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The Trembling Hills

Page 19

by Phyllis A. Whitney


  Ritchie stood with his back to the door, while candlelight sent long shadows up the walls behind him, touched his face and hair with light, softening, gentling. She turned away, not wanting to remember his appeal.

  “How was the opera?” she asked casually.

  “Fine enough, I suppose. Certainly the evening wound up to a grand climax.”

  She sensed a nervous edginess about him, something that was queerly like defiance. He walked to the middle of the room and stood for a moment looking up the shaft into the tower above. Almost, it seemed to Sara, that he was listening. But for what? What was there to hear up there in the windy dark?

  Then he turned, startling her. He reached a hand into his pocket and drew something out, balanced it on his open palm so that she could see. Sara caught the dazzle of a diamond in the candlelight. It was the stone in a ring. She had seen it a good many times on Judith’s third finger.

  “You see what I mean by a climax?” Ritchie said. “We’ve finally had this out. I’m tired of hedging and postponement. I told her we would be married next month, or not at all. You can see her answer.”

  There was a bright excitement in his eyes that Sara knew of old. Pity for him stirred in her. Judith had not brought him happiness after all.

  “I’m sorry,” she said gently.

  He closed his fingers over the ring, returned it to his pocket. “Sorry? Why should you be? And haven’t I come directly to you, now that I’m free? Haven’t you always been my girl, Sara?”

  He came toward her so quickly that she had no chance to move away and his hand was cold beneath the sleeve of her wrapper. For the first time she was frightened, less sure of her own control of the situation.

  “Let me go,” she said. “It’s too late to start over, Ritchie.”

  He almost flung her aside and dropped into a chair, where he sat watching her mockingly. “So that’s the tune you mean to play? But you’re not the stiff-necked sort like Judith. Relax and come talk to me, Sara.”

  The brief pity she’d felt for him had vanished and she remained stiffly where she was.

  “I’ve nothing to say to you, Ritchie. Not now or ever again. There’s nothing you can say that I want to hear. I’m truly sorry about you and Judith. But I can’t believe that you’d turn so quickly from her to me. And I wouldn’t want you if you did.”

  There was satisfaction in speaking the words, in telling him off at last. But the bright kindling in his eyes gave no hint that he understood what she was saying. There was still a strange listening quality about him. Almost as if he waited for something to happen.

  He began to talk quickly, nervously, not troubling to lower his tones. His words were disconnected, as if he paid little attention to what he was saying. He spoke of Caruso’s great voice, and of how wonderfully Fremstad had sung. But Sara knew he was merely uttering words, that he did not really care. And this was even more frightening.

  “Hush,” she whispered. “Don’t talk so loudly. Why have you come here to tell me these things?”

  He laughed at her caution. “Who is there to hear? I remember how soundly your mother sleeps. And Susan’s room is at the other end of the house. There’s no need to whisper. Is there, Sara?”

  There was a tension in him that was dangerous. She must get him out of her room at once. She took a step toward the door, and then she too began to listen. The sound came from the next room and she knew at once what it was.

  Someone in that empty room was opening a window to the cool night air of San Francisco. It could be no one but Nick, again on his night vigil, unable to sleep. She held up her hand to silence Ritchie. When she spoke it was so softly that no one but he could hear.

  “Nick is in the next room. He has just opened a window. You must go downstairs at once before he hears you. Quickly. Don’t make a sound!”

  Ritchie’s laugh had an ugly ring and he made no attempt to hide it. What he said might not be audible in the next room, but the sound of his voice would be.

  “That’s why I’m here,” he said. “I followed him upstairs, though he doesn’t know that. The time I kissed you in the office was an accident. It was a rebound from Judith’s coolness. I hadn’t planned for his interruption. But it gave me an idea, if ever I chose to use it.”

  She wondered if he had gone completely mad. “What are you talking about? You must leave quickly before he finds you here!”

  Because she was pulling at him, he rose from the chair, but in the candlelight she saw his kindled elation and he made no step toward the door.

  “That’s exactly what I want!” he cried. “Let him find me here. Let’s see what the mighty Nicholas Renwick can make of that. Let’s see what sort of fine scene he will make. Let’s see how his sister will feel about this!”

  Sara could only stare at him in dismay. His purpose made no sense, but his hatred of Nick was plain. Something else was plain too. Not for an instant was he considering her in any of this. She was an instrument for some twisted purpose of his own and it did not matter to him what harm might come to her from the scene he promised.

  It was a chilling thing to see him like this—in the harsh light of a man completely centered in himself. No, not a man—a heedless boy who would not grow up.

  He reached out to grasp her arm again and she struck him sharply across the face.

  “Get out!” she told him rigidly. “Go back to your own room and don’t make a sound on the way.”

  The slap startled him and he looked at her in genuine alarm, moved toward the door.

  “But Nick—” he began, making one last try.

  “If he has heard you, I will deal with him.”

  She pulled open the door and stood watching as Ritchie went toward the stairs. Once he looked back at her, but her will commanded and he continued on his way. She did not move until she heard the soft closing of his door downstairs. Only then did she turn her head and look toward the shadows of the other door.

  Nick stood there, watching her. When he knew that she saw him he crossed the hall and pushed her unceremoniously back into her own room, came after her and closed the door behind him. In the candlelight she could see once more the contempt in his eyes, but increased now a hundredfold.

  “You heard me and sent him away, didn’t you? But not soon enough. How many times has he come here?” Nick’s tone was quiet, knife-edged. “No—don’t trouble to lie. You’ll do that skillfully, I’m sure. I have only one thing to say to you. No word of this is to reach Judith. I will deal with Ritchie myself. As for you—tomorrow morning, this morning—you pack your things and leave. And I wish I could send Ritchie after you.”

  She could feel the trembling run through her as she faced him. In this unwelcome moment the truth she had not seen flashed upon her. It was not Ritchie and a childhood love that mattered to her. It was Nicholas Renwick. Nick—who held her only in contempt.

  Shaken by the realization, she floundered for something to say. “Judith has broken her engagement to Ritchie only tonight. He—he told me just now—”

  “So you’ve achieved your aim! I hope it gives you satisfaction.” He turned from her and the doorknob squealed as he wrenched it, but he steadied the door and did not slam it as he went out.

  He made no sound crossing the hallway. Sara stood where she was for a long moment, staring dazedly at the dark panel of the door. She felt stunned with shock, unable to comprehend what had happened. Now there was no feeling in her, nothing. Had she held her hand above the candle flame she would have felt no pain, she thought. Once, she recalled wryly, she had enjoyed a slight bitter flavor. But now bitterness lay in her mouth, in her very spirit, and when she came to life again she would have to taste it, swallow it.

  Because there was nowhere else to go she closed the door and turned toward the bed. In the middle of it sat Comstock, calmly washing his face. Comstock looked well with candlelight shining in hi
s yellow eyes.

  It was the presence of the cat that released hysteria in Sara. She flung herself upon the bed and sobbed with laughter, not troubling to stifle the sound against her pillow. There was no one to hear now. No one but Comstock. And Comstock had seen young hysterical females before. He drew himself out of the hollow which his big body had made in the covers and arched his back languidly, unimpressed by this outburst. After a long stretch to the tip of his forepaws, he came to sit beside her and began to wash her cheek with his sandpaper tongue. Comstock, the gayest Lothario on all Nob Hill, was happiest when he could mother some benighted human female.

  The rasping touch of his tongue quieted Sara. She reached out and pulled the big cat close to her. She was crying now, but softly, and she no longer wanted to laugh. It was still not possible to understand all the facets of what had happened, but she knew that she had lost something forever tonight. Perhaps she had lost two things. First, the dream-Ritchie whom she had loved for so long and could never love again. Though now the fading of a dream seemed not to matter as it had before.

  Far more important was the loss of Nick’s respect and liking, the loss of friendship which had grown up between them. There were times, she knew, when Nick had liked her warmly. But he would not again understand and forgive. And this was the deepest loss of all.

  Comstock purred steadily and the sound was soporific. He stood guard over her while she slept, and took care not to disturb her. Not until a little after five in the morning, when daylight was pressing against the windows, did he stir uneasily.

  16

  Sara sat up in bed at the touch of Comstock’s paw, sharply, clearly awake. The look of the sky against her windows was somehow terrifying. It was steel-blue in the dawn, glittering. If you tapped it with a metal rod it would surely ring. The utter quiet was ominous. It seemed the quiet that must surely precede chaos.

  She had a few minutes in which to think of getting out of bed and going to her mother’s room. But it was too early to waken her mother for a foolish whim. At least she could get up and start the fire, begin to dress. Painful realization swept back upon her. This was the morning when she must pack and leave the Renwick house. Whether Miss Hester Varady liked it or not, she would have to take her niece without further delay. And that meant Sara would have to tell her mother. This would be a difficult day.

  She had just pushed back the covers in order to get out of bed when the underground roaring began and the room commenced to shake. The sound was like express trains tearing at full speed through the earth beneath her feet. The room rocked so that she was flung across the bed. As if waves rolled beneath it, the floor moved and the furniture danced about. All through the house there was a multitude of crashings. In the tower a vast shattering of glass sent jagged bits down the stair shaft. And all the while the rocking and roaring of the earth went on. Once or twice it lessened, only to commence again.

  Sara and Comstock clung together, the cat yowling in terror. The underground monster would surely have its way, Sara thought; the entire Renwick mansion would be swallowed by the earth. Nothing could withstand this force that shook the world.

  The span was only seconds—forty-eight, she learned later, but it seemed a lifetime. The final crash of a falling chimney, shattering against the roof near her windows, was merely one more noise in a disintegrating world.

  Then the movement stopped. Vibration and sound ceased. From the ceiling across the room a great path of plaster slithered down the wall and crumbled into bits while Sara watched it. This time Comstock leaped spitting and snarling out of the bed and landed in the middle of the floor, every hair abristle. Only later did Sara find how badly he had scratched her arms.

  She sat up and put on her slippers, because that was the thing you did when you got out of bed. Her clock lay face down on the floor, its face broken. The hands had stopped a little after thirteen minutes past five. This, Sara thought, must have been one of those real shakes that Allison had spoken of. She must go at once and see about her mother and how the rest of the house had fared. But when she tried to pull open her door it would not budge. It wasn’t locked—she tried the key and it turned easily. Somehow the frame had jammed and though she threw herself against the paneling, while Comstock watched her, mewing, she could not jar it loose.

  After a moment of fright at the discovery that she was trapped, Sara quieted. Surely if the house had come through a shaking like this, it could survive anything. Sooner or later she would be remembered and rescued. Perhaps if she climbed to the tower she could call to someone in the street. Besides, she wanted to see what had happened to San Francisco.

  As she turned to the stair, Comstock’s yowls at the door grew louder, more protesting. He had other responsibilities in this house, he wanted her to know.

  “I’m sure Allison is all right,” Sara told him. “We’ll both have to wait a while to get out.”

  She climbed the narrow stair to the tower. It was a cold, clear morning, without wind. She still wore her wrapper and she turned the collar up about her throat, stepped gingerly over broken glass. Every window up here had shattered, but the tower stood intact. She looked out toward the south upon a city curiously changed. Where there had been chimneys and spires, many were gone. Here and there walls had collapsed outward, or a roof had caved in. Over everything a thin dust was rising, engulfing the city even as she watched, like a peculiar, choking fog.

  Yet most of San Francisco seemed to be standing, unharmed except for those chimneys and steeples. The business district stood as usual. Sara waited and as the dust cloud lifted, she could see the town again. Everyone was in the streets now. As far as she could see pavements were black with people who had rushed outdoors. In front of the Renwick mansion several had gathered. She saw Ritchie with a dressing gown flung over his night clothes, and Judith shivering in a lacy negligee. There was Allison in a long nightgown, jumping up and down while her mother sought to quiet her. Susan came running out sobbing, and no one told her to stop. Only Nick and her mother were missing. Had they been hurt?

  She called down to the others in sudden alarm. “Have you seen my mother? And where is Nick?”

  They all tipped their heads back and stared at her, like dolls pulled by a string.

  “Nick went to find your mother and you,” Mrs. Renwick shouted. “You’d better come down from that tower, Sara. There’s no telling what may happen if there’s another shake.”

  Allison began to scream that she must go inside for Comstock.

  “Comstock’s all right—he’s with me,” Sara assured her. “But my door’s jammed and we’ll have to wait for Nick.”

  Those in the street ceased craning at her and Sara felt strangely remote in her high tower. An enchantment lay about her through which reality could not for the moment penetrate. What was happening seemed distant, as if it did not affect her.

  To the south, beyond Market Street, a dozen or more wisps of smoke were drifting skyward. Sara remembered the young fireman’s words: “There’s always fires after a quake.” It looked as if the fire department would have its work cut out for it this morning. Undoubtedly fires had already been lit in the shacks south of Market. Probably stoves and lamps had been knocked over. People there rose earlier than they did on Nob Hill.

  From the room below she heard a sudden pounding, heard her mother’s voice calling her name. Quickly she went downstairs and tried the door again.

  “I can’t get it open,” she called to her mother. “But I’m not hurt. Are you alright?”

  It was Nick’s voice that answered her. “She’s perfectly all right. I’ll find some tools and get you out of there.”

  Sara looked at the distraught Comstock. “We’ll have to be patient,” she told him.

  At least this would give her an opportunity to dress more suitably than those who had rushed out in the streets. She put on her gray traveling suit and even her gray hat and veil. Then
she pulled her suitcase from beneath the bed and began to pack methodically, calmly. This was the day when she must move to Hester Varady’s, and she would not give Nick a chance to mention it again.

  A slow, dull ache began in her at the thought of him, and she turned her mind quickly to other things in order to shut it out. Her trunk would have to be sent later, but she could take the more important things now. She packed Consuelo’s Spanish comb, put in her father’s picture, her toilet articles and some wearing apparel.

  It helped to keep busy. She was glad of any distraction that kept her from really thinking, from living over what had happened during the night.

  Nick was working on the door now, using a metal instrument. Comstock moved back a little, but continued to give mewing advice.

  When Sara had packed she climbed again to the tower. From Nob Hill down to the valley of Market Street, people gathered fearfully in clumps outdoors. But the Renwicks seemed to have gone to dress in warmer clothes. The fires in the distance looked more serious than they had before. In fact, some of them seemed to have combined and she could see spurts of flame. How lucky that there was no wind. She wondered if Chief Sullivan would have to follow his plan to make a stand at Market Street. But surely not. Every fire engine in the city must be at work by now, and the fires would soon be under control.

  In the room below the door burst open with a bang and her mother called to her anxiously.

  “I’m coming,” Sara said and managed the stairs again.

  Comstock had vanished and Nick Renwick was picking up his tools. He gave her no more than a glance and a cool good morning. She fancied that if her mother had not been there he might not have spoken to her at all.

  “Why—you’ve packed your suitcase,” Mary Jerome said.

 

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