The Trembling Hills

by Phyllis A. Whitney

  She still smiled when she wakened later to hear footsteps in the hall. But this time she did not stir beneath warm covers. Now she knew Nick’s nocturnal habits of roaming the house. She was drowsing back to sleep when the tap sounded on her door. She propped herself on an elbow, turned on the lamp.

  “Yes?” she called softly. “Who is it?”

  There was no answer, only a second tap, more sharply insistent. Was Nick ill? Was there something he needed? She reached for her wrapper and bundled it about her. Then she went to the door and pulled it open.

  Ritchie Temple stood in the hallway. He looked a little imperious, even annoyed that she had not come more quickly. Her heart began a deep, painful thudding in her breast.

  8

  Wh-what is it?” Sara faltered.

  “Obviously I can’t talk to you standing in the hall like this,” Ritchie said. He stepped past her into the room and closed the door behind him. The haughtiness went out of him and he spoke her name softly.

  “Sara,” he said. “I’ve missed you, Sara.”

  Sara moved quickly away from him across the room. She meant to trust neither Ritchie nor herself.

  “In this house,” he went on, “it seems as though I never have a chance to speak to you alone.”

  “This room isn’t the place to speak to me,” Sara said stiffly.

  He moved then, came toward her impatiently. She had backed to the corner that held her bed and she reached out shakily for the brass bed knob. Her hand closed upon the same weapon she had used once before to rid herself of an intruder. It was the black umbrella with the crooked handle which she had hooked about Comstock. Ritchie was only a few steps away. In a moment she would be in his arms and she would be lost for certain.

  She caught the umbrella up in her hand and bounced barefooted into the middle of the bed. Ritchie stared at her in blank astonishment. Then he dropped into the one armchair, choking with laughter.

  This was not what she had intended. Sara lowered the umbrella and regarded him angrily. “Now what’s the matter with you?”

  He went into another paroxysm of mirth. “Lady defending her honor!” he choked. “Sara, you look so funny posed up there with that umbrella. Put it down so I can stop laughing.”

  Sara hooked the umbrella handle over the end of the bed and went to sit in a chair across the room from Ritchie. She felt miserable. From her position of grown-up young woman she had been reduced to the stature of a ridiculous child. She hated herself and hated Ritchie.

  “That’s better,” he said.

  “Don’t talk so loudly,” she snapped and threw an uneasy glance toward the door of the room.

  “You needn’t worry. Susan’s room is on the other side of the house, and you know how soundly your mother sleeps.”

  She stared at him in distaste.

  “It’s hard to talk to you across the room like this,” he went on. “Your reception isn’t exactly what I’d pictured. Sara, what’s wrong between us? Why don’t we know each other any more?”

  “I should think,” said Sara, “that the reasons are obvious. Perhaps Judith is the most important one.”

  He seemed not to hear her. “Do you remember the talks we used to have at home in Chicago? On winter Sundays in the library? You always had your nose in a book and I could be sure to find you there. Such a lively, curious, eager little girl, you were, Sara.”

  She made a sound of displeasure, but he went right on.

  “Such a bundle of stormy emotions! I used to love you very much.”

  “You were grown and I was a child,” Sara said coldly. “I remember very well.”

  “No—you were always both older and younger than your years. But at that age the years mattered. My mother and yours would both have objected if we’d tried to marry at twenty and fifteen. But you were the only one I could talk to. The only one who would listen. Have you forgotten all that?”

  “I’ve not forgotten,” she said and held herself stiff in resistance against him—though he sat across the room. It was he who had forgotten.

  When he moved from his chair her unruly heart began to thud again, but he went to the big central window and looked out upon the city.

  “February!” he said. “Though you’d never know it. Roses in the garden and the grass as green as summertime.”

  “Don’t you like it that way?” Sara asked.

  “Like it? I detest it! I’d like to look out there and see snow on the rooftops and heaped in the streets. Icicles hanging from the eaves. Good winter snow that belongs with February. And a good old-fashioned elm tree, instead of those spooky eucalyptus trees. Sara, come here.”

  There was gentleness in his voice and he was no longer mocking her. When he was like that she could never resist him. She went to stand beside him at the window, though not too close, and he made no move to touch her.

  “Do you know something, Sara? I hate this city!”

  “But it’s a beautiful, exciting city,” Sara protested. “No one could hate San Francisco.”

  “I do. There it stands sliding down its hills in all its ugliness. Look at those houses with their gimcrack trimmings—carpenter’s Gothic! The most horrible taste in America. Bow windows like fat bellies. Lath and jigsaw monstrosities. Even the downtown buildings are ugly. All wrong for a city like this.”

  “I thought you were going to build beautiful buildings out here,” Sara said.

  “It could be done. Back in Chicago Richardson and Sullivan have been preaching that form should follow function. And there’s a young fellow named Wright who is doing things in terms of this country and time.”

  Sara could not suppress a small surge of triumph. “Judith said she could make you build your dreams. But she hasn’t, has she?”

  “Judith doesn’t listen to me,” he said.

  She was surprised at the hurt in his voice and she couldn’t help reaching out in the old way. “I’ll listen—tell me.”

  He talked then as he used to do. A fog had crept in from the bay during the night and as Ritchie built with words, great shafts of steel and concrete seemed to shimmer tall in the mist. Sara, listening, made the discovery that Ritchie the dashing, the self-­sufficient, the confident, did not entirely believe in himself. Was that what Judith had done to him, so that he needed a friend in this household, just as Sara Jerome needed one? They had reached out to each other tonight, without so much as a touching of hands between them.

  He turned from the window, away from the fog. “Wait till you see how thick it gets later on. I hate the beastly stuff. There’s something hushed and creeping about it. I feel smothered when the fog comes in. It’s not like mist from Lake Michigan. Listen to those moaning horns on the water!”

  Sara made no denial, but in her heart she knew she would love the San Francisco fogs as she loved all else about this city. She could stand endlessly by the window and watch the fog envelop the city in its embrace. But here was Ritchie beside her, and there was no mockery in him—only a need for her in his eyes. She forgot San Francisco and the fog, forgot Judith and the fact that Ritchie was going to marry her. She swayed a little toward him and her black, heavy braid swung forward and touched his hand.

  The touch seemed to waken him from some dream. He lifted the heavy thickness and let it slip through his fingers wonderingly. And she had the sudden intuition that he was thinking of Judith’s pale gold hair.

  He turned abruptly away from her and went across the room to the door. In a moment he had closed it after him and she heard his light step moving toward the stairs.

  She could only stare blindly after him while the throbbing in her blood quieted and a sick revulsion rose in her against her own body. Against her black hair and olive skin and all about her that was not fair and blond and pale. And against her own willful longings which made her want the forbidden.

  Sara Jerome had never be
en easily given to tears. When she did cry it was in no ladylike manner. Now she flung herself down upon the bed while sobs shook her wildly, so that she had to stifle the sound with her pillow, lest somehow she be heard in this angry grief.

  Tonight Ritchie had come back to her for a little while. He had needed her to talk to of his dreams, of the sore things that were in him. For a while he had loved her again and wanted her. Then her own black hair had swung between them, parting them. Judith still came first. He had never really turned away from her. Now, too, there was the thing she had only recently faced—that Judith had a right to come first.

  Always before Sara had rushed headlong at life when an opportunity offered. She had been able to close her eyes blindly and reach out with stubborn hands for what she wanted. But now she had recognized Judith as a person and she could not rush in blindly. Who was to know what Judith thought and felt behind that cool exterior? Hating to consider her, Sara knew that she must do just that. There was no other way in which she could live with this unwelcome new self that had begun to stir within her and would not let her be again the child she wanted to be. If Ritchie broke his engagement to Judith, that was one thing. But unless he did, there was no step she could take.

  Her tears dried at length, leaving her limp and helpless. She did not want to stand aside and let life wash over her head, submerging and defeating her. She wanted to swim courageously against the current. But how could she swim when she had no direction? How could she do anything but strive to keep afloat?

  By the next day she had steadied herself a little. The only goal she could find was one of escape from this house and the nearness to Ritchie. She might even seek a new job so that she would no longer be near him at the office. But she was still helpless when it came to making the first step toward a change. She did not know where to turn.

  That evening on her way to the Riorden dinner, Judith looked very beautiful in her gown of Nile-green and black lace. Sara, coming downstairs, saw Ritchie helping her into a long flower-­embroidered opera cape of black velvet. Judith’s feet were hidden in carriage boots, and she tucked one hand in a white kid glove into the crook of Ritchie’s arm. He smiled at her proudly as they went out the door.

  Sara turned away. She must think of other things, forget those two, keep busy somehow. There was still the matter of Allison’s dresses. Here was a chance to find Mrs. Renwick alone. Sara had seen little of Allison in the last few days, but when she did see her, Allison’s bangs were still in place and her stockings were sometimes pulled quite straight.

  Mrs. Renwick received Sara with pleasure and liked her suggestion. “But of course the child shall have as many new frocks as she wants. If you can work the miracle of getting her to take an interest in her appearance, we’ll all be grateful to you. Nick and I are both delighted with her new bangs. All this is most generous of you, Sara.”

  Sara listened in embarrassment. “I think she would look well in a dark shade of red,” she suggested. “Some shades of blue too. Do you suppose Miss Millie is coming back to work for you after what happened?”

  “We could never keep her away. But I think we had better give her free rein on the first dress she makes for Allison. You and I will decide on the goods and the color.”

  Sara pursed her lips. “Miss Millie is just the sort to pin butterflies on Judith, who doesn’t need them, and make everything plain for Allison, who needs something to liven her up.”

  Mrs. Renwick reached for a box of opera mints on the table at her elbow and broke the seal. “Have some, Sara? Really, you know—you’re rather a disrupting element in this house. I’m not sure I approve of you. I like having Allison’s appearance and disposition improved. But I don’t want to be drawn into controversies. I will not fight any battles for you and you might as well accept that fact. I don’t want to be disturbed.”

  Sara took a green mint and bit into it, smiling. “I can fight my own battles. And you’d have a box seat.”

  Mrs. Renwick sighed and rubbed her temple with her fingers. “I wish Geneva were here tonight. She always brushes my hair when she comes and it helps my poor head.” She looked plaintively at Sara, who rose readily to the occasion.

  “Let me brush it. Sometimes I brush my mother’s. She says I have a surprisingly gentle touch. Somehow Mama always expects me to bang things around.”

  “I can well see how that might be,” said Mrs. Renwick dryly. “However, I’m happy to give you a try. Run in the bedroom and get my brush, there’s a dear.”

  Sara came back with a silver-backed brush in her hand. When she had pulled the pins from Hilda Renwick’s heavy blond hair, she pressed her strong fingers on her scalp until Mrs. Renwick purred with pleasure.

  “You make me feel just like Comstock, Sara. Geneva’s little fingers could never manage this.”

  Sara went on, alternately massaging and brushing until the long strands shone like gold. And as she worked she talked.

  “I’ve been reading some books I found in your library,” she said in a conversational tone. “About California. I love this part of the country. I want to know all about it. While I was reading I came on the name of Geneva’s family—the Varadys. And the Oliveros.”

  “There—right at the back of my neck,” Mrs. Renwick said. “Mm—wonderful! Yes, California is full of romantic stories.”

  “It’s too bad the Varadys have petered out in Miss Hester, isn’t it?”

  Mrs. Renwick laughed. “Petered out is not a term one uses about Hester Varady. Probably if the truth were known, her story’s the most romantic and dramatic of the lot. The way she built that big house out on Van Ness Avenue when she was engaged to marry Martin Bishop. So they would have a place to live after they were married. And furnished it with all sorts of truck she imported from abroad. Then living in it all alone after Martin turned around and married her sister Elizabeth.”

  This was more than either book or Geneva had told.

  “Have you ever been in the house?” Sara asked.

  “Hardly. Miss Varady looks down her nose on vulgar Nob Hill. I can remember the way she snubbed William and me at the opera one night. I laughed for days afterwards, though only to myself. Poor Willie was so disturbed. Nobody had ever put him in his place before. He’d always had the notion that money could buy anything. He would really carry on now if he knew that his own son is seeing so much of Geneva Varady. Willie never forgave anyone who offended him.”

  “But then how does it happen that Miss Varady permits Geneva to see him—if she disapproves?”

  “It’s probably the hope of getting Geneva off her hands.”

  “But if her niece is a Varady and Miss Hester takes so much pride in the Varady name and blood—”

  “Ouch!” Mrs. Renwick cried. “Remember about being gentle, Sara. I fancy the blood has thinned out with poor little Jenny. Though we don’t really know what her connection is with the family. The matter has always been peculiarly hush-hush. Frankly, I don’t think the child knows herself. Miss Varady chooses not to discuss the matter with her, and has even led the girl to feel that it would be better if she did not ask too many questions. I’ve wondered at times if Geneva really is a Varady. Not that it matters. We’re extremely fond of her.”

  Sara, however, was less interested in Geneva’s connection than she was in her own. “What happened to Elizabeth after she married Martin Bishop?”

  “Oh, that’s the saddest part of the story. They went on a voyage around the Horn to New York. But the ship was lost at sea and none of the passengers was ever heard of again.”

  “So Hester Varady lost her lover twice over,” Sara mused.

  “Don’t waste any pity on her. She is made of nails and granite, I’m sure. She probably thought it a fit punishment for them both and reveled in it.”

  “And since they left no children, that was the end of their line?” Sara asked.

  Mrs. Renwick�
�s words surprised her. “Who says they left no children?”

  “Why—Geneva did.”

  “I’m afraid Geneva has had her head filled with a great deal of nonsense. And since she believes anything a body tells her, it must be easy enough for Hester to stuff her with what she pleases.”

  Sara held the brush still. “You mean there were children?”

  “One. I understand he was a handsome little boy. Fortunately—or perhaps not, depending how you look at it—his parents left him at home when they went off on their fateful voyage. Miss Varady took him in and raised him from babyhood. Leland, I think his name was. But I gather he grew up a rather bad lot. Went in for gambling his aunt’s money away and getting into scrapes of one sort and another. Of course we didn’t know the family, so this is all gossip of the sort Miss Millie likes to spread. Sara, you are forgetting to brush.”

  Sara recovered herself and lifted the brush again. “And this boy, Leland Bishop—what became of him?” she asked, trying not to sound as breathless as though she had been running for a long time.

  “What a one you are for stories! I gather Hester disowned him a couple of times. But he kept showing up like a bad penny. Married some girl of no consequence and brought her home to his aunt’s house. There was a baby, I think. But in the end Hester packed the lot of them off and washed her hands of her nephew. And that’s the last San Francisco saw of the Bishops. It was then that Hester took this poor relation, Geneva, out of the Sisters’ hands and decided to raise her as an heir.”

  Sara brushed with slow, regular strokes, her thoughts far away until Mrs. Renwick told her she might stop. When she said good night, Sara ran upstairs and climbed to the high post of her tower. There was no fog tonight, but it was raining again. She looked out upon the drenched city, feeling a greater kinship with it than ever.

  The pieces of the puzzle were falling into place now. Leland Bishop was her father. Elizabeth Varady Bishop her grandmother. And Miss Hester Varady was her great-aunt. Where Geneva fitted as a distant cousin, did not matter.