The Trembling Hills

by Phyllis A. Whitney

  “He can be when he pleases. But like my husband, he is a man of high principles. It is somewhat difficult at times to live with high principles. I do wish he had a family of his own to give his attention to. If he’d just marry Geneva Varady, I’d be relieved.”

  Sara had been watching her mother and she saw exactly what happened. As Mrs. Renwick spoke the name “Varady” a shock went over Mary Jerome’s face, blanching it, leaving sallowness behind. She did not move or start, but her color betrayed her and Sara did not take her eyes from her mother’s face. Here was more than the response she had been waiting for.

  “Varady, did you say?” Mrs. Jerome repeated the name with an effort.

  “Yes. Geneva Varady. Very old San Francisco family. I’ve been snubbed by them often in the past. But times change and the young must be considered.”

  Mary Jerome spoke softly, and again with an effort to steady her voice. “What branch of the Varady family is this?”

  “Branch? I thought you didn’t know San Francisco? Though I’m sure one begins to pick up the names quickly enough. The blood is a bit thin in Geneva, I suspect. She was no more than a convent waif when Miss Hester Varady took her in to raise as a child. Nick met her because of all the real estate Miss Varady owns—and insures with Renwick and Merkel. Of course she’d never have looked twice at Nick as a suitor for her niece in the old days, since the insurance business is not regarded as one of the suitable professions for a gentleman. Miss Varady herself always sends regrets when we invite her here. But she permits Geneva to come and she has not opposed her going about with Nick.”

  Mary Jerome put a hand to her forehead, and Sara went to her quickly.

  “Mama, you’re ill! Would you like a drink of water? Or to lie down?”

  Mrs. Jerome stood up shakily. “I—I shall be all right. If you’ll excuse me, Mrs. Renwick, I’ll go upstairs for a little while.”

  “Of course,” Mrs. Renwick said. “It’s probably all that rich food. Few stomachs but mine can take it. Run along with your mother, girl. I’ll send Susan up with some of my stomach medicine.”

  Mrs. Jerome leaned heavily on Sara as they climbed the stairs. Back in her own room, she lay on her bed and closed her eyes, while Sara unlaced her high shoes and pulled them off, rubbed her cold feet in their white lisle stockings.

  Susan tapped on the door with Mrs. Renwick’s medicine, but Mrs. Jerome sent her away and would take no more than a few sips of water. She clung to Sara, keeping her near. After a little while the spasm, whatever it was, seemed to pass and she quieted. But her fingers tightened more strongly on Sara’s hand until the girl winced.

  “Mama, you’re crushing my fingers. What is it? What’s wrong with Geneva Varady that the name upset you so?”

  Her mother turned her head from side to side with an air of desperation. “I knew we should never have come to San Francisco. But I thought we might be safe in this house. That we would not move in the same circles, that—”

  “What circles?” Sara asked. “If you’d tell me what this is all about—”

  “A Varady visiting here! And then there’s that sewing woman. Goodness knows what word she will spread.”

  “What is it that she can spread? Anyway, I’m not likely to meet Geneva socially, goodness knows.”

  Her mother raised herself on one elbow and looked at Sara almost fiercely. “Listen to me! Miss Hester Varady is a monstrously wicked person. She is dangerous to us—to you. Under no circumstances are you to go near her. Avoid this Geneva when she comes here. The girl may be harmless. It is her connection that is dangerous.”

  “I’m sure you’re upsetting yourself over nothing,” Sara said, bewildered. “Mrs. Renwick told us the aunt never comes here, that she is too snobbish. And I’m sure I don’t care for snobs.”

  Mary Jerome closed her eyes. “I can’t argue with you. I should have been prepared for this. Somehow I’d lulled myself into a hope that we might go unnoticed in San Francisco. Now I’ll have to be on guard. I’ll rest a few moments now, Sara, and then return to my duties.”

  Sara went uneasily from the room. She wished there were some way in which she could reassure and comfort her mother, but she could not really believe in any cause for alarm. What had happened, however, made the whole mystery all the more tantalizing and provoking. What was Hester Varady to her mother and herself?

  At least she had something with new possibilities to think about now. Perhaps “Bishop” was not the key name for which she must search. Perhaps the important name was “Varady.” Perhaps the Varadys would lead her to the name of Bishop. The Varadys at least were known in San Francisco. Mrs. Renwick might even be persuaded to talk about them.

  Somehow Sara had to know the answers. Somehow she must find her father’s family and establish herself before it was too late. With every passing moment Ritchie seemed to move farther out of her reach. Yet she could not accept what seemed to be happening. There must be a way to stop it.

  She went back to the books she had taken to her room, determined to look through them for the name of Varady. Certainly she would seek an opportunity to meet Jenny-Geneva if it was possible. Her mother’s fears were not for her. This was the year 1906 and melodrama in San Francisco belonged to the past.

  6

  The rains continued into February. There would be a stretch of weather in which torrents came down and the hills of San Francisco ran with water. But grass and flowers drank refreshment and bloomed beneath the downpour. Then would come a few sunny days and the deserted streets would flood with people. Now and then when the sun brought warmth as well as brilliance of a Sunday, trolleys and cable cars filled to the brim as the city’s multitudes poured toward Golden Gate Park and Ocean Beach.

  Sara’s life went on in a routine she was beginning to find monotonous. Nothing had developed in the way of a position, though she had gone to several firms to apply. She and her mother went downtown shopping a single time and Sara had been delighted with Union Square. She had coaxed her mother to walk with her through the corridors of the St. Francis Hotel, and she had loved exploring counters of goods in the White House and the City of Paris. She could probably get a job as a saleslady in one of these stores, but that was not the sort of work she wanted.

  At home Ritchie still eluded her. Sometimes she did not see him for days. Sometimes he passed her in a hallway with no more than a nod. How childish she had been to think that merely by coming to San Francisco something of their old relationship could be regained.

  Yet she would not give up hope. Even though the house buzzed with preparations and plans for the wedding, still Judith held back and did not set the date. Sometimes, it seemed to Sara that Ritchie was not altogether happy in his engagement to Judith. He did not always have the manner of a joyful young man about to be married. And in this too there was hope.

  Though now, Sara knew that even if he should turn to her again, the innocence of their young days would be gone. Ritchie was a man, not a boy new to kisses, playing at first love. Yet Sara wanted nothing clandestine and shabby. What she wanted was a miracle; the happy ending to a fairy tale. And there seemed no immediate way for that to be.

  Nor had she made much headway in making the acquaintance of Geneva Varady. Geneva’s relationship with Nick seemed to be of a tenuous sort. True, he saw her frequently and took her out, but he also moved in a casual social life of his own that did not always include Geneva. The girl came to visit the Renwicks once or twice a week, usually at Mrs. Renwick’s invitation. Sometimes Nick went to fetch her. Sometimes she arrived in a moth-eaten carriage, driven by a coachman in a shiny black coat. The Varadys, Mrs. Renwick pointed out, had no need to prove anything to San Francisco, so they did not trouble with matters of front like the carriage they rode in, or the clothes they wore. She always said “The Varadys,” as though the clan was extensive. But from what Sara could gather, there remained only Miss Varady and the poor rel
ation, Geneva. So far Sara had been unable to figure out a plan for getting Geneva alone in order to talk to her.

  Even if she managed a meeting with Geneva, what could she say? “My mother has a horror of the name Varady. Will you please tell me why?” Geneva would only look at her in sweet astonishment.

  At least in the days following her discovery, she had one thoroughly satisfying experience. Perhaps it answered no questions with certainty, but it pointed so clear a finger that Sara prickled with excitement over the revelation, sure now that she was right; sure in her very bones.

  She found the Varady name in a book in the Renwick library.

  It was the usual rainy morning. Allison was in school. Judith had gone shopping with a friend, and Mary Jerome was busy with household affairs. Sara had the library to herself, except for Comstock the cat. A curious relationship had begun to develop between Sara and Comstock. When Allison was home the cat had eyes for no one but his favorite child. As Allison said, he thought he was her mother. He supervised her meals, her dressing, her study. He was even known to cuff her with velvet sheathed paws on occasions when he disapproved of her actions. And no one else cuffed Allison. At night, of course, he was a gay bachelor and roamed abroad, coming home in the light of gray dawn like other San Francisco blades. Mrs. Renwick said he was the terror of Nob Hill. More than one elegant young lady cat with a pedigree longer than her tail had disgraced herself by presenting her household with a batch of yellow, tiger-striped kittens. But Comstock slept well by day, and disowned all responsibility toward these offspring. There was nothing domestic about him except when it came to Allison. Then he turned into a fussy old mother tabby.

  In Sara, however, he had discovered another lone wolf. She was neither afraid of him like Susan, nor did she dote on him and lug him around like Allison. He could sleep comfortably in her presence, feeling a certain human companionship nearby which he apparently liked. Sometimes she would address a remark or two in his direction. Then he would open the yellow shutters of his eyes and listen with remote courtesy. She had the feeling that there was a good deal of wisdom piled up in Comstock’s head, if only one could tap it.

  This morning it was chilly and she had lighted a fire in the library grate, closed the door into the hallway. Comstock lay upon the hearthrug napping and Sara curled into Nicholas Renwick’s green leather chair with a tome about California in her lap. She turned the pages idly now, merely looking for names. And suddenly VARADY seemed to leap to her eyes. The name of Julian Varady I.

  She read eagerly, breathlessly.

  He had come to the Spanish regions of California from the East, sailing the long trip around the Horn. His Boston family was a good one, but his pockets were empty. Nevertheless, he had managed to ingratiate himself with the great rancho-owning family of the Oliveros. And he had married the youngest, most beautiful of the six Olivero daughters, Consuelo. She had borne him a son, Julian Varady II; but two years later she had died at the birth of her daughter. The baby had lived only two days longer than Consuelo.

  The elder Julian, brokenhearted, had not married again, but with the Olivero name and fortunes behind him, he had furthered his own position to an extent that made him a power in California, with an influence not usually exerted by Americans at that time. In turn the second Julian had married and fathered two daughters, Hester and Elizabeth. When Hester was about six Mexico had ceded California to the United States and the budding community of San Francisco had become an American city. In two generations the Varady name had gained eminence. In the third there was no son to carry it on.

  That was as far as the story went. The book was an old one, dated. There was still no mention of anyone called Bishop. But Sara had her lead when she came upon the name of Consuelo Olivero.

  She dropped the book with a thump that roused Comstock to a quiet stare. Across the mantlepiece ran a strip of narrow mirror and Sara pulled over a hassock to a spot before the fire screen. Comstock got out of her way and settled at a distance, recognizing in distaste a female with a purpose.

  Sara stood upon the hassock and peered at herself in the strip of mirror. Black hair and eyes so dark a brown they were nearly black. A faintly olive tint to her complexion, and warm southern blood coursing in her veins, as well she knew. It must be true! Somehow, somehow she was a throwback to the Olivero family—to Consuelo herself. A true daughter of old California.

  She jumped to the floor and stood proudly before Comstock. “Look at me! Can’t you see how right I’d be if my hair were done high with a comb and a mantilla?”

  Undoubtedly she was related to Miss Hester Varady. And even to Jenny-Geneva. A second or third cousin, perhaps? Though how Geneva’s name came to be Varady, she wasn’t at all sure. There must have been more relatives than the book had mentioned. Later ones, of course.

  For days after that she carried herself with something of an air about the house. Once Allison asked who she thought she was, acting like Queen Victoria. Sara said, “Don’t be foolish—I’m Isabella of Spain,” which had left Allison gaping. Several times her mother spoke to her worriedly, inquiring if she felt well. And when she went past Ritchie in the hall with her nose in the air, even he was startled.

  Nick, too, seemed to note the change in her and she hoped he was impressed. It still rankled that he had once taken her for a child. She’d had few encounters with him since, never really talked to him, but she knew he noticed her in a puzzled, faintly amused way, which annoyed her. But at least Nick seemed to regard her—though neither Ritchie nor Judith did—as an individual in her own right.

  At length, however, her effort to keep up the make-believe role of a Spanish belle began to be a strain. Gradually she lapsed into her usual self, waiting without theatrics for the opportunity to prove her distinguished inheritance.

  One mild February afternoon when the windows stood open to a few hours of warm sunshine, Sara came running downstairs from her room to find that Judith’s door was ajar. She had never before had so much as a glimpse into this room and she slowed her steps, lingered, so she might look in. She could hear Judith downstairs talking on the telephone. There was no one to see if she satisfied her curiosity by pausing at the door. So why not?

  The room looked like Judith. It was done in cool blue-grays, with here and there a pale touch of gold. The draperies were made of fold upon fold of gauzy blue material. The quilt on the bed was of blue satin with a pale gold pillow upon it, and the padded seat of the dressing-table bench was also blue quilted satin. Several furry blue rugs lay about the shining floor. The wallpaper was pale yellow with a faint blue flower pattern running through it.

  The room was the most beautiful Sara had ever seen. Her own poorly furnished tower seemed all the more harsh and unlovely by comparison. Drawn by physical beauty as she always was, Sara forgot precaution and stepped into the room. There was the fragrance of Judith’s perfumes in the air and luxury at every turn. She could not resist a peep through the bathroom door. A fine big tub stood on claw feet and the fittings looked like gold. The bath towels were huge and deeply piled, and the scent of perfumed soap was delicate.

  When she turned back to the bedroom, meaning to leave at once, the dressing table caught her eye. Soft gray-blue chiffon looped about the tall mirror, framing it. And upon lace doilies placed to save the beautiful rosewood top, lay a silver toilet set more magnificent than any Sara had ever seen. The mirror had a long, slender handle. Even the glass hatpin case had a silver top.

  The entire room seemed to breathe the very spirit of Judith and a curious realization grew in Sara. Judith was not a cool glass figurine whose existence she could forget or ignore. She was a woman engaged to marry Ritchie. In some queer way Sara had avoided facing that fact; really facing it. She was not, she felt, without conscience. But a conscience could sleep comfortably if you shut it off from the facts of what you were trying to do.

  Now in this room Judith had become real to Sara as
she had never been before. Judith was a woman who could love and be loved. She could be happy, or suffer pain. This was not something Sara wanted to face because it weakened what she felt were her own rights, made her own plans more difficult. She turned from the dressing table unhappily.

  In the doorway Judith stood watching her. For a moment Sara could not speak. It took an effort to recover herself.

  “I know I have no business in your room,” Sara said. “I have no excuse for being here. I was passing the door and I was—curious.” But even as she spoke the words something in her was whispering, the girl Ritchie wants to marry.

  Judith came into the room, a faint aura of roses about her. “Do you like it?” she asked calmly.

  Sara nodded. “It’s a—beautiful room. It fits you.”

  “Does it? I’ve never thought so.” Judith went to the dressing-table stool and sat down, her skirts swirling gracefully about her. “Stay a minute,” she said to Sara, gesturing toward a quilted chair.

  Sara, wanting only to escape, took the chair and sat as her mother did, on the very edge.

  “I’ve been wanting to talk to you,” Judith went on. “A few days ago I had a discussion with Nick about you. I told him you wanted a position in an office and he said he would look into the matter. Last night he said at dinner that one of the girls at his office was leaving and there would be a place for you. You can go to work next Monday if you like. He will tell you about the salary and other details himself.”

  Sara stared at her. A position. Something to do with herself. Money that would be her own. She could not sit here mooning when an opportunity like this was offered her. She jumped up, barely missing the protruding handle of the mirror as she moved.

  “How wonderful! Thank you for telling me. I’ll run find my mother now and let her know.” She was glad of an opportunity to escape this room,

  When she ran upstairs to the third floor to look for her mother, she found Comstock and Allison waiting for her in the hall.