The Trembling Hills

by Phyllis A. Whitney

  And there was a house. A big house on Van Ness Avenue. That was the street her friend the fireman had mentioned as a place where a stand could be taken if there were every again a really bad fire in San Francisco. The Varady house on Van Ness Avenue had been the place of her birth. It was part of her heritage. She must find some way to visit it.

  She wondered what would happen if she should confront her mother with the details of her knowledge. But no—she knew what would result. And she had to have the answers to these mysteries, without interference from her mother.

  She stayed in her tower so late, lost in her dreams, that she heard Judith and Ritchie come home from their dinner party. She looked down upon their carriage as it turned into the driveway at the side of the house and felt a little superior toward them. Who, after all, were the Renwicks and the Temples, when she was a Varady? But the feeling, she realized, was an empty one and far from satisfying.

  The rain and stormy winds kept on into March, but the hills were green and flowers bloomed with a lush growth Sara had never seen in Chicago.

  Her work at the office went on, and so far Sara had taken no step toward the house on Van Ness Avenue. When she met Miss Hester Varady she wanted to know exactly what she would do and say. This time she would not rely on impulse. But how to accomplish her purpose was a problem to which she had found no answer.

  As the weeks passed, the office lost something of its early glamour for Sara. She discovered that there was a certain monotony about the insurance business. She couldn’t blame Ritchie for the boredom he betrayed and for his constant absences from his office. She continued to type the letters given her with care, but now she yawned over them a little. She was yawning absent-mindedly when she carried a batch into Ritchie’s office one day for his signature.

  He looked up at her, smiling. “Don’t yawn, Sara. You’ll get me started too. Sit down and tell me what a wonderful businessman you think I am. Maybe I can even dream up more letters to write somebody. Just don’t go away and leave me to this solitary confinement.”

  He crossed the room suddenly and closed the door. Sara knew this restless mood of Ritchie’s. It could be dangerous. She opened her tablet in a businesslike manner and got her pencil ready. She had been on guard and carefully impersonal ever since that night he had come to her room. But Ritchie ignored her preparations for work. He leaned over and kissed the nape of her neck.

  “No umbrellas around today,” he said. “So you can’t do a thing to me. Sara, Sara, come here!”

  Tablet and pencil scattered as he pulled her none too gently into his arms. The breath went out of her in a long sigh and with it went all her intended resistance. She had wanted for so long to be in his arms. Her lips remembered his and responded with joy.

  He laid his cheek against her and laughed softly in her ear. “Where is all that outraged resistance you led me to expect? What a fake you are! I can feel your heart thumping right under my own. It’s giving you away, Sara. I’m glad you love me, even if Judith doesn’t!”

  His flippant words made her head stop whirling and she pushed away from him. Mr. Merkel could walk into Ritchie’s office easily through adjoining doors and find him making cheap love to his secretary. It was better not to answer at all, better not to trust herself with so much as another look in Ritchie’s direction. She retrieved her notebook and pencil and walked quickly out of the office.

  A dowdy-looking woman sat in the anteroom and Sara gave her a careless glance as she returned to her desk. There were some letters for Mr. Merkel which required typing and she rolled paper in the machine, went furiously to work, hoping no one would notice that her color was high, her breathing quick. She must concentrate somehow. Somehow she must forget Ritchie’s arms, the way his lips had felt upon her own. She was angry with herself that all her resolute decisions had fallen to nothing at his first touch. When she tried to work she made mistakes and had to erase. What had he meant about Judith not loving him?

  She was hardly aware of what went on around her until Miss Dalrymple at the next desk spoke under her breath.

  “Don’t look now, but you seem to be the center of attention.”

  Sara, her thoughts still whirling so that she hardly knew her left hand from her right, looked at once. And she couldn’t help jumping. The dowdy woman had left her bench and come to stand beside the wooden partition that separated waiting room from office. Her interest seemed focused upon Sara, who could only stare at her in surprise.

  This, she realized, was not dowdiness, after all. It was merely that this tall woman with the iron-gray hair was dressed in garments of ten or fifteen years ago. She wore a bold, rich costume of dark red, handsomely banded with wide black velvet. Her sleeves were huge and puffed—long out of style, and there were impressive rows of jet across her bosom. On her head she wore a small bonnet of dark sable and velvet, old-fashioned in every detail, yet somehow distinguished.

  It was the woman’s eyes, however, which held Sara’s. They were dark and set deep in their sockets. The lids were heavy and when she blinked she did so slowly, as if nothing would ever ruffle or hurry her, if she chose not to hurry.

  “Stop staring, girl,” the woman said unreasonably, since she herself had fixed Sara with the steadiest of stares. The heavy lids blinked once and the intent gaze turned upon the openmouthed Miss Dalrymple. “You,” she said and it was as if she had snapped her fingers at a lackey. “Go and tell Mr. Merkel that Miss Varady has been kept waiting long enough.”

  “Yes’m,” said Miss Dalrymple and all but dropped a curtsy before she scuttled away.

  Sara sat with her fingers frozen upon the typewriter keys. This was the woman she had dreamed of facing, but her appearance was too sudden, too dramatic. Sara felt like a schoolgirl, confused and at a loss.

  “Stand up,” Miss Varady said. “Let’s have a look at you.”

  There could be no disobeying that autocratic tone. Sara pushed her chair back and stood, her own gaze held completely by Hester Varady’s.

  “You’re the Jerome girl,” said Miss Varady.

  It was a statement, not a question, and Sara bristled at the tone. Suddenly the compulsion under which she had been held was gone. Her own will revived and she faced Miss Varady coolly, almost insolently.

  “No,” she said. “I am not the Jerome girl. I am Sara Bishop.”

  9

  Even on a bright day the vast Renwick dining room was a gloomy place. Dark wood paneled the walls, and the furniture too was dark, reflecting no color or light. Judith stood before the sideboard arranging roses in a silver bowl. Sara was helping her. Sara, Judith had found, had a way with flowers, and she had asked her to do the centerpiece. In the doorway Nicholas Renwick stood watching them. As always his lean face had a faintly saturnine look about it.

  Judith was giving a dinner party tonight. As Nick had commented, “Another one!” Whenever it was possible he avoided these social affairs. But Geneva would be coming this time so he had to put in an appearance.

  “Don’t you ever get tired of social rounds?” Nick asked his sister.

  Judith shrugged, not looking up as she clipped the stems of the roses. “Ritchie enjoys them. And we owe so many dinners because of invitations we’ve accepted. Besides, what else is there to do?”

  “A very good question,” Nick said and he sounded so irritable that Sara glanced at him in surprise.

  Nick had always seemed to her an equable, good-natured person. This afternoon at the office he had come out to placate Miss Varady without becoming annoyed or toadying to her. Ritchie had stayed in his office to avoid her. But Nick had explained calmly that Mr. Merkel had been called away unexpectedly. He himself would be glad to go over Miss Varady’s business in Mr. Merkel’s place. Hester Varady looked at Nick as if she had never seen him before and remarked coldly that she preferred to do business only with the firm’s senior partner. Nick walked to the door with her, his
dignity unshaken, and Sara had felt quite proud of him. She had not particularly liked it when Ritchie had put his head out the door of his office when he was sure Miss Varady was gone and remarked that the lady was an old harridan.

  Sara managed to get little done the rest of the afternoon. She was keyed to a high pitch of excitement, and there seemed to be no way to let off steam.

  It had been frustrating to have Nick come out of his office at the very moment when she had made her dramatic announcement to Miss Varady. He had not heard her and Hester Varady had not so much as blinked her heavy-lidded eyes. She had looked at Sara as if the name “Bishop” meant no more to her than “Smith.” She had said, “Indeed?” and turned at once to Nick as he came toward her. And she had not glanced at Sara again when she left the office.

  Just the same, thought Sara, arranging pink and white phlox in a low white wedgewood dish, Miss Varady had known who she was. She would not have asked a complete stranger to stand up for inspection. And she had used the name “Jerome” with knowledge. But what her conclusions had been there was no way of telling.

  Judith stood off to get the effect of the roses she had prepared for the piano in the drawing room. “Just what would you suggest instead of parties?” she asked her brother.

  “I suppose that requires no answer,” Nick said. “I doubt that anyone in this house will take up my drastic solutions. Except perhaps Sara.” He threw her a half-amused look. “Sara at least is always ready for something new—such as running off to interview firemen.”

  “Did you do that, Sara?” Judith asked.

  “I suppose Allison has told on me,” said Sara.

  “With a great deal of admiration,” Nick admitted. “She has been coaxing me to take her down to the same firehouse ever since.”

  Judith sucked at a finger she had pricked. “And what did you learn. Sara, talking to your fireman?”

  Sara leaned over the long, damask-covered table to set her centerpiece in place. The shades of pink and white went well with the silver.

  “He’s not my fireman,” she said. “I came on him just after the engines had gone out to a fire. I wanted to see the fire too, but he discouraged me. Since he was ready to talk, I stayed a while. He says San Francisco is considered a very bad insurance risk.”

  “A sound opinion indeed,” said Nick. “I’d hate to think what would happen to Renwick and Merkel if the city went up in another blaze. That’s why we charge high rates.”

  “Well, let’s not have a fire tonight,” Judith murmured. “It would spoil my party. Thank you, Sara. The flowers look lovely. Now I’ll have to hurry if I’m to bathe and dress and be ready in time.”

  She went out of the room with her usual grace, not hurrying in the least. Nick stared at the beautifully laid table with its candlesticks ready, its silver and napery and crystal shining, and drew down his brows in a frown.

  “Sometimes I think it would be fun to take hold of a corner of that cloth and just walk off, holding onto it. A most satisfactory mess it would make. Don’t you think so, Sara?”

  Sara felt shocked and a little troubled. Nicholas Renwick was the one strong center about which this household revolved. The rest of them might do foolish things—except Judith, of course—but Nick was serious and sound and clear-sighted. He worked hard in the insurance office, as Ritchie did not, and he didn’t go around with impossible dreams in his eyes. Guiltily she darted away from this faint disloyalty to Ritchie.

  Nick laughed at her expression. “Don’t look so astonished, Sara Jerome. Have you never wanted to make a really fine mess of things? Have you never felt it would be gratifying to stop doing what you’re supposed to do and do what nobody ever expected you to?”

  “I don’t know,” said Sara. “I’m afraid I hardly ever do what I’m supposed to do. I quite often make a mess of things.”

  “At least that might furnish variety,” he said. “Now take Judith and me. We grew up under my father’s rule and neither of us ever managed to squirm out from under his thumb. Don’t misunderstand—I had the greatest admiration and respect for my father, but I’m not sure that I ever loved him. After his death, when I was ready to strike out for myself, sink or swim—circumstances prevented me. So you see I’ve been a pretty tiresome fellow, Sara, always doing what I’m supposed to do, and accomplishing nothing that really matters.”

  The circumstances, Sara knew, had been a houseful of women who needed him. She thought him admirable, not tiresome, but she didn’t know what to say in response. By the faint twinkle in his eyes she judged that he expected no answer.

  “Anyway,” she said, “I don’t want to smash things just for the fun of it. And I can’t imagine you doing that either. Besides, what could be more fun than to go to dinners like this? To dress up as Judith does and talk to clever people who are so rich they can have anything they like. All the clothes and jewels and lovely homes—”

  Nick shook his head. “Wake up, Sara! You’ve got things badly twisted. As a matter of fact, you have more yourself than all this put together.”

  Sara went past him through the door and then turned back. “What have I?” she demanded.

  “Life,” he told her without hesitation. “You’re brimming with it. It’s the thing we all sense when we look at you, Sara. A quality that makes us more than a little envious.”

  She thought this nonsense. What good was it to brim with life when she could do so little living? No, it took money, possessions, position, to make living possible. She was learning that more than ever here in the Renwick house.

  “I haven’t anything,” she said as she went toward the stairs. “I haven’t even one silk taffeta petticoat to my name, while Judith has dozens.”

  Nick laughed out loud and she knew she had sounded like a child again. She did not look back as she ran up the stairs.

  But his voice stopped her at the landing. “Sara—if you want to look down through the balusters tonight I won’t say a word. And you’ll have the second floor all to yourself.”

  She did not answer, hating the fact that he thought her so young. Up to the third floor she hurried and shut herself into her room. Across the bed lay a cambric petticoat—the source of her impatient remark to Nick. She had sat up late last night sewing a false border of taffeta clumsily around the hem in a dust ruffle that she hoped would make her rustle silkenly like Judith. Now she picked up the skirt and tossed it into her wardrobe closet to get it out of sight. She didn’t want a single ruffle. She wanted a whole dozen rustling taffeta petticoats of her very own. Or at least she wanted to believe that was her desire. The things Nick had said were confusing, and she did not want to be unsure, confused.

  That evening, lonelier than ever, she picked up some Bret Harte stories she had found in the library and went to tap on her mother’s door. At home in Chicago they had sometimes spent happy evenings reading aloud to each other. But her mother worked hard in this house—it was so much bigger than the Temples’, and there were so many more matters to supervise that she had been going to bed as early as she could.

  Tonight she had stretched out on her bed and when Sara went in she found her lying there wearily with her eyes closed.

  “Would you like me to read to you for a while?” Sara asked, pulling up a chair beside the bed. “I’ve found some interesting stories in the library.”

  Mrs. Jerome was pleased and Sara settled down in her chair, turning pages to find a story. From downstairs the flurry of guests arriving drifted up to them—the laughter, the high voices of the women, the lower tones of the men, all gay and carefree. Quickly Sara started to read, to shut out the festive sounds with her own voice and the words of the author.

  Her mother listened contentedly and Sara began to relax and enjoy these moments of an interest shared. At length Mrs. Jerome began to drowse and when she fell asleep, Sara returned quietly to her own room.

  Dinner was over by now a
nd she could hear Judith’s music coming from the drawing room. Someone always asked her to play and she always complied. Again it was her usual perfect, emotionless music and tonight it made Sara angry to hear it. She thought with sudden sympathy of Nick’s remark about the mess he would enjoy making of that whole beautiful table. Judith’s music put her own teeth on edge like that and she began to walk nervously back and forth across her room.

  The tap on Sara’s door stopped her restless prowling. Ever since the night Ritchie had come here, she had been half afraid he might return. He must never come in again, of course. Being so close to him that afternoon in the office had been dangerous to the cool head she must keep. She knew Ritchie. He would be willing to have his beautiful Judith and Sara Jerome too, if it could be managed without inconvenience to himself.

  The tap came again, sounding faintly anxious. Ritchie did not rap like that. Besides, Ritchie would be downstairs. He could hardly disappear while his fiancée was playing for their guests.

  Sara opened the door to find Geneva Varady turning away.

  “Oh,” said Geneva, “I’m glad you’re in.”

  Surprised at finding this particular visitor at her door, Sara stood in the doorway staring.

  “May—may I come in?” Geneva asked hesitantly. “I’d rather not have anyone know I’ve come up here.”

  Sara stepped back. “Of course. Do come in. I’ll put some more coal on the fire. I don’t mind the drafts up here the way some people do. We had such cold winters in Chicago.”

  Geneva waited until Sara had closed the door. Then she seated herself in the one straight chair and regarded her clasped hands uncomfortably. Sara glanced about the room in distaste. Its appearance did not matter too much to her, since she regarded it as a temporary station on her journey to something else. But she disliked having Geneva, who bore the Varady name and probably knew great luxury, see how Sara lived in this house.