The Trembling Hills

by Phyllis A. Whitney

  Nick winced as Miss Varady touched a raw place. “And Judith?”

  “She’s in a sort of daze. She stood at the library window most of the night watching the fire as if it fascinated her. We all watched it, of course. But not so steadily. And she doesn’t show any emotion about what’s happening.”

  “Poor Judy,” Nick said gently. “It’s time she came to life. Though I’m not quite sure what will happen when she does.”

  It was the first time Sara had ever heard him use the nickname and it did not seem to suit the magnificent Judith. She went on to tell him about Allison and how keyed up with excitement she had grown. Her chief concern had been for Comstock, who had proved himself quite a handful.

  Nick listened without comment and when she had finished Sara got restlessly up from the table.

  “Aunt Hester, I’m going to the front windows to see what is happening outside.”

  Her aunt made no objection. Sara crossed the hall to the drawing room, where hot red light now glowed behind the draperies. How close the fire was! It seemed impossible that this house could escape. She was aware of tall gilt-framed mirrors reflecting light and shadow, and of Consuelo’s picture watching calmly from above the mantel. The picture was askew, a mirror was cracked and there were bits of plaster strewn across the carpet.

  Before Sara could part the draperies to look out, the explosion came. The flash was brilliant and the house rocked with the impact, echoed with the crash of sound. Draperies billowed as if in a gale and if the windows hadn’t been open the glass would all have blown to bits. As it was, glass crashed about Sara’s feet from the window nearest her and she jumped back, glad of long skirts which saved her from the jagged slivers. Almost at once debris began to rain on the roof, clatter against the wall of the house.

  Nick came into the room quickly and Miss Varady followed him. They stood at the windows, watching the sea of flame lapping the very shores of Van Ness, with only dynamited ruins standing black against it.

  From behind vines shriveling now in the heat, they could look without being seen. But they could not stand at the windows for long. It was as if a gigantic furnace door had been opened and its breath blew heat that fairly scorched the skin. Yet the house did not burst spontaneously into flame, and back within its dim hallways and rooms it was cool by comparison.

  No one came to see if the house was empty, and after a while Nick lay down wearily in the library and went to sleep. Miss Varady moved restlessly from window to window about the house, upstairs and down, watching for fire within as well as without. Ah Foong kept his own alert vigil. Sara at length fell asleep with her head on the dining-room table.

  In a few hours Nick was up again, this time to work with the fighters who held the line, in spite of his burned hands. Ritchie was out there too. All that long day and into the night the struggle continued. Now and then Ah Foong went out to gather news and see what was happening to the rest of the town. He climbed to Lafayette Square and located the Renwick family. From the vantage point of that height he watched the mansions burning like great torches on Nob Hill. Sara and Miss Varady had spread mattresses on the floor in the dining room and they wakened quickly when Ah Foong came to tell them what was happening.

  The fire was eating all Nob Hill and blowing toward Russian and even Telegraph Hills. But the change of wind was a blessing for Van Ness. The fire had turned back, and was rolling like a juggernaut upon all it had missed before.

  By morning it was certain that the western boundary would hold. There could be no return of the fire, for there was nothing left to burn. At least a part of Chief Sullivan’s plan had saved what remained of the city.

  Paint on the houses on the western side of Van Ness had bubbled and scorched into odd patterns. Cinders and char lay everywhere and the wind stirred clouds of brick dust. A canopy of yellow smoke lay over smouldering ruins that would be long in cooling, and there was no air to breathe that was free of the smell of smoke. Now refugees who still had homes in the evacuated section began to return. Their number was tiny compared to the thousands who were homeless.

  Early in the morning of the third day Ritchie brought the Renwicks back to Miss Varady’s and they trooped down the hill with him, looking untidy, dirty, and thoroughly weary. Miss Varady held a council at the long table in the dining room. She had changed from her green gown to one of rich purple and there was nothing about her to indicate that she had been through a major disaster. She ruled at the head of the table, disregarding debris and cracked plaster. Sara was placed at her right, as she waited for the others to join her about the table.

  Mrs. Jerome, white and tired, had greeted Sara with the joy of a mother who had hardly expected to see her child alive again, and Sara’s embrace was equally warm. Now at length Mary Jerome brought herself to step into the same room with Hester Varady.

  Miss Varady gave her a long look and remarked that the years had hardly been kind to her. “You would have fared better if you’d stayed in this house where you belonged,” she told her.

  Sara would have spoken indignantly, but her mother’s hand tightened on her arm, silencing her.

  Mary Jerome did not flinch. “My daughter is still my daughter,” she said with quiet meaning.

  Miss Varady ignored her words and inquired about Nick’s hands. He looked more like himself this morning, with some of yesterday’s grime removed, and his bandages renewed.

  Mrs. Renwick and her plates seemed to have survived the night, and Allison was as lively and keyed up as ever. Too keyed up, Sara thought. When she came into the house she was still lugging Comstock and her wrapped-up plates. But mindful of Miss Varady’s dislike for cats, she set Comstock down in the front hall and he whisked himself off at once on a trip of exploration about the house. Goodness only knew, Sara thought, whose bed he would now turn up on. She hoped it would not be Miss Varady’s.

  Of them all, Ritchie seemed the most flippant. He had come out of his black mood and was quick with mocking words. Sara, appraising him with new eyes, felt that he might at least take disaster seriously. His gaiety had a false ring and he and Judith still seemed to be ignoring each other. Judith was very quiet, taking no part in the discussion, but apparently attentive and no longer dazed.

  Miss Varady led the talk. It was, she said, evident that the fire would now burn itself out across town. It was up to San Francisco to think about the future.

  “We have a tradition,” she said. “We look ahead, not back. And we spend no time bemoaning our losses. You are all welcome to stay in this house for as long as you wish. I have sufficient room and apparently I will not be without servants. Ah Foong has been taking in a few refugees of his own in his cellar quarters and it seems that we will have a full staff of uncles, cousins and nephews.”

  Ritchie laughed and was not abashed when Miss Varady gave him a sharp look.

  “I have already told Ah Foong to get rooms ready upstairs,” she went on. “He and his staff are at work on them now. As soon as they are prepared I will show you to them. On the first day of the fire I sent to Fillmore Street to buy what provisions we could and we are well stocked for the time being. In any event, I fancy that San Francisco will be taken care of. The rest of the world will be sending help. And our own organizations, military and civic, have not collapsed. We can begin to plan at once for the future.”

  Sara had never admired her aunt more. Hester Varady was obviously in full control of the situation and her air of confidence gave assurance to those at the table.

  “We have all lost a great deal,” Miss Varady said. “You, the very house you lived in, all your possessions, and your business offices. I have my house, but many houses I own about town have been burned down. Of course the real estate is always good and if the insurance companies pay up, I will suffer very little. Fortunately many of my investments have been made in the Western Addition, where the income will remain intact. Mr. Renwick, what plans h
ave you to carry on your father’s business?”

  If she had expected to catch Nick unaware, she was disappointed. He sat near his mother and Allison at the far end of the table, with Geneva beside him.

  “Would you consider renting us front-room space in this house for an office?” he asked directly.

  Sara half expected an indignant reply, but apparently Hester Varady could accept the realistic quickly and calmly when she had to.

  “If the library will do for your purpose, yes,” she told Nick. “I fancy that business establishments will be opening now in many an unlikely place. Will your company have the funds to meet your insurance debts, do you think?”

  Nick did not hesitate. “Of course not—if you mean with cash. What company could be ready to meet a disaster like this? Especially since we have no out-of-town affiliates. Nevertheless, I hope we can raise the necessary money, even if it takes every penny the Renwicks have.”

  Mrs. Renwick stared at her son. Judith made no move, but she looked wide awake now and she was watching her brother with new interest. Even Ritchie had sobered.

  “Look here, Nick,” Ritchie said, “I’ve put most of what I have into the business. Do you mean to say—”

  “I mean to say that before the year is out we’ll all be flat broke,” Nick told him. “We’ll be lucky to have a roof over our heads. And it won’t be a Nob Hill roof.”

  Ritchie sank back in his chair, his flippancy gone, looking too stunned for words.

  Judith, however, reached a hand across the table. “Papa left me a considerable amount in my own name, you know, Nick. You can have that of course.”

  Nick gave her a warm smile and covered her hand with his own bandaged one. “Thank you, Judy. And don’t worry. It won’t hurt the Renwick tribe to go to work for a change.”

  “Maybe,” said Allison, “I could sell newspapers. Do they ever have girl newsboys, Nick?”

  Everyone laughed except Hester Varady. Her attention had been suddenly caught by Allison.

  “What did you do with that cat?” she demanded.

  Allison stiffened into a poker of resistance. “I put him down in the hall. He is probably looking at your house.”

  Miss Varady left the table, more disturbed than she had ever seemed since the start of the fire. She went to the sideboard and picked up a padded stick. Then she struck the Chinese gong on the sideboard a firm blow. The sound went booming through the house. While those at the table waited in uneasy silence, Ah Foong came soundlessly into the room.

  “Yes, Missy?” he said.

  “There is a cat in this house,” said Miss Varady. “You are to find the creature at once and put him outside. I will welcome refugees from the fire, but I will not take in a cat.”

  Ah Foong did not so much as blink. He said, “Me go topside, fixee looms. Busy. You no botha. Cat all lite.”

  “What do you mean?” Miss Varady asked sharply.

  Ah Foong went out, paying no further attention. Miss Varady had called him from important duties and he was plainly annoyed. Allison slipped from the table and ran after him into the hall. Sara could hear the child’s questioning tones as she followed Ah Foong upstairs. Apparently she had found an unexpected ally.

  The pinkness of anger tinged Miss Varady’s cheekbones, but she had the good sense to know when she had lost a skirmish. Nevertheless, Sara suspected, she was not one to give up a battle. Comstock would need a strong friend in this house.

  18

  The big master bedroom at one front corner of the house belonged to Hester Varady. Its door was kept carefully closed and so far not even Sara had been invited into its private precincts. Other of the numerous bedrooms on the second and third floors were distributed among the guests. Geneva, Sara found, had her room on the third floor at the rear. A curious arrangement in an empty house with two women rattling around on a floor apiece.

  When their room on the second floor was ready, it was Ah Foong who escorted Sara and her mother upstairs. Mrs. Jerome stopped on the threshold with a cry and drew back.

  “Not this room, Ah Foong. Please put us somewhere else.”

  The Chinese looked at her without expression, his seamy face bland as a moon. “Miss Valady say you stay this place.” And he padded off on further duties.

  Mrs. Jerome glanced unhappily at Sara, then seemed to steel herself to face whatever awaited her within these walls.

  “Was this your room when you lived in this house?” Sara asked gently.

  Her mother nodded. “Your father and I planned this room and bought its furnishings when I came here as a bride. Hester hasn’t changed it. You were born here.”

  Sara linked her arm through her mother’s and they went through the door together. The soft green damask draperies and mossy rug were still lovely, though faded. There was a double bed with green draperies hung from a hoop above the head. The dressing table had folding mirrors, so a lady might see herself from all sides. Earthquake damage had been slight here, and Ah Foong had apparently cleared away most of the evidence.

  For just a moment Mrs. Jerome covered her eyes with her hands. Then she walked to the chaise longue and sat down, while Sara watched her in pity. She could imagine how it must be to return alone to a room which you had long ago shared with someone you loved. This was too painful an experience for her mother to bear.

  Sara moved decisively toward the door. “Wait here, Mama. I’ll go speak to Aunt Hester and ask her to move us somewhere else.”

  But her mother sat up very straight on the edge of the seat. “No! I’m not so weak a woman as that. A night or two in this room won’t hurt me. There’s no need to trouble her now when so many must be settled. Later I’ll ask her myself.”

  Sara moved about the room with the wistful feeling that she had truly come home. This was the place where life had begun for her. A delicate rosewood desk stood out from one wall and above it hung a water color of a San Francisco scene. Sara paused before the picture, studying it. The painting showed the windy corner where Lotta’s Fountain stood. All those buildings must be rubble now. Yet this room had stood intact, waiting.

  “It’s as if the room has been holding its breath all this time,” Sara said softly, “waiting for us to come home.”

  Her mother saw her interest in the water color. “Your father painted that. Perhaps he could have been a real artist, if only he had been willing to work at it. I believed in his talent, even though Hester always belittled it.”

  “Tell me about my father,” Sara said softly. In the past it had always been painful for her mother to talk, but here in this room there might be release in speaking of him.

  Mrs. Jerome lay back in the chair, while Sara went to sit on the floor beside her. Her mother’s fingers touched Sara’s hair, lingered on its dark thickness.

  “You look a little like him,” she said. “Though you’re more striking in appearance, and dark where he was fair. You’re like him in other ways too—you have the same vigor he had. The same gift for being alive. He was always gay and laughed a lot. Sometimes he would make Hester furious by laughing right in her face when she wanted to talk of serious matters.”

  She could almost see him, Sara thought, as her mother went on.

  “Sometimes he could be very tender and kind.” Mrs. Jerome sighed. “I think he never meant to hurt me, but Hester was too strong for him. Perhaps if he had been willing to leave this house and give up the ease with which his aunt surrounded him, we might have had a happy life. Hester didn’t like his schemes for making quick wealth, but she encouraged what I felt were wastrel ways. And she was forever trying to turn him against me. Perhaps she succeeded. When he left without a word, she told me he had been called out of town and would write to me later. But no letter ever came and I knew he was dead. I think she believed so too, though she would never admit it.”

  Sara reached for her mother’s hand and held i
t tightly.

  “He might not have returned for me, Sara, but you meant everything to him. The best thing about him was his love for you. If he had been alive all these years he would sooner or later have tried to reach you. I waited as long as I dared for him to return. Then I took you and ran away one night. I was terribly young then and I had a feeling that she might have prevented my going if she knew what I meant to do. She is capable of going to great lengths to exert her will.”

  The dam had broken now and words poured out. Sara waited, listening with all her being.

  “I took only a few things, left most of our clothes and possessions here. Not even Ah Foong heard me leave. He would have stopped me—because you were Leland’s child and he’d have felt you belonged in this house. He doesn’t always do what Miss Varady says, but he has a strong sense of family. I felt we’d be safe in Chicago, which was my home, though my people were dead. It was in Chicago that I had first met Leland, when he was there on one of his business schemes. There was no way for her to bring me back. Not that she didn’t try. She found out where we were at the Temples’ and wrote to me frequently for several years. She tried everything—threats, flattery, bribery. I remember one letter that came after a long silence which told me all too convincingly how little I could have meant to Leland. It upset me so much that I tore his picture in two and threw it away. As if I could escape from pain by an act of anger.”

  Sara looked up at mention of the picture and her mother nodded.

  “Yes, I remember. When I went back to retrieve the pieces, I knew you had taken them from the wastebasket and mended the picture. I never tried to take it away from you. You had a right to that much of your father if you wanted it.”

  Sara laid her cheek against her mother’s hand, feeling closer to her than ever before. “But why did Aunt Hester keep writing letters?”