The Trembling Hills

by Phyllis A. Whitney

  Allison said, “There she is!” Comstock picked something up from the floor and came trotting toward Sara. In the dimly lit hall she did not recognize what he was carrying until he laid at her feet a small gray mouse and sat back to look up at her with pardonable pride.

  Sara did not care for mice—especially dead ones. It took all the will she possessed not to vent her dismay in a yelp. But there was something about Comstock’s air of having offered treasure, about the fixed way in which Allison was staring at her, that made Sara choke back the sound that rose in her throat.

  Hastily she looked away from the offering at her feet. “Thank you, Comstock,” she said in a voice that quavered slightly.

  Allison smiled at Sara for the first time since she had come to this house. The effect was astonishing. One forgot all that naked expanse of forehead, forgot the freckles and the snub nose. Allison’s smile came from the heart and it was warmly beautiful. Sara felt a sudden urge to do something about Allison’s appearance. Really, it wouldn’t take much.

  “He likes you, Sara,” Allison said. “He brought it right up to your door and sat down to wait for you. Tell him what a fine hunter he is.”

  Sara felt a nervous tendency to giggle. “Somehow I’d have expected Comstock to bag an elephant at the very least.” She tried to look at the attentive cat without seeing the mouse. Fortunately Comstock would not expect her to lean over and pat him. “I think you’re a fine hunter,” she told him dutifully and then turned back to Allison. “What am I supposed to do now?” No matter what these two expected, she was not going to touch that mouse.

  “Oh, he doesn’t want you to keep it,” Allison said, and spoke to Comstock. “It’s all right, darling, you can take it outside now. Run along.”

  Comstock, having proved his competence, picked up the mouse and carried it at a leisurely pace down the stairway. Sara hoped he wouldn’t meet Susan on the way.

  “Have you seen my mother?” she asked Allison. “I want to tell her that I have a business position. Your brother Nick is going to let me work in his insurance office.”

  “What fun!” Allison cried, her smile lingering. “Your mother’s downstairs talking to old Jonsey. You’d better wait. I wish I could do something like that when I grow up. Work in an office.”

  Sara started toward her room and Allison came along, walking prissily, as if she swished a full skirt behind her, very flat in front in the straight-front-corset manner. With her neck stuck high and slightly forward, as if propped by a starched collar, she was the picture of a genteel young lady working in an office. Sara couldn’t help laughing. She still had an urge to do something about Allison’s appearance, but she didn’t know how to manage it.

  Pleased, Allison stayed right at Sara’s heels when she opened her door.

  “Don’t you lock it any more?” Allison asked.

  Sara shook her head. “I don’t need to. Do I?”

  “No,” said Allison. “But maybe Judith does. I saw you go in her room just now. So you aren’t any better than I am, really. What did you do when she caught you?”

  Ignoring the question, Sara said, “Come in, Allison, and unbraid your hair. I can’t stand seeing you wear it that way a moment longer. Close the door and keep still. Now where did I put my scissors?”

  Allison was startled into closing the door, but she stood with her back against it. Her interest in Sara’s misbehavior had vanished at this distraction.

  “Wh-what are you going to do?”

  “Nothing that will hurt. Come over here.”

  Sara tipped down her mirror and stood Allison in front of it. “Look at all that forehead! You have a lovely smile and nice eyes, but nobody can see anything but your forehead. You’re topheavy and all wrong.”

  Allison gaped at herself in the mirror. “But all the girls wear their hair like this.”

  “What does that matter? You’re a special girl. You’re you.”

  Since Allison was making no move toward her own hair, Sara untied the hair bow and pulled the soft brown strands free.

  “How fine your hair is. Like your mother’s, isn’t it? And don’t tell me she isn’t your mother. What sort of talk was that anyway?”

  Allison stood helpless, half terrified by what Sara’s swift fingers were doing to her, yet too fascinated to pull away.

  “We’ll just try a thin fringe to begin with,” Sara said, running the rat-tailed comb across the front of Allison’s head to part the hair.

  “F-f-fringes are old-fashioned,” Allison stammered in fright. “I heard Miss Millie say so.”

  “Nothing is old-fashioned that makes you look right,” said Sara. “Don’t wriggle.”

  Now she turned the girl so she could no longer see the glass. Strands of long hair came away in Sara’s hands as she ran the scissors across Allison’s forehead. She combed and evened, took a few more strands, stood back to get the effect. Allison was no longer a freakish child with a too high forehead. The soft brown bangs gave her face its proper proportions. Sara smiled in pleasure at her own handiwork and turned Allison so she could look in the mirror.

  Allison looked at the stranger in the glass. Once more the warming smile stirred her lips, spread outward, lighting her face.

  “It does look better,” she whispered, as if to speak loudly might break the charm.

  Sara narrowed her eyes, seeing more than was to be seen in the mirror. “In a few years you are going to be a very stunning young woman. You’d better get ready to live up to it.”

  Allison could not take her gaze from the mirror. “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “I mean a lot of things. Untied hair ribbons. Stockings that wrinkle. Tears and spots. Though I know my mother has been taking care of those. And you shouldn’t wear so much brown. I believe I’ll talk to Mrs. Renwick about some new dresses for you. Something brighter.”

  “But I don’t like clothes. I don’t care how I look.”

  “Stop saying such things. You only say them to make people stare at you. It’s the wrong way to be important. You don’t care how you look because you don’t have to look at yourself. Others do.”

  Allison regarded the mirror again and pushed the bangs back for a second, then brushed them down into place.

  “But what’s the use?” she asked, suddenly gloomy. “When I have Judith for a sister? Everybody thinks I’m homely beside her. And I can never look like she does.”

  “You don’t need to. You shouldn’t want to. You must look like you. The sort of you that is going to have much more to look at than Judith ever had. Because you’re alive and Judith isn’t. Judith’s a glass figure on a shelf.” The words echoed in her mind, but she would not listen to the echo. She must think only of Allison.

  A mingling of wonder, disbelief, and hope had come into Allison’s eyes. She leaned over and pulled one ribbed black stocking straight on her leg, fastened it more tightly with a garter. Watching her, Sara was moved.

  “Sit down a minute, Allison,” she said gently, “and tell me why you wanted me to think Mrs. Renwick wasn’t your mother.”

  Allison sat on the bed, squirmed a little, grew pink in the face and began her confession.

  “It was that gold cigar band. When I was little I used to pretend that I couldn’t be my mother’s child. Or Papa’s either. Papa was very stern and he didn’t approve of children being like children. He thought everybody should grow up right away. And Mama always did everything he said.”

  Sara listened, feeling a new gentleness toward the girl. “What about the cigar band?” she prompted when Allison gulped and came to a halt.

  “I guess I was around seven when I found it in a wastebasket. It looked so beautiful, with that big gold crown and all the red lettering. So I pretended that I was a lost princess and that was my secret crest. That way I could feel I was better than all the people around me. Even better than Judith—who w
as always so perfect and just the way Papa thought she ought to be. But not better than Nick. I used to pretend that my king father would be like Nick. Of course all this was when I was small. I don’t believe such things any more. I only said that about my mother to make you jump.”

  “And you certainly did. Now I’ll tell you something. I’ve played that same game most of my life. I’m a lost princess too. Wait—let me show you something.”

  She hopped off the bed, pulled open a drawer and rummaged in it for a lacy white scarf that had been a Christmas gift from her mother. Then, tongue between her lips as she pondered, she looked around the room. Yes—that small book would do. She picked it up and posed before the mirror, held the book at the back of her head and flung the scarf over it. Then she turned around to face Allison.

  “There now! What do I remind you of?”

  “The way they dress at a fiesta?” Allison said promptly. “You’d look fine in Spanish dress. You really do look Spanish.”

  “You see?” Sara laughed. “I’m a lost princess of Spain. Or anyway a daughter of the dons!”

  Allison, on the verge of growing up, yet still a little girl, looked both delighted and puzzled. Sara was presumably too grown-up for fantasy.

  Sara laughed at her expression. “Make-believe,” she said, snapping her fingers. It would be just as well not to have Allison claiming that Sara Jerome was a lost Spanish princess. “And now you’d better go look for Comstock. I’ll run down and tell my mother about my new position.”

  Mary Jerome’s reaction was mixed. She agreed that it was a good thing for Sara to do something with her empty time. But there was an uneasiness underlying her attempt to seem pleased. Sara suspected that her mother could not bring herself to approve anything which would take her daughter into what she regarded as the dangerous outer world of San Francisco.

  Monday, to Sara, seemed a long time away. She helped the hours to pass by checking over her wardrobe, deciding which skirts and shirtwaists would be most suitable for a young woman in business; making sure they were clean and well pressed.

  Yet these distractions could not keep her mind from Ritchie’s marriage to Judith, and the fact that Judith had the rights of a young woman engaged, while Sara Jerome had no rights at all.

  She broke a length of thread with her teeth and sat idle for a moment, trying to fix her thoughts upon Allison. But now no distraction served.

  She flung aside the shirtwaist and let a button roll across the floor as she rose. Under the handkerchiefs in her bureau drawer was the picture of Leland Bishop. She took it out and studied the face, but now when she looked at it she could feel no flood of feeling rise in her. This bit of cardboard no more stood for real life than did Allison’s cigar band. It was as much make-believe as her dream that Ritchie might someday be hers.

  She could hardly wait for Monday and a new life. If she were busy enough she wouldn’t have to worry about loneliness. Anything might happen to a girl who worked in an office.

  7

  Long after she had gone to bed that night, Sara woke to hear a distant clock chiming three. But she knew it was not the clock which had awakened her. There had been another sound much closer at hand. As if someone were walking in the hall outside her door. She had not bothered to lock it, feeling quite safe here at the top of the house.

  She propped herself up in bed, listening intently, her heart thudding a little. Yes—there was plainly the sound of a step. Not the firm step of one who walked without heed for any who might hear him, but a softened, stealthy sound. Then she heard clearly the opening of a door and knew it was the door of the empty room next to her own. What mystery was this? Who prowled the house at three in the morning?

  Never a timid girl, Sara did not hesitate now. Something was amiss in the Renwick house and she had better find out what it was. Allison’s stories of footpads returned to her. But she had a good pair of lungs and she would keep her distance, scream mightily, if the need arose.

  Again her wool slippers served her well, making no sound upon the floor. And her wrapper was warm against the chill of San Francisco’s night air. Her own door had been oiled recently and opened without a creak. The dim light in the hall burned all night and in it she could see that the door of the room next to her own stood open.

  She did not want to appear silhouetted against the light, so she slipped softly along the wall till she was at the edge of the door opening. Then she listened again. Yes, there was definitely someone in the room. She heard small fumbling sounds, then a sudden click and a sharp draft of cold air as a window was opened. But why open a window on the third floor of the house?

  She ventured a careful peep around the edge of the door. The open window across the room showed a star-filled, deep blue sky. Against it was the smudged outline of a man. The outline merged with the shadows of the room and she couldn’t tell who it was.

  She could see the dangling light cord against the light from the window and she darted in to pull it. The overhead bulb came to life and the man at the window looked around without alarm. It was Nicholas Renwick.

  “Good morning, Miss Jerome,” he said in quiet amusement. “Were you looking for me?”

  “I was looking for footpads. And—and thugs,” she admitted.

  “I’ve disappointed you.” He smiled. “I’m sorry I wakened you. I did try to be quiet. The rest of the family know my habits. Often when I’m sleepless at night I come up here to Allison’s tower to watch the city. Since the tower is no longer available, I thought I’d slip in here and look out this window instead.”

  “Next time I’ll know better,” Sara said.

  She turned to go, but he spoke again. “Turn off the light and come here.”

  His voice carried authority and it never occurred to her not to obey. She tugged the light cord and crossed the dark room to stand beside him at the window.

  “Have you seen it like this?” he asked softly.

  A strange fog glow lay upon the sleeping city. The mist was not thick enough to blot out the lights, but only to blur them into a pale shimmer in the night. From a distance came the clang of trolley cars, and the deeper, warning voices from the bay.

  “I’ll take San Francisco on a foggy night to any place I know,” Nick said.

  Sara nodded wordlessly. The spell was upon her too and she scarcely felt the chill night wind. But as she watched the drifting wraiths of fog she could not help wondering about the man who stood beside her. Why should Nicholas Renwick, who must have everything in life he wanted, find it hard to sleep at night? Why was there a stamp of loneliness upon him that set him apart from the others in this house?

  He breathed deeply of the cool, damp air. “Somehow it clears my wits to come up here and watch the city at night. The things that irked me by day seem to matter less up here.”

  “I know,” Sara said. “I feel that too.”

  Nick glanced at her quickly and then closed the window. “Better run back to bed. You’re not dressed for this night air. Next time I’ll try to be more quiet.”

  She hesitated. Perhaps this wasn’t the time, but no matter. “I haven’t had a chance to thank you, Mr. Renwick. Your sister told me about the position in your office. I’m very grateful.”

  “That’s fine,” he said. “You’ll have to see that you do me credit. I’ve assured Mr. Merkel, who was my father’s partner and is the senior member of the firm, that you are a whiz at the typewriter.”

  “I’ll do my best,” Sara said. “I’m very anxious to pay for my room and board here as soon as possible.”

  “Judith told me that too. Good for you! We’ll respect your wishes. Now do go back to bed, or you’ll be down with a cold and unable to poke at the keys of that Oliver.”

  She felt suddenly foolish, conducting a dignified conversation at three o’clock in the morning, while dressed in a woolly robe and slippers. But at least he had not laughed
at her.

  Back in her own bed, she found herself still wondering about him. Here was a man who could not be easily read by the exterior he presented to the world. There were depths behind in which unknown emotions stirred, seldom flashing to the surface. But though she had no knowledge of what drove him, she had the feeling that perhaps she had a friend in this household.

  Though slow in coming, Monday finally arrived. Sara drove to work with Nick and Ritchie in the automobile, a veil tied over her sailor hat to shield her from dust and winds, high anticipation in her heart. Ritchie seemed to regard the whole thing as a joke, pretending to believe that Sara would be completely helpless in an office. She ignored him and discussed her duties seriously with Nick.

  In bright daylight it was hard to believe that she had stood beside this tall, grave man only a few nights before, watching trolley lights pick out San Francisco. The incident had taken on the unreal quality of a dream. But her confidence in Nicholas Renwick had grown, her feeling that the entire household—and that included her mother and herself—was secure in his hands.

  Renwick and Merkel were housed in one of the tall buildings downtown near Market Street. The offices looked like those almost anywhere. A small waiting room with several stiff chairs and a bench against one wall was separated from the office by a low wooden partition. A framed photograph of Mr. William Renwick, mustache and all, overlooked the scene sternly and gave it a no-nonsense air. A girl with an ink smudge on her nose and a pencil stuck into her high-swept tresses pecked at one of the two typewriters. A gangling young clerk whose hair grew long on his neck shuffled through papers at a filing cabinet, and let his eyes linger upon Sara.

  The private offices of the partners opened off this section, and through one door Sara glimpsed a large mahogany desk and deep leather chair. It was this room Nick went into.

  The other girl was introduced to Sara as Miss Dalrymple, and she stood upon her senior dignity, a bit superior and cool. In a distant, condescending manner she showed Sara her desk and her supplies. Sara could be cool and dignified too, however. She felt very correct in her dark blue skirt and pin-striped shirtwaist, with its man’s starched collar. Miss Dalrymple had fastened paper cuffs over her wrists to protect her sleeves from grime, but Sara decided that she would prefer to do up a clean shirtwaist for herself every day.