The Trembling Hills

by Phyllis A. Whitney

  Sara threw her an anguished and indignant look and she went off, returning only to bring Sara a bowl of soup for lunch, standing over her, mother-fashion, until she finished it.

  In the late afternoon the rain stopped, the sun suddenly flashed through scudding clouds and pavements shone like wet satin. Sara, wearied at last of cold and gloom, slipped into an old jacket and skirt and went outdoors with no word to anyone.

  She went through the big front door, finding its iron grillwork heavy to move, and ran all the way down the long flight of stone steps to the street. The windows of the house stared at her all the way, but no voice questioned, or summoned her back. She climbed to a higher rise of hill and looked again at the spread of the city.

  The bay, she found, was always changing in color and the texture of its surface. It was ruffled today and tinged with gold. Everything sparkled so, looked so clean after the rain. For once there was no dust blowing and the air was something to drink—like a heady champagne. She drew great deep breaths and some of the fever went out of her spirit.

  She hardly knew which way to turn—there was so much to explore. But she carried a map in her head and she knew that Chinatown lay down the hill toward the east. Not that she would visit it alone, with all its dens of iniquity which people talked about. Perhaps Ritchie would take her—no, not Ritchie! At least she could walk in that direction.

  The hill was even steeper than she expected, but she did not mind the thought of climbing back. As she went down the houses grew disappointingly shabby. Bishops would surely have been hilltop people—she’d not find their house down here. No matter—she was seeing San Francisco.

  Then, at a place where the hill inclined more gradually, she paused to watch the most exciting of events. A clanging of bells broke the afternoon quiet. The doors of a bright red firehouse half a block away sprang open and from its yawning mouth leaped three powerful gray horses, heads held high, feet lifting proudly as they pulled a glittering nickel monster into the street, swung in a turn and galloped away toward the lower section of town. Bells clanged wildly and black smoke poured from the mouth of the steamer. Away sped the fire chief’s carriage, and the long red truck that carried the aerial ladder, then the bright red hose wagon.

  Off they dashed with a roar and a clamor, and Sara, who had drawn as close as she dared, felt the wind of their passing stir her skirts. She turned to the empty interior of the firehouse—surprisingly quiet after the uproar—to see if there was anyone left. Yes—a man sat at a roll-top desk, his chair tilted back, his feet against the wall.

  “Please!” Sara cried. “Where is the fire? Do you suppose I can get to it?” A fire would suit her right now. It would gratify a need that was growing in her to become angry and smash something.

  The man was young, with sandy hair and a freckled face. He tilted his chair to earth and stood up. The look he turned upon her was an odd mingling of interest, disapproval and sympathy.

  “I know just how you feel, miss, but the best thing any citizen can learn about fires is to stay away from ’em. Especially young ladies. Sure and you’d get in the way and faint and—”

  “I never faint!” Sara cried impatiently. “And I love fires. I wouldn’t get in the way.”

  “The people who are getting burned out don’t like ’em so much,” he said dryly.

  “But where is this fire?”

  The young man pointed. “Down that way, miss. It’s not a neighborhood a young lady like yourself should be going into. In fact, when I saw you coming downhill just now I thought somebody ought to tell you that you were walking the wrong way on the wrong street. Could be you’re new to these parts?”

  Plainly this was a fire Sara couldn’t catch, and the young man was pleasant, with a fascinating occupation. She stepped to the wide doorway and peered again into the hollow that was a firehouse with all its equipment gone. At least a distraction was something.

  “Are there many fires in San Francisco to keep you busy?”

  He nodded proudly. “Quite a mint of ’em, miss. We have a lot in the general run of things, and then of course there’re always fires after a good quake. But our laddies are the best trained you’ll find in the country! It’s a good one, the job we do.”

  “I’m sure it is,” said Sara politely. “But tell me—what do you do when houses catch fire on top of the hills?”

  “Ah, now you have me for sure, miss. That’s not so easy. Sometimes we get up, sometimes not. Depends on the hill. Have you noticed the burned ruin of that restaurant on top of Telegraph Hill? Only one engine made it to the top that night.”

  “But then I should think a whole hilltop could get away from you and set everything around on fire.”

  “Indeed, and that’s a sound notion. But most of the danger lies south of Market, not on the hills. The shacks over there are like tinder. One poof of fire and they’re all likely to go. San Francisco used to burn down regularly. Good parts of it, at least.”

  Sara shivered, not unpleasantly. “I should think that would be exciting.”

  The young fireman did not smile. “Depends, I suppose, on what you like for excitement. Now Chief Sullivan has a plan for quartering the city, so we can save a good part of it at least and hold any fire to one section.”

  “How would he do that?”

  “Down there lies Market Street.” The fireman pointed toward the south. “It’s wide for a fire to jump and the Chief would make a stand along it. Then to the west there’s Van Ness Avenue, another wide street that just about divides the city the other way. With Chief Sullivan in charge, the citizens of this town can sleep easy in their beds of a night.”

  Sara thanked him and turned in the direction from which she had come. But the young fireman seemed reluctant to lose her company.

  “You’ll be interested to know that insurance rates are high as they come in San Francisco. Just a little while ago the underwriters put the city down as a bad risk. But we’ll fool ’em—the Chief and his laddies.”

  “I’m sure you will,” said Sara. Since nothing further that was exciting promised, she told him good-by and climbed back toward the Renwick house.

  She felt stronger than when she had descended the hill. Hope had been drained out of her then. But she couldn’t drink this air and feel entirely despairing. Rising in her was a groundless, but somehow heartening feeling that she could yet do battle for her love. How, she had no idea. But Ritchie wasn’t married yet. There was at least that straw to cling to.

  When she reached the steps she saw Allison sitting at the top with Comstock beside her. The little girl looked smugly triumphant.

  “Are you ever going to catch it!” she cried happily. “Your mother’s in a tizzy and half the servants are out looking for you.”

  “But I went down the street only a few blocks away,” Sara said.

  “Pick the right blocks and the neighborhood gets awfully tough,” Allison said. “At night there’re always footpads out and holdups. Nick carries a pistol any time he goes walking alone at night. All gentlemen do in San Francisco. This is a very wicked city.”

  San Francisco, Sara was beginning to note, took considerable pride in extremes of reputation. But she could not feel that she had been in the slightest danger. Nor did she intend to stay indoors of an afternoon because of anyone’s fears.

  “All I did,” she told Allison, “was to stop at a firehouse and watch the engines go out to a fire. Then I chatted for a little while with a fireman left on duty. After that I came home. So it’s nothing to be in a tizzy about.”

  Allison’s expression turned suddenly respectful. “You went to a firehouse and talked to a fireman! How exciting! Will you take me sometime?”

  “Without a pistol?” Sara asked. She went past Allison up the last step and put a hand on the heavy door to open it. Then, on sudden whim, she turned back to the girl, who still watched her. “Allison—since you�
��ve lived in this city all your life, perhaps you’ll know. Have you any knowledge of a family named Bishop?”

  Allison thought a minute, then shook her head. “I don’t think we know any Bishops. Are they Nob Hill people?”

  “They might be,” Sara said and went into the house.

  Ritchie, again home early from the office, met her in the hallway. He looked more disapproving than pleased to see her.

  “Better not run around without telling anyone where you mean to go, Sara. Your mother is really upset, though I assured her that you could undoubtedly hold your own with anyone who might accost you.”

  It was the wrong moment for criticism from Ritchie. Sara stared at him, taking several deep breaths before she could speak.

  “May I offer my congratulations,” she said stiffly. “I hope you will be very happy in your marriage to Judith.”

  She had the satisfaction of taking him aback. He looked suddenly less sure of himself, even a little wary, as if she might prove difficult. She brushed his self-conscious thanks aside and went on almost casually, a little surprised at her ability to hide what she really felt.

  “I’ve been wanting to ask you about getting work of some kind. Office work. I can run a typewriting machine and I want to find a position as soon as possible. Do you think there might be a place for me in your office?”

  He recovered himself quickly. “It’s hard to imagine you in an office, Sara. At the moment we don’t need anyone at Renwick and Merkel, and I’m afraid hiring is not in my hands anyway. However, I’ll keep you in mind if anything turns up. Perhaps Nick will have an idea when he gets home.”

  Behind her cool air, behind her smiling lips, unspoken words were surging. Ritchie, how can you marry someone else! How can you have forgotten, Ritchie! But she held them back, thanked him impersonally and went upstairs. Without looking down she knew he stood there watching her and that he was not in the least comfortable.

  In her room she made herself face what must have been the truth all along. In writing to Mrs. Jerome to ask her to come here as housekeeper, Ritchie had been doing exactly that. He had been trying to find someone as suitable for Mrs. Renwick as he knew Mary Jerome would be. He had known she would not come without her daughter, so of course had included Sara. That was all his invitation had amounted to. All the rest she had read into it herself.

  Nevertheless, now that she was here he could not be entirely indifferent to her. The faint hope that had risen earlier began to take hold again. Sara Jerome knew Master Ritchie a great deal better than Judith did, or probably ever would. And she could not give up yet. What, exactly, she might do, she could not tell as yet. But the way would open for her. It had to open.

  When she went down to the supper table that night with her mother, she had bounced back to an almost cheerful mood.

  Unexpected company joined them at the table. Judith and Ritchie had invited guests to dinner and the meal was to be served at a later hour. When there were guests, Allison was considered too young to eat with the family. Obviously she resented this. But tonight, after she had tasted her soup without appetite and pushed it back, she announced that she was glad not to be with tonight’s company.

  “That old silly Jenny-Geneva is coming for dinner, and I can’t stand her,” said Allison.

  “Don’t you want to finish your soup?” Sara’s mother asked gently.

  “I hate soup,” said Allison. “Pass me the crackers, please. Her name’s just Geneva, really. But when Nick gets sappy he always calls her Jenny. Ugh! Here’s what she’s like.”

  Allison pushed back her chair, sat forward on the edge of it, and looked at them with a cow-eyed, girlish expression of sweetness. She became so astonishingly like another person that Sara rocked with laughter. Pleased at Sara’s appreciation, even though Mrs. Jerome did not smile, Allison pulled her chair back to the table and began to spread butter on a cracker.

  “That was clever,” Mary Jerome said quietly. “But a little unkind. Especially if this young lady is someone your brother cares about.”

  Allison ate the cracker, undismayed by her reproach. “She’s the one who cares. She dotes on Nick and I’ll bet she’d marry him in a minute if he asked her. But he has better sense. Some people like marshmallows, but not me. They’re too sticky and sweet. Isn’t it funny the way most people are like some kind of food?”

  “What do you mean? What food am I like?” Sara asked.

  “Oh, onions and vinegar. And peaches,” Allison said.

  This time Mrs. Jerome smiled. “That’s rather a good description, Allison. But I’m glad you added the peaches. Do I dare ask what food you’d pick for me?”

  The child munched another cracker and thought a moment, wrinkling her expanse of forehead. Then her face lighted. “You’re easy. You’re like toast with hot milk and lots of butter.”

  Mrs. Jerome looked puzzled, and Allison went on. “That’s what they bring me when I haven’t been feeling well. It warms me to my toes and makes me feel sort of good and comfortable.”

  Mrs. Jerome reached out and touched Allison’s square, ungraceful hand. “That is the nicest thing anyone has said to me in a long while. Thank you, my dear.”

  Sara looked at Allison wonderingly. The child had put it very well.

  Allison took her hand away at once, but she looked as if she might smile.

  “Do the others,” Sara said. “Do Judith and Ritchie.”

  “Judith’s easy too. I thought her up ages ago. She’s like a candied violet that has been put away in the ice chest. Uncle Ritchie was harder. I couldn’t figure out something for him for months. But now I know exactly. The grownups were having a party and somebody left a glass with a long stem and some amber stuff in it on the hall table. It looked so nice when I held it up to the light. It was very clear and golden amber. But when I sipped it the taste was so bitter I spat it right out.”

  “My dear child!” cried Mary Jerome. “That was undoubtedly an intoxicating liquor you were tasting. You must never take the chance of drinking something when you don’t know what it is. And of course you must not drink from the glasses of others.”

  “Oh, I knew what the stuff was all right,” Allison said airily. “But I won’t want to taste it again.”

  The main course had been served and Sara cut her meat with an air of preoccupation. Allison had put her finger exactly on Ritchie Temple, bitterness and all. But Allison was too young to understand that some people might like the surprise of a bitter taste—especially when all the rest was golden amber.

  Not until the meal was over and she was back in her own room did Sara recall that Allison had not given them a picture of her brother Nick. She would have to ask the child to do him sometime.

  The wind blew around her tower tonight, but there was no rain. Sara poked up the fire and got into her warm wrapper, slid her feet into the sheep’s wool slippers which had kept her warm on icy nights in Chicago. Then she brushed her long black hair and bound it into a single heavy braid down her back. When she had plumped the pillow on her bed she sat up against it, pulling the quilts to her chin. This was a lovely evening for reading in bed. Since there was a dinner party going on and she could not roam about the house, she had brought more California books upstairs from the library.

  Due to the obstruction of the tower, the ceiling bulb had not been suspended from the middle of the room, but dangled not far from her bed. Its light was dim, however, for reading, and after a while her eyes grew weary.

  Something would have to be done about this uncomfortable room. A screen around the foot of the bed might give some protection from drafts. And a reading lamp would certainly help. She wondered what furnishings the rest of the unoccupied rooms on this floor might have. Why not explore?

  Slipping her feet back into woolly slippers she got out of bed, opened her door a crack and looked into the hall. All was quiet up here. A thread of light sh
owed beneath her mother’s door. Susan’s door was dark—she’d be downstairs helping with the dinner. Circling the hallway tentatively, Sara listened to the sound of voices and laughter, the clatter of dishes that rose from below. She forgot her mission and leaned above the rail to see if she could glimpse what was going on. But these narrow upper stairs were set away from the main stairway and she could see nothing but the floor below.

  On the second floor all the doors were closed and all was silent. She remembered Allison’s words about the view that was possible from the curve of the second-floor banister and mischief began to stir in Sara. Allison had said she would read in the library till bedtime, so as not to see “Jenny-Geneva.” Judith and Ritchie were safely with their guests at the dinner table. Mrs. Renwick never came upstairs. So why not? Perhaps she could catch a glimpse of Geneva and see if she matched Allison’s caricature. Perhaps she could see Ritchie too, when he was not on guard against her. There was a loneliness for Ritchie in her tonight. For the old Ritchie who could not have disappeared entirely.

  Soft slippers made no sound on the stairs as she stole down, her wrapper clutched about her, the dark braid swinging down her back. Voices were nearer now. She reached the banister curve and dropped to her knees where she could look between two of the plump balusters.

  Only part of the dining table was visible. Ritchie sat near this end. There were lighted candles in silver holders and their gleam touched his fair head, softening his face, so there was no malice in it, no dissatisfaction. Sara’s heart yearned over him. Why could he not look at her in as kindly a manner as that?

  Next to him on his left sat a girl and Sara noted her with a sense of recognition. This was surely Allison’s “Jenny-Geneva.” She was facing this way—gently pretty and young. Soft brown hair curled in tendrils about her face, and she listened to Ritchie with the same attention Allison had imitated. But now Sara did not feel amused. There was an appeal about the girl that roused her sympathy. Geneva apparently felt about Nick as Sara did about Ritchie. And from what Allison said, Nick did not return her interest. Poor little thing, Sara thought, regarding Geneva as she would never have regarded herself. She, at least, was not gentle and helpless, but Geneva looked as if she could never stand up to life with any great force or courage.