The Trembling Hills

by Phyllis A. Whitney

  “See it through?” Sara was startled.

  “Dream it through. Live through whatever was about to happen. Then perhaps you could be free of it. Have you any knowledge that might help you to the meaning of your dream?”

  “No.” Sara shook her head, shivering again. “None at all.”

  “Do you know what brings it on again?”

  It was surprising to have someone consider her dream in so quiet and objective a manner. Surprising and somehow reassuring. When she considered, she knew what had made her dream tonight. She had visited the house of the dream. But she could not tell Nick that, so she said nothing.

  He knelt before the fire, put fresh fuel on the red coals, speaking to her over his shoulder.

  “Perhaps something frightening happened to you as a child. Something that terrified you so that you put it out of your consciousness, refused to remember it. I’ve read of such things. Yet the knowledge of what happened is still there in you, and until you face it again, it will always torment you.”

  She sipped her milk, nibbled at a cracker, and watched him kneeling before the fire. She was beginning to feel a little sleepy and she could not entirely comprehend what he was saying. But how wise he was. And how kind, how gentle. She could not remember that she had ever before known a truly kind man. Women could be kind, but never men. Ritchie had his gentle moments, but there was little of kindness in him now. Nick was someone to trust and lean upon. He would always be fair. She could imagine him angry, but he would never be cruel.

  “What sort of food does Allison think you are like?” she asked drowsily.

  He looked around at her, startled. Then he chuckled. “You mean that game she plays of likening everyone to some sort of food?”

  Sara nodded. “She has done us all. Everyone but you. I want to know what she picked for you.”

  “I shan’t tell you,” he said, still smiling. “It was too uncomplimentary. What did she choose for you?”

  “I won’t tell either,” said Sara.

  He finished with the fire and turned about to sit crosslegged on the hearthrug, looking up at her. “I’ve wanted to thank you for your kindness to Allison. You’ve given her a bit of pride in herself that she has never shown before. She’s turning from a hoyden into a young lady. And she’s not nearly so prickly as she used to be.”

  “I like her,” Sara said.

  “I have the feeling,” Nick went on, “that of all the Renwicks, it’s Allison who matters most. Mother no longer wants anything but ease and pleasure. I can’t blame her after those years of patterning herself to Father’s slightest whim. She deserves to do as she likes. But she has lost touch with Allison. Judith I’m concerned about. I’m not at all sure of this marriage to Ritchie. I hope she is sure of it.”

  “There’s you,” Sara said softly. “You matter. You matter to all the others.”

  He did not look at her. “I matter least of all. I managed to be born in the wrong age. What do I do with my life that counts? I play harder at the insurance business than Ritchie does, but it’s still play. There’s nothing to stretch me out, or make real demands on me. Allison has more than all of us put together. If she finds a direction, she’ll make something of her life.”

  Sympathy for him and a glimmer of understanding began to grow in Sara. A sense too of confidence in Nick. He was a person who might listen; someone she could trust.

  “Ritchie could have had a direction.” She roused herself from drowsiness, sat up in her chair so that she could watch the black skyline of coals in the fire. Coals with shapes that reminded her of the buildings Ritchie had wanted to create.

  Nick listened, saying nothing.

  “Has he ever shown you any of the plans he’s made on paper?” Sara asked. “Why hasn’t he gone on with his work in architecture? Why is he in insurance when he cares nothing at all about it?”

  “The answer’s simple enough,” Nick said. “Ritchie would have had to work to become an architect. His plans are impractical. Insurance rates are too high in this town for the sort of buildings he wants to raise. We have to remember that San Francisco is built mainly of wood and that when there is a fire wood burns. His expensive buildings would be hemmed in by the inflammable. They would go too. No, there’s too much for Ritchie to battle here. He went into insurance because it was easy, because he can continue to be a playboy and do no real work. He’s a dreamer, not a worker. Don’t you see that, Sara?”

  Now she doubted her wisdom in speaking to Nick. He had not, after all, the perception to see the truth.

  “You don’t understand Ritchie,” she said. “He needs others to believe in him and encourage him. He only pretends the self-confidence he puts on. I know what he could do if only he had the chance.”

  Nick was looking at her oddly now, in some surprise, and she settled back in her chair, pulled the colored squares of the afghan about her. She had said too much, let too much of her own emotion creep into her words. She had forgotten that Nicholas Renwick was Judith’s brother.

  “Like the rest of us who fail,” Nick went on quietly, “Ritchie needs to make his own chances. And I’m afraid he’ll never do that. I’ve never been happy about his engagement to my sister. You seem to think quite a lot of him, Sara.”

  She nodded, on guard now, wary. “We grew up together. I’ve known him all my life.” She yawned widely. “I do believe I’m getting sleepy again.”

  “That’s fine,” he said. “Would you like to go back to your room? If you like, I’ll walk upstairs with you.”

  But that she did not want at all. The thought of the tower waiting above her in the dark, like something ready to pounce, made her shiver again.

  “Please,” she said, “could I stay here? I believe I’ll fall asleep right in this chair. And you needn’t wait. You must get your own sleep. Before daylight I’ll go back to my room. But for now—please, Nick, let me stay.”

  The kindness was back in his eyes. “Of course, Sara. Nothing can hurt you here. I’ll turn off the lamp, so there’ll be just the firelight.”

  She was drowsily aware of him somewhere in the room behind her. He had not gone away. His presence was comforting. The pink glow from the coals flickered on the ceiling. The room held no frightening darkness. She was so warm, so soothed, and sleepy.

  If she dreamed again it was of quiet things. She had no nightmare memory to trouble her when a hand touched her gently awake. The fire had gone out long ago and a faint gray light painted the tall library windows, seeped into the room. Sara looked up into Nick’s face, felt the warmth of his hand on her arm. He had not gone away. He had stayed.

  “It’s dawn, Sara,” he told her. “You must go back to your room now. Then no one need know about your fears during the night.”

  She yawned, stretched to her toes like Comstock. The room was chilly now and she shivered, though no longer from fear. At once Nick wrapped the afghan more tightly about her.

  When she was on her feet, he did not turn her toward the door at once, but led her gently to a long window facing east. Here the hillside dropped steeply away and there was nothing to cut off the view. Sara looked and caught her breath.

  The bay glistened brightly. Over the hills to the east of the sleeping shore towns the sun was coming up. Long pink streamers stained the sky, with a few stray clouds floating black against them. In the west, edging the gray, dissolving the night, were tinges of blue morning.

  Nick stood with one arm about her, holding the afghan in place so she would not be cold. There was no need for words. They watched the sunrise together until it was truly morning and the bay had turned to gold. Then she moved within the shelter of his arm and looked wonderingly up at his face.

  “There’s no way to thank you,” she said softly. She felt the sting of tears in her eyes. She did not know how to meet such kindness.

  He put a hand beneath her chin to tilt her hea
d, and there was tenderness in his eyes.

  “You remind me of the first time I saw you, Sara—kneeling there above the stairs. You have the same look of a little girl this morning. A child who still has her Christmas packages to open. I remember how I wanted to reassure you, so you wouldn’t be disappointed because the wrappings were only tinsel.”

  She moved uneasily from his touch. “I’m not a child and I know about the tinsel.”

  “Do you? When it comes to Ritchie?”

  He had seen too much, yet he was not condemning her as he might have done. He seemed more regretful than critical. But he couldn’t help her. No one could.

  He spoke again before she could slip away from him. “It’s natural, Sara, to be fond of someone you grew up with. But the time comes when you must accept reality, face it.”

  “You don’t need to tell me that!” she cried. “I know it already. I don’t want anyone to feel sorry for me. I— I’m all right!”

  She ran out of the room, not daring to look at him again, for fear she might burst into childish tears.

  12

  March seemed a monotonous month to Sara. There was no return of her odd moment of companionship with Nick. He was friendly when he met her about the house, businesslike at the office. But there was no hint that he remembered that night in the library. Nor did he again offer his counsel or sympathy. And that was the way she wanted it.

  She tried to avoid Ritchie as much as possible. This was most difficult to do in the office. Now and then she had the experience of catching his eye upon her as if he were puzzled. It would not occur to Ritchie, she thought a little scornfully, that she might be willing to give him up altogether.

  Geneva came and went in the house as usual, but she had not again sought Sara out, and before the others there was no betrayal of the secret that lay between them. In any event, Geneva’s chief interest lay in Nick. She turned love upon him with every look, hung upon his words, glowed in her own quiet way whenever he was present. And Nick showed plainly that he enjoyed her company, was openly fond of her.

  Most tantalizing of all was the fact that no further word came from Hester Varady. Sara, so sure at first that all had gone well that Sunday afternoon, now began to doubt, to look back and question her own behavior. Had she, after all, been wrong to stand up to her aunt? But she knew she could not, would not, do otherwise.

  By now the one satisfying thing about her work at the office was the fact that she could pay something for her room and board out of each week’s salary. The work itself she found tiresome. She couldn’t blame Ritchie for his frequent escapes, for his love of parties and balls, theaters, concerts. She had only the resource of books to take her out of the dull days of her existence. And there was a limit to what could be found in books when her own unquiet emotions cried out for life itself.

  Then, late one morning when Nick stood at her desk giving instructions on a letter, the unexpected happened.

  Neither she nor Nick glanced up when the door to the waiting room opened, though later Sara recalled Miss Dalrymple’s faint gasp. There was a silence while Sara pored over her notes. Then Miss Hester Varady’s voice broke in upon them curtly.

  “I would like some attention, if you please!”

  Sara started and Nick looked around at the woman who stood beside the partition. Miss Dalrymple gaped openly.

  “I’m sorry, Miss Varady,” Nick began, “but Mr. Merkel will not be in until three this afternoon. If there is anything I can do—”

  “There is, indeed,” said Miss Varady. “Will you please release Miss Bishop from her work? I wish to take her to lunch with me.”

  “Miss Bishop?” Nick echoed blankly. “I’m afraid—”

  Miss Varady was obviously enjoying this bit of drama. “Miss Sara Bishop. My niece. You are talking to her, so I presume she is visible to you.”

  Nick seldom looked astonished, but there was obvious surprise in the look he turned upon Sara. She could only nod at him helplessly. At least she had kept her promise to her mother. The truth was not out because of her own doing.

  “Miss Varady is my great-aunt,” she told Nick. “My father’s name was Leland Bishop. Jerome is my mother’s maiden name.”

  Again there was a stifled gasp from Miss Dalrymple.

  “Then why—” Nick began, only to have Miss Varady cut him short again.

  “Come along, Sara, come along. I don’t choose to wait here all day. You can explain matters to Mr. Renwick later.”

  Sara threw Nick a glance of apology and ran to get her hat and wrap. When she returned she saw that Nick looked a bit red. The expression he wore as Sara joined Miss Varady beyond the partition was less kindly than usual. Undoubtedly he considered Sara’s “masquerade” inexcusable. But Nick would have to think what he liked for now. Later she would find an opportunity to explain the true situation. What a hubbub this was going to cause back at the Renwicks’. Sara could hardly wait for evening to come. It was a hubbub she would enjoy. All except the part that concerned her mother.

  The shabby carriage waited outside the door and Miss Varady got into it regally, motioned Sara to the seat beside her.

  “Well? How did you like that?” Aunt Hester asked, sitting up with her usual ramrod stiffness.

  Sara, remembering Nick’s expression, Miss Dalrymple’s stare, laughed out loud. “It was wonderful. And certainly unexpected. I wish Mr. Merkel and Ritchie Temple had been there to hear.”

  The sable bonnet that belonged to an older generation of great ladies nodded in Sara’s direction. “I have decided to acknowledge you as my niece. No more than that, for the moment. I have not made up my mind about you. But I shall be better able to see you if the relationship between us is known.”

  The carriage had turned down Market Street in the direction of the ferry. When it reached Montgomery Sara hardly noticed, being too excited by the possibilities which had suddenly opened before her. Not all of them pleasant.

  “Mama will be fearfully upset,” Sara mused. “I don’t know how I’m going to break this to her. I wish she didn’t mind so much.”

  “I’m sure I don’t care whether she minds or not,” Miss Varady said. “Any arrangements I make which concern you will not necessarily include your mother.”

  Sara stared at her angrily. What sort of daughter did this woman think she was? The time had come to make her own feelings, her own loyalty to her mother entirely clear.

  “My mother and I belong together,” she told her aunt, meeting her look squarely.

  “We’ll see about that when the time comes.” Miss Varady’s tone was tart. “Your mother has no love for me, any more than I have for her. Well, do let’s get out of the carriage. We can’t sit here all day.”

  They would return to the subject later, Sara thought. This autocratic woman was not going to make her back down on this. But now she looked about and saw that they had stopped before the entrance of the Palace Hotel. Above them rose the famous structure, its many bay windows shining in the sunlight.

  “But—I’m not dressed for—” Sara began in dismay.

  “Do stop chattering and get out,” said her aunt. “You are a Varady. You may dress as you please.”

  The doorman ushered them in with a bow and Miss Varady swept royally ahead of her niece into the great court. All around were chairs and tables and a great many potted palms. Columned galleries ran around the court for several stories above, ending in a vaulted, glassed-in roof.

  Miss Varady sniffed as though the scene displeased her. “Once my carriage would have driven into this court. It has been closed in because the noise and fumes of motorcars disturbed the guests in the rooms above. As I should think they would. Come along, Sara, don’t gape like a bumpkin. We’ll go directly to our table in the dining room.”

  Never had Sara stepped into a room so filled with mirrors, with crystal and silver. The linen was shin
ing white and there were flowers on every table. A frightening array of waiters stood about, or carried trays to and fro.

  The head waiter addressed Miss Varady by name and included Sara in his bow. Much was made of the ceremony of ushering such distinguished guests to their table and at once a waiter hovered beside them.

  The menu was printed on a large stiff card and the dishes were for the most part in French. Sara glanced at it fearfully, but her aunt made no pretense of consulting her wishes. She ordered for them both and sent the waiter off at once.

  Miss Varady had been helped out of her wraps and Sara saw that she again wore a rich, old-fashioned gown. This frock was of golden brown gabardine, with touches of burnt orange to lend color and distinction. Whether in style or not, Miss Hester Varady was the best-dressed woman in any room and she carried herself as if well aware of the fact.

  “I love your gowns,” Sara said frankly. “I’m glad you wear what suits you and pay no attention to fashion.”

  “What I choose to wear is the fashion,” said Miss Varady complacently. Nevertheless, she looked pleased.

  If Sara had hoped the conversation would take something of a personal turn during the meal, she was disappointed. Her aunt spoke of San Francisco, of life as it had been in the days when she had lived in her father’s house in South Park, near Rincon Hill—then a fashionable section. All of which was interesting to Sara. But Miss Varady said nothing at all about possible plans for the future, or what moves she might now make, having acknowledged Sara as her niece. Apparently she planned no immediate change. Sara had imagined that she might be asked to give up her work at the insurance office, invited to move at once to her proper place in the Varady house on Van Ness. But none of these things seemed about to happen.

  The meal was rich, but Sara’s appetite was good and she ate with relish, right through to the bombe glacée.

  When the waiter had brought a demitasse of coffee for each of them, Miss Varady opened the old-fashioned reticule she carried and drew out a tissue-wrapped packet.