "He
was all smashed up, the man they
ran into, and it’s a miracle they
weren’t all killed. But if he’d been
with anyone but May!”
“Who’s she?”
“Oh, she’s a cheap little idiot I
used to know years ago—May
Smith; she married Tony Feeney
and divorced him and spent a few
weeks in Paris, so now she’s ‘Ma
dame Finee,’ and she can hardly
remember an English word”
“And does Ferdy like her?”
Magda looked at her daughter
ruminatively, answered mildly.
“Rather. And of course she’s
making passes at Ferdy.”
“Oh?” Vicky said. It was the
old atmosphere again.
“Or rather, at the Manners mon
ey, which is very stupid for me,”
Magda ended the subject cheerful
ly. “Stupid, that’s what it is, for
Ferdy’d never look at anyone like
May! And now tell me more about
today—did you say Grace Peacock
was there?”
"She’s Margery King’s mother.”
“I know she is, and I know she
. went all over Europe trying to get
a priest to marry her to Joe Pea
■ cock, and couldn’t.”
“Margery’s nice,” Vicky said
> slowly.
i “And you’re adorable, only you
i have those Herrendeen eyes that
i you must remember to keep open,”
’ Magda said lovingly. “Did you get
yourself some lovely things in Par
is?”
« “Some. Not expensive. But I
: got one —yes, I have two or three
: you’ll love.”
, “Have you had it waved, Vic?”
! "My hair? No, that’s just brush
ing and setting.”
Convent-bred, and with an instinc-
I tive distaste for Ferdy and for Fer
; dy’s world, yet she knew that she
must either meet him halfway with
flattery and flirtatiousness, submit
to kisses and embraces, concede
him confidences and little harmless
intimacies, or he would not like her
at all. On the very first evening
Magda told him good-naturedly that
he must stop carrying on with her
daughter.
The idle days began to go by.
Victoria wondered what she was to
do with tl;e endless line of them that
stretched ahead. For a week she
enjoyed the new life lazily; then
quite suddenly the whole thing be
gan to pall.
Magda had her own beautiful
suite of rooms; Ferdy had his. They
lived entirely separated lives; some
times they saw each other during
the course of the day, and some
times not. Quite often they dined
at the same house, but the dinners
were large, and Ferdy went to them
before Magda did, explaining per
haps to a servant that he was meet
ing some friend first at the club for
preliminary cocktails, and Magda
always went late, in great state, in
her beautiful car with her own driv
er. So that even then they had no
moment together.
(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 Arch Masons
meets on the second
and fourth Monday
t nights of esch month
at 8 o'clock. Visiting
companions invited.
C. E. Martin,
High Prient.
J. G. Standifer,
Secretary.