The Trembling Hills

by Phyllis A. Whitney

  Almost at once she was called to Mr. Merkel’s office for an interview and some dictation and she went rather nervously. Mr. Merkel, however, did not alarm her. In fact, he reminded her of Mr. Temple. Ritchie’s father had been a peppery little man like this, but he had been absolutely just and could be counted on. Mr. Merkel gave her the feeling that if she did her work well he would approve of her and stand by her.

  She sat with her shorthand tablet propped against her knee, her pencil poised. He dictated with consideration for her novice state and went at a speed she could handle. After giving her three or four short letters, he sent her away to type them.

  Back at her desk, Sara ignored Miss Dalrymple and the attentive file clerk, feeling very competent and professional. The keys of the Oliver clicked under her fingers and she transcribed Mr. Merkel’s dictation without understanding much of what she wrote. The language of insurance was still a mystery to her, but that took nothing away from the glamour of working in a real office.

  Once during the morning, when Miss Dalrymple was away from her desk, Sara looked up to see Ritchie in the doorway of his own office, watching her steadily. To her surprise she saw that he was not laughing at her. Instead there was unexpected affection in his eyes. She dropped her own gaze hurriedly. Her fingers slipped on the keys and she had to stop to make an erasure. She had not seen Ritchie look at her like that since she had come to San Francisco. It was unsettling, disturbing. She had almost convinced herself that his old feeling for her had died completely. This opened the door again and set her emotions in a turmoil.

  When she raised her eyes he was gone. But his look had been as personal as a caress and it warmed her all morning in the drafty office. It was hard now to remember Judith.

  Since Nick and Ritchie did not always leave at the same time, and sometimes one, sometimes the other, had the automobile, Sara went home at the end of the day by cable car. She found herself lucky to get an outside seat where she would face outward with her back to the gripman as she clung to a metal post. Passengers stood on the steps crowded against her knees, but Sara hardly saw them. She loved the cable cars and the way warnings were shouted as they swung around curves, or went uphill or down.

  At home her mother hung over her solicitously, plied her with a second bowl of warm soup as if she were an invalid, and expected her to be bone-tired. Sara was merely exhilarated. It was wonderful working in the outside world. She had needed to get away from this dull, dark house! And besides—there was the way Ritchie had looked at her.

  That evening, remembering her promise to Allison, she went downstairs to tap on the door of Mrs. Renwick’s sitting room. She heard voices before she was told to enter, but she had not expected to find the room so full of women.

  Judith stood in the middle of the floor, while Miss Millie, her mouth filled with pins, knelt at her feet arranging a hem. Mrs. Renwick lay back in her favorite chair, giving directions, and in a straight chair nearby sat Geneva Varady. If it had not been for Geneva’s presence, Sara might have withdrawn and returned another time to speak about Allison’s clothes. But here, at last, was her chance to meet Geneva, and she went in eagerly.

  “Hello, Sara,” Mrs. Renwick called to her. “Come join our party and tell Miss Millie what you think of Judith’s new dinner dress. You know Geneva Varady, don’t you?”

  “How do you do, Miss Varady,” said Sara and took a chair near the girl.

  Geneva acknowledged the introduction with a smile that was half shy, half friendly. As Sara was to find, she looked at everyone like that in the beginning, almost as if she expected to be rebuffed for a show of friendliness. It was a look that made Sara want to reassure her and she gave Geneva a warm smile.

  Miss Millie merely grunted at her entrance and remarked that she needed no advice to do her work as it should be done. As Mrs. Renwick well knew, it was not her habit to work evenings. Her poor eyes took beating enough. And this was an extra on top of the trousseau things. It was only as an extreme favor that she had come here tonight at all.

  Mrs. Renwick said, “Nonsense, Millie. You know you’d be disgraced for good if Judith had to go to the Riorden dinner in an old gown. Sara, tell us what you think. You know, Judith, Sara has quite an eye for fashion.”

  Sara had no desire to say what she thought. The gown was black lace over shining Nile-green satin, with a low square neck. Except for the neck, which Sara did not like, it was lovely. But on a sheet of tissue paper beside Miss Millie lay a heap of jewel-and-sequin-embroidered butterflies. Sara felt suspicious of any use which might be made of those butterflies.

  “There,” said Miss Millie, sitting back on her heels. “It’s right now. Turn slow, Miss Judith. Real slow.”

  Judith turned obediently. As always she seemed a little remote from the scene about her, as if her thoughts were elsewhere and she had no interest in what was happening to her. The black lace flattered her fair skin and that shade of green went well with her ashen hair. But now Miss Millie rose from her knees and gathered up the butterflies.

  “Turn toward the light, Miss Judith,” she directed and began to pin glitter across the bodice of the gown.

  In spite of herself, Sara gave a cry of distress. Everyone except Judith stared at her; Miss Millie with a distinctly sour expression.

  “What happened to you?” Miss Millie asked. “Sit on a pin?”

  Sara decided to speak her mind. “Miss Renwick doesn’t need those butterflies. They’ll spoil the effect completely.”

  For the first time Judith glanced across the room at her reflection in a tall mirror.

  “What do you mean, Sara?” she asked.

  Sara addressed herself solely to Judith. “Remember what you said about your room—that it didn’t fit you. Those butterflies don’t either. People want to look at you. That glitter is distracting. And you shouldn’t wear a square neck either—”

  “Square necks are being worn in Paris, if I may be allowed to speak,” said Miss Millie tartly. “And so are sequined butterflies. Appliquéd glitter is all the rage.”

  “That doesn’t make it right.” Sara left her chair and picked up a piece of extra lace. “Look—see how it would be if you put the lace in a heart-shaped scallop over that square of green. Place it so the edge of the lace is against her skin.”

  Mrs. Renwick applauded. “Good! She’s right, Millie. I like that. Judith, you don’t need that butterfly trash. You’re enough in yourself.”

  Judith looked into the mirror for a moment, then nodded. “Yes, I like it that way. Do you think you can manage it, Miss Millie?”

  The little dressmaker wrapped up her butterflies angrily. “I must say—when my customers begin taking the advice of an inexperienced chit, it’s time for me to go elsewhere. You can finish the dress yourself, Miss Judith. I’ll send my bill, for the hours of work I’ve put in so far.”

  She folded her bundle together, gave them all a stiff good evening and went out, offended pride bristling all about her. Sara stared after her in dismay. She had not meant to take work away from the little dressmaker.

  Mrs. Renwick, however, seemed in no way perturbed. “She’ll come back. She’s been getting altogether too bossy lately. But she’s not going to let anyone else take over for Judith’s wedding.”

  Geneva said, “Do you mind if I talk to her?” and ran after Miss Millie.

  “She won’t be back in time to finish the gown,” Judith said. “Now Ritchie won’t want to take me to the dinner tomorrow night.”

  “I don’t care about the Riordens,” Mrs. Renwick said. “But we can’t disappoint Ritchie. Sara, don’t you sew at all?”

  “I’m no good at sewing,” Sara said. “But perhaps my mother—”

  Geneva had come back from her vain effort to placate Miss Millie. “I’ll finish the dress for you, Judith,” she offered. “If Miss Jerome will tell me what to do, I’ll go to work on it right now.”

/>   “There you are!” Mrs. Renwick cried. “The matter is settled. Do get out of the dress, Judith, and let the girls have it.”

  When Sara had pinned the lace on the bodice of the gown, Judith went into her mother’s bedroom to change. When she came back she looked breath-taking in a chrysanthemum-yellow flowered kimono, with long Japanese sleeves.

  “I left the gown on the bed,” she told the girls indifferently. “If you need me for another fitting, I’ll be upstairs.”

  Mrs. Renwick agreed. “Run along, Judith. You’re decorative, but no help. You can work in my bedroom, if you like, girls. I’ve a new novel I’m anxious to get to.”

  Sara went into the bedroom, filled with a sense of anticipation. Here, unexpectedly, was her opportunity to talk with Geneva Varady. As the other girl threaded her needle and went to work, Sara sat in the bay window and wondered how to begin.

  “Have you always lived in San Francisco?” she asked at length.

  Geneva, sewing in a chair pulled over to the bed where the gown rested, nodded without looking up from her work. Sara studied her thoughtfully. The girl had a small, pointed chin that gave her face the look of a valentine. Her brown hair grew down in a peak on her forehead, adding to the effect. It was a face too wide at the cheekbones for beauty, but her eyes were dark brown and expressive, and the general effect was one of mild prettiness. Indeed, everything about Geneva was mild. She was not the sort of person you could ever imagine losing her temper.

  Sara decided to hesitate no longer. There was no need to be cautious with this meek little person.

  “Have you always lived with Miss Hester Varady?” she asked directly.

  This time Geneva looked up from her sewing, plainly startled. “Why—yes,” she said hesitantly. Sara’s very intensity seemed to force her on. “Aunt Hester took me into her own home and raised me when I was very little. I owe everything to her. But why are you interested in me, Miss Jerome?”

  “I’m interested in San Francisco,” Sara said. “But I know very little about it. I understand the Varadys are an old family. I was reading about them in a book lately.”

  The explanation seemed to satisfy Geneva. Her attention returned to her careful sewing. But she did not warm to the subject of San Francisco’s old families.

  This was getting her nowhere, Sara thought, and tried an even more direct course. “Do you know of anyone on your family tree named Bishop?” she asked.

  Geneva’s head was bent above her sewing. “Aunt Hester’s younger sister Elizabeth married a man named Bishop.”

  Excitement prickled through Sara. “Did they have any children?”

  Geneva considered for a length of time that made Sara jumpy. When she spoke, her words had nothing to do with ancestors.

  “Do you think these stitches are small enough? And am I getting the lace in the right place?”

  “Yes, yes, you’re doing lovely work,” Sara said. The delay was maddening.

  Geneva held up the bodice of the dress and looked at it thoughtfully. “I do hope it’s right. Children? I don’t believe so. Both my Aunt Elizabeth and her husband were lost at sea. Of course Aunt Hester, and Elizabeth too, are really my great-aunts. Aunt Hester is in her sixties.”

  So again, Sara thought, her search had led to nothing. A blind alley. Except that there really had been a man named Bishop connected with the Varadys. To what branch of the Bishop family had Leland belonged? Plainly there was nothing more to be extracted from Geneva for the moment. Sara ceased her questioning and gave her attention to directing the work on Judith’s gown.

  More than once she saw the other girl glance at her curiously, but she did not discover why until the work had come to an end. Geneva fluffed out the dress, patted the rich material wistfully.

  “Wouldn’t it be wonderful to wear clothes the way Judith does? Have you seen some of the things in her wardrobe? She took me up to her room one time and let me look at all her gowns. I felt like a child in a candy store. Just to touch those lovely materials! And such beautiful styles. Though no more beautiful than she is.”

  This was not a topic which engrossed Sara. But she wondered why Geneva Varady shouldn’t have whatever clothes she desired. Geneva’s frock was a dark bottle-green and old-fashioned in cut, but Sara had attributed the fact to a simple lack of taste on Geneva’s part.

  “Why should any Varady envy a Renwick?” Sara spoke her thought frankly.

  “Oh, of course I don’t envy her,” Geneva said, and all but glanced over her shoulder as if she expected to be overheard. “It’s just that my aunt doesn’t believe in ostentation. She says a true lady can wear what she pleases and still be accepted.”

  Geneva’s valentine face lighted with a surprising imp of mischief. This time she really looked over her shoulder toward Mrs. Renwick’s sitting room before she spoke in a whisper.

  “Aunt Hester does, too! Wears what she pleases, I mean. And no one respects her the less. But I’m not like that. I feel shabby in old clothes. Not that this dress really is shabby. The material is quite fine. But it lasts such a very long time.”

  “I expect it will be different when you marry,” Sara remarked idly.

  A look of such softness, such gentle love came into Geneva’s face that all her affection for Nicholas Renwick was plain.

  “I hope it will be,” she said, “—if I marry.”

  Sara envied her a little. Geneva, at least, could wear her feeling for Nick openly. He was promised to no one else.

  Geneva was watching her again. “Do you know—you remind me of someone. There’s something about the way you tilt your head—a look in your eyes—something. I’ve been wondering about it all evening. It’s tantalizing because I can’t place it.”

  Sara leaned toward her. “Think! Think hard and tell me who it is!”

  “I’m sorry,” Geneva said, gently surprised by her eagerness, “I really can’t remember. I’ll tell you if I ever do. But now we’d better go upstairs and show Judith her dress. Nick had to go to a business meeting tonight, but he said he’d be here in time to drive me home. I want to be ready.”

  “Of course,” Sara said, controlling her disappointment. She followed Geneva back to Mrs. Renwick’s sitting room. The girl probably had the answers to all sorts of questions right in her head. But how was one to get them out?

  Geneva held the dress up for Mrs. Renwick to see. But before they could take it to Judith, Nick came into the room.

  Sara saw the look he gave Geneva. His lean, sensitive face, the gray eyes under dark brows, took on a softer expression at the sight of her. Allison, it seemed, was wrong in her notion that Nick did not return Geneva’s affection.

  “Happy about something, Jenny?” Nick asked.

  “About seeing you, of course,” Geneva admitted shyly, but without being coy. “And because Sara Jerome and I have had such fun tonight.” She let Nick see the dress. “Look at the way we’ve fixed Judith’s gown for the dinner tomorrow. Miss Jerome made some wonderful suggestions and Miss Millie went away mad, poor thing. So I did the sewing and Miss Jerome directed.”

  Nick smiled at Sara, his eyes friendly, approving. “It seems you’re going to be a welcome addition, Sara Jerome. Mr. Merkel reports that you did an excellent job on the work he gave you today.”

  It was gratifying to earn Nick’s approval and Sara was pleased. But when she followed Geneva upstairs to Judith’s room the little glow of pleasure died. Ritchie was lounging in the hall not far from Judith’s door.

  “I heard there was going to be a style show,” he said. “And I don’t want to miss a thing.”

  Sara hardly looked at him as she took the dress from Geneva’s hands and carried it into Judith’s room. When she had explained a detail that Judith would have to watch in getting into the gown, she said good night quickly and went out of the room. Again her glance went past Ritchie. She had no desire to stay and wa
tch Judith parade before his eyes. That moment when he had stood watching Sara today in the office had been something warm to hold to. She did not want it so quickly erased.

  Not until she was back in her own room did it occur to her that she had completely forgotten the matter of new dresses for Allison. Never mind—she would get to that soon. It would be better to talk to Mrs. Renwick alone. Indeed, this would give her an excuse for talking to Mrs. Renwick about other matters besides Allison.

  As she undressed for bed she thought about this further muddle of her possible relationship to the Varadys. Every new thread that came into her hands seemed to be as tenuous as all the others. They wound about one another in a gauzy knot, but none of them led clearly and simply to the center.

  Her room was a little more comfortable now, though hardly luxurious. She had found a small bed table in one of the other rooms and had made the purchase of a lamp with a china shade on her trip downtown with her mother. She lay in bed with the lamp burning for a little while, staring at cracks that streaked the ceiling, puzzling over her bits of knowledge.

  If Hester’s younger sister Elizabeth had married a man named Bishop—there lay the trail to her own heritage. But if these two had, as Geneva seemed to think, been lost at sea and left no children, then where did the trail lead?

  If only she could talk to Miss Varady! How, she wondered, could one go about meeting Hester Varady? Through Geneva, perhaps? But though she and Geneva had worked pleasantly together tonight, there was no reason why she should invite the daughter of the Renwick housekeeper to meet her aunt.

  Just as she went to sleep she began to think again of Ritchie. Of the way he had stood in the door of his office watching her with the old affection in his eyes. She was too sleepy to struggle against the picture. In spite of everything it was comforting and she was smiling as she fell asleep.