The Trembling Hills

by Phyllis A. Whitney

  The train trip took nearly three days, but while Mary Jerome slept badly in the Pullman and was weary by the second day, Sara never lost a wink and was bursting with energy by the time the train reached the Oakland Mole and they left it for the ferry.

  Take the boat across, Ritchie had written. Someone will meet you in the Ferry Building on the San Francisco side.

  He had been casual, but Sara knew it would be Ritchie himself. She could not sit quietly with her mother in the cabin, but walked out on deck into a whipping wind and watched the city across the bay as they neared it. How bravely the houses climbed the hills, undaunted by any height. And how tall many of the buildings seemed, clustered in the downtown section near the lower end of Market Street. She knew her San Francisco by now.

  She had found a book in a Chicago secondhand store and pored over the pictures and text. Already she knew the names of the famous hills—Rincon, where the old best families had resided, and still did to some extent. Nob Hill, where Bonanza wealth lived spectacularly. Ritchie lived on Nob Hill! That must be Russian Hill there—the highest one, where the houses were smaller and there were more green spaces, more trees to be seen. And of course Telegraph Hill would be the one to the far right, with the little houses of the Italians clinging to its steep sides.

  She gripped the salt-sticky rail in her excitement and there was a singing in her blood. This was where she belonged. She was aware of her mother, come to stand beside her, and as she spoke her happiness spilled over.

  “There—see that big white building at the top of Nob Hill. That’s where they are building the Fairmont Hotel. It’s going to be one of the most luxurious hotels in the world—even finer than the Palace.”

  A shiver ran through the slight figure beside her and brought Sara back from her dream.

  “You’re cold,” she said contritely. “That cloak is too thin for this wind.” But the sun was shining brightly and she herself was as warm as though she had been running.

  “I was always cold in San Francisco,” Mrs. Jerome said.

  They were nearing the Ferry Building now, with its square tower gleaming white across the bay. Mrs. Jerome stared fixedly at land, but Sara forgot her again in interest over the docking and eagerness to see Ritchie.

  They followed the crowd from the boat, each with a portmanteau in hand. Sara searched the faces of those who stood waiting to meet the boat. But because she was looking for Ritchie, she did not see Judith at once. It was her mother who said, “There is Miss Renwick,” and gave Sara a little push.

  For a moment Sara’s spirits thudded earthward, but she managed to rally in a few moments as she found excuses. Of course he couldn’t come to meet them. Ritchie worked at the insurance office. It would look too eager, it would be unsuitable if he left his desk in the early afternoon. That Judith had come was only right, since she was Mrs. Renwick’s daughter.

  Judith had seen them, but she stood where she was, smiling serenely, waiting for them to come to her. She had lost none of her beauty. She looked no less perfect than the last time Sara had seen her. An elbow-length capelet of rich brown fur set off her fairness and she wore a toque of fur on her high-piled hair, a brown-dotted veil flattering her creamy complexion. Her furled umbrella, customary equipment for a San Francisco winter, was of brown silk and had a smart, long handle so that one might pose with it in the fashionable manner. Her brown kid gloves had an air of Paris about them.

  Judith welcomed them without effusion, and shook hands with each. If she recalled her last meeting with Sara, her eyes did not betray the fact.

  “The carriage is over there,” she said in her low-toned voice. “Ritchie has the auto. He often uses it when my brother Nicholas is out of town on business. Nick is really the head of the family now, you know.”

  When they were seated in the carriage and the horses had turned up Market Street, Mrs. Jerome inquired about Judith’s mother.

  “She hasn’t been well,” Judith said, and it seemed to Sara that there was a hint of disapproval in her tone.

  Sara had seen little of Mrs. Renwick when she had visited the Temples and had noted her mainly as a plump woman much less attractive than her daughter.

  But now there were throngs on Market Street to watch—all San Francisco to drink in with her eyes, and she had no time for anything else.

  “We have to take a roundabout way to get up the hill,” Judith explained when the carriage turned north toward higher ground. “It’s just as well we’re not quite at the top. On Russian Hill there are rickety wooden steps to climb if you live very high, but on our hill we manage to make it to our own door.”

  Gusts of wind blew dust in their faces as the carriage moved along, and dust eddies swirled constantly in the street. Judith put her handkerchief to her mouth and coughed delicately.

  “We’re built practically on sand dunes, you know,” she said with almost an air of pride. “I suppose we shall never be rid of the dust.”

  Sara watched the houses they passed intently. Would one of those mansions on Nob Hill strike a chord in her memory? Would there be sudden recognition if she saw the house in which she had lived as a child? Once or twice she stole a look at her mother, to see what might be reflected in her face. But Mary Jerome looked straight ahead, as if she wore blinders and could not see the houses of San Francisco.

  “Here we are,” Judith said. “Ours is the corner house on the next block.”

  Back in Chicago, Sara had thought the Temple house large and impressive, but it looked a toy beside the Renwick mansion. This was vast in size, with dormer windows and chimneys jutting from the roof. There’d be hundreds of panes to wash—but oh, what a view! If only she could have a room with a view. It appeared that every room in this house must have a view, except, perhaps, those in the cellar. Where did San Franciscans put a housekeeper, she wondered.

  At the front, facing south, the house rose three stories—two full ones with tall windows which promised high ceilings within, and a third story at the top, not so high. In the center, at the very front, overlooking second-floor balconies and the steep flight of stone steps that ran up from the street, rose a square tower.

  “It’s the most beautiful place I’ve ever seen,” Sara said with respectful admiration in her voice. After all, this was where Ritchie lived.

  Judith laughed. “I’m afraid some of us won’t agree with you. It was my father’s idea of proving how important the Renwicks were. Frankly, only Nob Hill was impressed. Ritchie says it is the most awful monstrosity he has ever seen in his life.”

  Sara noted only that her tone was casual when she spoke of Ritchie. To her eyes this place was what she had dreamed of, and it was unbelievably marvellous that she had come to live in it.

  They drove through the wide carriage entrance and went in through a side door. The woodwork was polished to a dark gloss and there were tapestries on the walls of the hallway. Through open doors as they went toward the wide, graceful stairway, Sara caught glimpses of such elegance as she had never dreamed.

  Judith slipped off her cape with a languid gesture. “I’m sure you must be tired after your long trip. Susan will take up your suitcases and show you to your rooms. Ring for tea, if you like. Mother will want to see you later.”

  A plump, pretty young maid bobbed to Judith and picked up their bags, starting up the stairs ahead of them. “This way, please, mum,” she said to Mrs. Jerome.

  She bounced ahead up the wide, carpeted stairs and Sara’s hopes rose. They were going up. Past the second floor, on up narrower stairs to the very top.

  “Wait here, please, miss,” said Susan to Sara. “I’ll take your mother back to her room.”

  The depth of the house was to separate them, it seemed. Mary Jerome’s room was at a rear corner and she went into it without a word or a backward look for her daughter and Sara watched her go uneasily. When Susan returned, her feet clicking against bare wood,
for there was no elegance of carpets up here, her bobbing servant’s manner was gone. It was quite evident she felt herself on equal terms with Sara Jerome.

  “You going into service while you’re here?” she asked cheerfully, leading the way toward the front of the house.

  “I am going into business,” Sara said with an attempt at dignity. She wanted her position to be made clear. As soon as she had work, she meant to pay for her room and board. She would not be a servant in Ritchie’s house.

  “Business?” Susan echoed, puzzled.

  “Work in an office,” Sara explained.

  Susan’s giggle showed a lack of respect for such an ambition. “Office work is for men. Where are the tips to be picked up? Or the dresses the rich ladies tire of? Running one of those silly writing contraptions all day! That’s not for me. Here you are. It’s a funny place Mr. Ritchie asked us to give you, I must say.”

  Susan pushed open a door into the tower itself and Sara walked in. Ritchie had chosen this! Ritchie had remembered that Sara Jerome loved high places.

  The big square room was broken in the middle by a small circular stair, hardly more than a curved ladder. Windows looked out toward the front of the house, but the roof cut the view away on either side. Around the circular stairway the room had been arranged somewhat awkwardly as a bedroom. There was a brass bedstead with a tan spread, on which slept a big, tiger-striped yellow cat. A wavery, oval mirror was set in a swivel on top of a high bureau. There was the usual wardrobe closet, a battered straight chair, and a more comfortable, though shabby, armchair. A small table with a crocheted doily on its scratched top stood near the bed. The floor was bare, except for an oval rag rug, and the walls were a disconsolate tan. But after a quick glance, Sara saw only the stair.

  “Nobody ever used this place to sleep in before,” Susan grumbled. “Miss Allison is spitting mad that it’s been given to you. It’s been her playroom mostly. If Mister Nick had been home he’d have stood up for her, I’ll wager. Gracious, there’s that horrible cat! Don’t touch him, miss. He’s possessed. He goes and comes as he pleases and there’s no help for it. I do believe he goes through closed doors, he’s that sneaky.”

  The huge tiger cat opened one yellow eye, regarded them dispassionately, dismissed them as unimportant, and went back to sleep.

  Except for an amused look at the cat, Sara paid little attention to Susan’s chatter. She waited only for the girl to go so she might climb to the tower itself.

  Susan shivered and moved toward the door. “Drafty place, if you ask me. You can have it. Even with a fire in the grate, it’s like trying to keep the whole outdoors warm. I’ll come tell you when Miz’ Renwick wakes from her nap and wants you and your ma.”

  She eyed Sara up and down, noting her fashionable traveling suit with interest.

  “The lady of the house at your last place give you that? It don’t hardly look worn at all.”

  Sara shook her head vaguely, waiting to be alone. Giving her up as a source of information, Susan went out, closing the door behind her.

  When she had gone, Sara flung her handbag on the bed, took the pins from her hat and pulled it off. After a look at the sleeping yellow monster on the spread, she set her hat on the bureau. Then she hurried to the narrow curving stairway and climbed to the top, her heavy skirts clutched in one hand, the other hand pulling her around the curve.

  It was drafty up here, as Susan had said, but after the bitter cold of Chicago, and with brilliant sunshine all around, Sara didn’t mind. San Francisco was invigorating. She looked about in utter delight.

  Glass windows completely surrounded the bare tower and she could look in every direction. Sounds of whistles tooting on the bay, of electric trolleys clanging, came to her. Out on the water a small green island floated. That would be Goat Island—Yerba Buena, as it had once been called. On the shore beyond were the towns of the bay. How wonderful to have a view of water again.

  She turned next toward the valley that was Market Street, a ruled line from Twin Peaks to the water. She could see the tower of the Ferry Building at one end, and toward the other end the dome of City Hall, with a statue poised atop it. Only at the back of the house was the view cut off by mansions still higher up the hill. Even they were interesting to see. She would spend hours here, feeling strong and free and in command of her own life—as she always felt when she could reach some high spot and survey the world. Besides, there was significance in the fact that Ritchie had wanted this for her.

  She climbed backward down the difficult stairway and glanced again at the tawny monster on the bed. She would deal with him later. For the moment she wanted a good wash and clean clothes. Her trunk, she saw, had already arrived and waited in a corner.

  She got into her wrapper and went in search of the bathroom on the third floor. When she returned, feeling refreshed and clean again, the cat was awake. He watched her lazily, rather like an emperor surveying a slave girl, his yellow eyes neither commending nor condemning, the end of his long tail twitching faintly.

  Sara found a green tweedy skirt and ruffled shirtwaist in her trunk that looked reasonably uncrushed. The cat watched her without blinking as she dressed. Once she spoke to him.

  “You can’t stay here permanently, you know. And I don’t intend to have you as a regular visitor.”

  The cat yawned, revealing a pink cavern well lined with needle-­sharp teeth. He stretched and began to wash his face with a well-licked paw. Sara had just buckled on a brown grosgrain belt when she heard footsteps running noisily down the uncarpeted hallway. A sudden banging on her door startled her, but before she could answer, the door was thrust open with a force that slammed it against the wall, and an angry tornado burst into the room.

  Sara stared at the girl of about eleven who stood on the threshold with fury in her brown eyes. This, undoubtedly, was Judith’s sister Allison, and undoubtedly, as Susan had warned, she was in a rage over the usurping of her playroom. Sara had never known many children, and she felt at a loss to deal with this one.

  The girl’s plain, small face was made still more plain by a bare expanse of forehead that overbalanced it. Her nondescript brown hair had been pulled back in eyebrow-lifting tightness and bound into a braid. A hair bow had been tied at the nape of her neck, but it hung loose in back in two limp streamers. She was dressed in an ugly brown jumper with ink spots on the skirt. From chin to scalp rose a mottling flush as she stared balefully at Sara.

  Then she flung the strapped schoolbooks she carried to the floor with a bang and strode toward the bed.

  “Even if Ritchie gave you my room,” she announced, “you can’t have my cat!”

  3

  Allison Renwick flung herself upon the bed, and surprisingly, the huge yellow beast sat up and began to purr. Allison put a scrawny arm about him and he climbed into her lap and began to lick her wrist. She put her face down against the yellow fur and the flush in her cheeks began to fade a little. The cat licked on steadily, moving to a fresh patch of skin.

  Sara could only watch in helpless astonishment.

  “I suppose you are Allison Renwick?” she asked at length.

  “Who else would I be?” the child demanded. “All right—I don’t care! Go ahead and say it! Say what they all say!”

  “Say what? I was going to ask if this room was actually your bedroom.”

  “Of course not. This is the servants’ floor up here. I have a bedroom of my own downstairs. But this isn’t supposed to be a bedroom. This tower has been mine ever since I was little. Nick would never, never have made me give it up. I hate Uncle Ritchie. I wish he’d never come here. He always plays mean tricks like this.”

  “Uncle” Ritchie meant he was well established as a family friend. Sara sat in the one armchair and continued to study the two who occupied her bed.

  “Have you thought,” she said, “that Ritchie might have been kind enough to remembe
r how much I love high places? He wanted this room for me because he knows how much a tower room means to me.”

  “You’d better say Mister Ritchie,” Allison told her, kicking off dusty shoes and pulling her skinny, black-stockinged legs up under her. “Like the other servants.”

  Sara tried to answer calmly. “I am not a servant. I grew up with Ritchie Temple and I shall go on calling him what I’ve always called him. Now do you suppose you could take that savage-looking cat away?”

  Indignantly Allison hooked the great cat over her shoulder like a fur piece. “Comstock is not a savage. Next to my brother Nick he’s the finest gentleman in all San Francisco.”

  The little girl looked comical as she sat cross-legged with the cat half around her neck. Her dignity was so enormous that Sara wanted to laugh, but she had no wish to further outrage the child.

  “Comstock is an odd name for a cat,” she said.

  Allison looked her scorn. “I can tell you don’t know much about San Francisco. The Comstock was the great Bonanza lode. Silver in Virginia City. That’s where all the big San Francisco fortunes came from.” Her thin face glowed with sudden interest. “Comstock looks like a Bonanza king. I wish I had lived in those days. Nick does too.”

  Sara smiled and Allison seemed to relax a little.

  “At least,” the girl remarked, “you haven’t said what all the others do. You haven’t said, ‘You can’t be Judith’s sister!’ ”

  Footsteps sounded again in the hall and Sara looked up to see Susan standing doubtfully in the open doorway.

  “Miz’ Renwick’s up from her nap,” she said to Sara. “She wants to talk to you. I’m to call your ma too.” She darted a cautious look at the two on the bed. “Miss Allison, you don’t belong in here. Mister Ritchie asked me to see you didn’t bother her.” She nodded at Sara.