The Trembling Hills

by Phyllis A. Whitney

  Geneva picked up a geranium leaf and sniffed it, trying to hide her confusion. When she spoke again, it was not of Nick.

  “Lately I’ve been concerned about Judith and Ritchie. I know he’s provoked because she won’t set the wedding date. I couldn’t help overhearing them in an argument about it just the other day. I can’t understand why Judith wants to wait.”

  “Perhaps she’s not really in love with him,” Sara said, the old hurt stabbing through her guard.

  “Oh, but I’m sure she is!” Geneva cried. “Though perhaps not as much as I am with Nick.” She dropped the leaf on the floor without noticing. “How strange that I’m saying such things to you, Sara. Do you know—I’ve always been a little afraid of you before.”

  “Afraid of me! But how very foolish!”

  Beside small Geneva, Sara felt herself overly large and clumsy. As if she stood near something so delicate that it might shatter into fragments at the touch of a rough and heedless hand. Moved again by impulse, she touched Geneva’s shoulder lightly, as if she were a child, and bent to kiss her cheek in a sudden fleeting gesture. It was possible to guess the tenderness Nick must feel toward this girl.

  “It’s very nice to have a cousin,” Sara said. “I’ve had no relatives either, except my mother. Will you loan me that book by your Chinese philosopher sometime?”

  Geneva’s eyes thanked her and her laughter tinkled. Geneva did not laugh aloud often, but when she did the sound was like windbells stirring in a breeze.

  “I’ll be happy to loan it to you, Sara. But you’re already strong the way a torrent is strong. I’m only quiet water.”

  Nick’s voice called to Geneva from the hallway, and she smiled at Sara before she went quickly out of the room. For a sober moment Sara looked after her. Geneva was quiet water. But unexpectedly deep. There was in Sara a new stirring—a desire she had never felt before to be somehow more than she was. Not just to have, but to be.

  “What are you mumbling to yourself about?” asked Allison from the doorway, and added nastily, “My, what a tender scene with Geneva just now!”

  The words broke through Sara’s wistful mood and she spoke impatiently without looking around. “When will you learn that it’s bad manners to spy and listen to other people?”

  “I like to be bad-mannered,” said Allison. She came into the room and stepped deliberately on the leaf Geneva had dropped, grinding it into the carpet. “I’ll spy whenever I please.”

  Sara glanced over her shoulder at the girl. “Your left stocking is coming down. And you don’t have to stamp that leaf into the rug.”

  “I know. I just unfastened my stocking so it would slip. I like it that way. Strong like water! I never thought you’d listen to Jenny-Geneva, Sara. I thought you had more sense.”

  “That sounds like jealousy,” said Sara. She eyed her arrangement of bowls and vases without enthusiasm. Proper attention had not been given to this task and the result was not her best.

  Behind her Allison was unexpectedly quiet and Sara glanced around again to see what she was doing. To her surprise, there were tears in the child’s eyes. She had never before seen Allison cry.

  “What is it?” Sara cried in dismay.

  “I’ve had the most horrible day!” Allison gulped. “And now you say I’m j-j-jealous!”

  “I’m sorry,” said Sara more gently. “Tell me what’s happened, honey.”

  “I only wanted to show Bernard one of Mama’s Japanese plates. It was such a little thing to do. And then I—that is, the plate slipped. And—I’m an outcast, I’m never to set foot in Mama’s dining room again!”

  “Begin at the beginning,” said Sara, “and tell me what happened. Why in the world did you touch one of those plates?”

  The story emerged gradually between gulps. The grocer’s boy, long Allison’s ideal, had hardly noticed her until that day with the cigarette. Then he had looked at her in surprise and had even spoken to her. But the next day he had paid no attention again.

  Whereupon Allison had worked out a new scheme. She discovered that if she took some beautiful and valuable object outdoors with her and placed it beside her on the bench near the back door, Bernard would stare at it and say, “What’s that?” Then Allison would weave an elaborate story to which he would actually listen. She had worked this successfully for the last three days. Today she had thought of the valuable plates which her father had brought all the way from Japan and which had probably been eaten from by the Emperor.

  Sara remarked that this detail was doubtful, but Allison said she thought it would interest Bernard and make his eyes pop.

  “You know the way Mama has those plates wired to the rack?” Allison said. “So an earthquake won’t shake them off. Well, this afternoon, while Mama was having her nap, I climbed on the sideboard to get one of them unfastened. And just as it came loose and everything was fine, Jonsey popped in and started to shout at me. He scared me so that I dropped the plate.”

  It had, said Allison sorrowfully, “smashed to smithereens.” It couldn’t even be glued back together. “And Mama acts as though Papa lives up on that shelf with the plates. She even talks to them sometimes. So when she got up from her nap, Jonsey told her and her heart started fluttering like anything. She even cried over the old plate. Though I’ll bet she wouldn’t cry over me! She told me I was incorrigible and I was never to touch anything of hers again. I won’t either. I don’t care if I never see her again. If it weren’t for you and Nick, Sara, I might even run away.”

  Sara found herself at a loss. “I think you’re exaggerating a little,” she soothed. “Your mother will feel better about the plate in a few days. Then everything will be all right again.”

  “Nothing will ever be all right,” said Allison. “Not until I’m grown up. Then I’ll boss everyone and be mean to all the people around me.” Her face puckered again. “Everything was lovely until today. Nick is going to take us to Sutro Heights, Sara. Just you and me. Not old Jenny-Geneva. I made him promise I could have whoever I wanted. We’re going the first bright Sunday.”

  “This is news to me,” said Sara, “but it sounds like fun.”

  “Nothing will be fun ever again.” Allison shook her head gloomily and disappeared to brood by herself in the library.

  Sara went down the hall to Mrs. Renwick’s door and tapped lightly.

  “Come in,” Hilda Renwick called and there was a note of strain in her voice. “Oh, it’s you, Sara? Really, I’m not up to talking to anyone now. Just look at what that child has done!”

  She waved a hand and Sara saw that the gold and red bits of the Japanese plate had been collected in the cover of a chocolate box on the table beside her.

  “You’ve still five plates left,” said Sara, reasonably.

  “But William valued these plates so highly! You’ve no idea the trouble he took to get them safely home from the Orient. He said they were practically museum pieces. Yet he gave them to me. Now the set is ruined.”

  “What about Allison?” Sara asked. “What about how she feels?”

  “The child didn’t care in the least. She was rude and indifferent.”

  “I wonder if she’s really indifferent,” Sara said. “She came to me crying just now.”

  “Of course. She always cries after the milk is spilt. But she will go right ahead and do something equally dreadful next time. I don’t know how to manage her. My other children were never like that.”

  “Anyway,” Sara said, “I thought I ought to tell you that she seems pretty upset about it.”

  Mrs. Renwick wiped her eyes. “I do believe you’re scolding me, just the way Nick does. Please hand me my smelling salts, Sara. There on the table.”

  Sara gave her the small green bottle and went off, feeling that two such different people as Allison and her mother could never come together.

  Things simmered down all aroun
d, however, and while an undercurrent of resentment remained, there was no further open outbreak between Allison and her mother. The household grew accustomed to the revelation about Sara and everything went on as usual. For the time being, Miss Varady made no move at all.

  The first week in April the world was shocked by the news of the most terrible eruption of Mt. Vesuvius in modern times. Everyone talked about the disaster—on the cars, at home, in the office. Why, men and women asked one another in bafflement, did people continue to live knowingly on the slopes of a volcano where they might be blown sky-high at any moment?

  Nick said dryly that it was probably for the same reason that everyone went right on living in San Francisco. The rest of the household assured him, however, that it wasn’t the same thing at all. Earthquakes there had been in San Francisco, and would be again—everything from tremors to good solid shakes. But they could be laughed off and really did very little damage. As for fires—they belonged to the past. The present fire protection was admittedly the best in the country and San Francisco had no need to worry.

  The day after this discussion Sara came back to the office from her lunch hour—she had walked to Portsmouth Square and sat on a bench watching the Chinese children play. She returned to her desk to find an extraordinary bit of construction upon it. The object had been built of white cardboard and she did not see until she picked it up that it was a miniature office building. The tower was unusual—a straight shaft which did not taper at the top, but was nevertheless graceful and uncluttered in line. Sara knew, even before she found the card on her desk, who had made it.

  The card said simply, A tower for Sara.

  This was the sort of thing Ritchie used to do sometimes when she was a little girl, and an old tenderness swept through her. The rest of the staff was still out to lunch, but she had seen Ritchie go into his office a few minutes before. She picked up the little cardboard tower and went to the door of Ritchie’s office. It stood ajar and she entered without knocking.

  “It’s a beautiful tower,” Sara said as Ritchie glanced up. “I can see the way it will look out there on Market Street, making the other buildings seem old-fashioned.”

  Ritchie smiled, but he shook his head. “It was only a bit of make-believe for you, Sara. Because you like towers. You’d have a wonderful view from this one. But you’ll have to pretend you’re seeing it. It’s not for real.”

  “Why not, Ritchie?” she asked earnestly. “Why can’t you make others see how sensible a building like this would be? Why can’t you and Nick build it yourselves?”

  He took the shaft of cardboard out of her hands gently. “Don’t take it so seriously. It’s nothing but a paper dream.”

  His indifference made her impatient. She too knew how to dream, but a dream was no good unless you made it real.

  “Stop dreaming, Ritchie!” she cried. “Do something about this! It’s all there in your mind—but you’ve got to make it real. And you can. Oh, I know you can!”

  A light she remembered from long ago came into his eyes. “All right,” he said. “I’ll stop dreaming.” And before she could move away, he had pulled her into his arms and kissed her in the old sweet way. A lethargy seemed to flow through her body. She wanted only to stay where she was and let her lips quiver into softness under his. Yet in her, too, was some new strength which would not follow the old course, which would not be denied.

  She turned her head from his kiss, put her hands up to push him away. But he moved first and released her abruptly, looking past her with a devil-may-care light in his eyes. She had not heard the door to the adjoining office open, but watching Ritchie she knew with a sinking heart what she would see when she turned her head. Nick Renwick stood in the doorway.

  “That is all for the moment, Miss Bishop,” said Ritchie lightly. His eyes, his mouth, his tone mocked them both.

  Nick said nothing at all. There was a remoteness in him—as if they were two people he did not know, and for whom he had only a cool contempt. He stood there for a moment and then went back to his own office.

  It was the contempt Sara could not bear. The reaction of hot anger shook her. Anger and resentment. Nick had no right to set himself up as a judge, no right to condemn. She stormed into the office after him, stood by his desk as he sat down paying no attention to her.

  “You listen to me, Nicholas Renwick!” she cried.

  Still he said nothing, did not look at her. He picked up a brass paper knife, toying with it idly. His very silence angered her all the more. If he meant to give her no benefit of the doubt, then she might as well accept the guilt he implied and use it as her defense. She no longer cared in the least whether he thought her innocent or guilty. She wanted only to wipe the contemptuous indifference from his face.

  “Perhaps you don’t know that Ritchie belonged to me before your sister ever came to Chicago. If Judith hadn’t met him, I’d be his wife by now. It was what we always planned. I’m the one he loved first of all!”

  Nick looked at her now, and while his mouth was straight and stern, there was a certain compassion for her in his eyes. But he did not speak. She turned away, still shaking with futile anger. Ritchie stood in the doorway, watching in wry amusement. He looked like a young man who attended an entertaining play.

  A sudden recognition of the difference between the two men impressed itself unexpectedly upon Sara. Even now, when he was so coolly remote, so out of reach, there was a sensitive strength in Nick’s lean face. A strength that was wholly lacking in Ritchie. Nick was a man, with a sense of responsibility for his own conduct. Ritchie was a boy with a heedless disregard for the result of his actions. She did not want to realize the difference between them, or rate one above the other. She wanted only to dislike them both.

  Angrily she returned to her own desk. It was just as well that the little cardboard shaft had been left in Ritchie’s office. If it had been within reach she would have ripped it to bits and flung the pieces to the winds of Market Street. She wasn’t sure which man she hated most—Nick or Ritchie.

  14

  The second Sunday of April was the bright day for which Allison had been waiting. The rains would not fully cease until May, but now and then there could be a glorious warm day when all San Francisco poured into trolley cars, carriages, automobiles, and headed for the beaches.

  But on this particular Sunday Allison went into sackcloth and ashes. She was still upset about the incident of the plate and this last straw was, she announced, “The end.” She plastered her bangs back from her forehead with Vaseline, put on an old brown jumper with a tear in it, and let both stockings slip. It was possible that she rubbed her shoes through a flower bed to achieve so scuffed and unpolished a look.

  Sara, breakfasting in the kitchen with her mother, was treated to a display of Allison’s despair before the rest of the family gathered in the breakfast room.

  “Nick says we can’t go to Sutro Heights today, even if the weather is fine. It’s the most beautiful day! I think I shall run away. Or perhaps I shall throw myself out of the tower window.”

  “Don’t behave like a baby,” Sara said, disturbed herself, and without sympathy. “Besides, I don’t want to go anyway.”

  “But you said it would be fun—” Allison wailed.

  “Never mind. I’ve decided against it. And if you have to dress yourself up like a fright, please go away so I needn’t look at you. You’re spoiling my breakfast.”

  Allison, outraged, took herself into the dining room, where she could nibble ahead of time from the buffet and thus show a languid lack of interest in food when the others came down.

  Mrs. Jerome shook her head. “You were too sharp with the child. It really is a disappointment to have her promised holiday taken away. Nicholas Renwick doesn’t usually do things like this. You can at least be kind to her.”

  Sara knew well enough why Nicholas Renwick had changed his mind about th
e outing. Nothing had been said at home about the scene at the office with Ritchie. Nick had put on a pretense of being just as before when others were around. Obviously he wanted to spare his sister knowledge of what had happened. But no such pretense was needed with Sara. He did not ignore her, but his manners remained cool and remote. He would hardly consent to her company on a trip to Sutro Heights.

  During the morning Sara went to church with her mother as usual. When she came home she settled herself boldly in the library, where Nick himself was likely to be. She would not allow him to frighten her away from this one comfortable room that was open to her. She gathered a pile of books on the floor at her feet, usurped Nick’s own chair and began a pretense of reading. Her thoughts, however, went right on whirling about the center of her concern.

  If it was to be like this in the Renwick house, then she would have to resort to Aunt Hester. Surely Miss Varady would not want her niece to be subjected to contemptuous treatment. Perhaps she could now be persuaded to take some step that would free Sara from working in the office, or sleeping one more night under this roof. This very afternoon she would call upon Aunt Hester and make the situation clear.

  She heard Nick when he came in the door, and pretended intense concentration on a page she had already read three times without being aware of its contents. His silence was tantalizing and she knew he was watching her, but she would not look up. Let him order her out of this chair if he wished. She wondered what would happen if she refused to move.

  “Excuse me, Sara,” Nick said. “May I have your attention for a moment?” His tone was courteous, mild. He did not sound as if he wanted to put her forcibly from the room.

  She looked at him, very proud and outwardly calm. Haughty—that’s what she would be.

  “I am listening,” she said.

  It seemed to her that there was a faint quirk at one corner of his mouth, but his tone remained serious as he went on.