The Trembling Hills

by Phyllis A. Whitney

  She felt no rancor toward him, only a curious detachment. “It doesn’t matter now. Too much has happened since then.”

  “It matters to Nick,” Ritchie said. “He’ll never forgive either of us.”

  It was Sara’s turn to be silent. There was no explanation that could be offered Nick. The truth he would hardly believe.

  Ritchie sighed, sounding less confident now with his guard down. “Has Judith asked for me, Sara?”

  She felt almost sorry for him. “I haven’t heard her ask.”

  He tried to rouse himself, return to his more debonair manner. “Come to think of it—I don’t know why she should.” Then he tried a safer subject. “You should see the way the downtown section looks now, Sara. The buildings that were built of concrete and steel are still standing. Of course they’re burned out inside, so they’re only shells. But they’ve proved the case for themselves. All the trashy tinder that crowded about their feet is gone. It’s as if a giant reached out to give San Francisco a clean start. Now there’ll be a need for the sort of buildings I’ve made a hundred plans for.”

  “On paper,” Sara said.

  “Of course. And the paper has burned. But I have them in my head. I can plan them all again.”

  “But will you?” Sara asked. “Isn’t this the same sort of make-believe you’ve gone in for all your life?”

  He stared in astonishment. Sara Jerome had never spoken to him like this before.

  “Don’t you see, Ritchie?” she went on impatiently. “Judith doesn’t want dreams. Why don’t you wake up?”

  She left him there on the steps, still surprised, and went into the house. Her sudden flare of impatience was for herself as well as for him. She must wake up too. But what was there to substitute for dreams?

  20

  On the Sunday afternoon immediately after the fire, Judith surprised Sara by asking her to come for a walk.

  “I want to stretch my legs,” she said. “And I want to have a look at what has happened to San Francisco. Ritchie and Nick have been all around without hindrance, but they both discourage me when I say I want to see the ruins too. At least, Sara, we can climb to the top of Lafayette Square and have a view of what is left.”

  Sara too longed to stretch her legs and find out for herself what had happened in the fire.

  On the low ground of Van Ness a few of the cheaper jerry-built houses which had crept in lately had suffered serious damage from the earthquake. Some of them had sagged, or had a roof fall in. But the more solid mansions had stood up well, both in the low areas and on the hills to the west. Obviously San Francisco could have recovered from earthquake damage with a laugh and a shrug. It was the fire which had caused the real destruction.

  In the vicinity of California and Franklin the fire had crossed Van Ness and burned down a few blocks of Franklin Street. Otherwise this part of the western section was untouched.

  They climbed to the square and picked their way among refugee camps, skirting tents and blanket-hung enclosures till they reached a vantage point of eucalyptus trees near the top of the hill. There, for the first time, they stopped to look back at the ruins of San Francisco.

  Judith slipped a hand through Sara’s arm and drew in her breath painfully. From Gough Street at their feet the streets ran away in the straight ruled lines that were typical of the city and followed the pattern of plain towns. Up and down the streets went, bowing to not even the steepest hill by going around it. In the blocks between the lines lay nothing but desolation. Rubble, broken bricks, and ruined walls; lone chimneys and the charred sticks of telegraph poles sticking up on all sides like spars and masts, made the scene look like the wreckage of a shipyard. The dome of City Hall had been shattered in the quake, yet the statue representing Liberty still posed upon its pinnacle.

  Downtown the appearance was deceptive. A quick glance seemed to show tall buildings standing as they always had and it was hard to believe they were merely shells. Four square miles of ruins there were—the very heart and beauty of San Francisco.

  Last Sunday had been Easter. A thousand years ago. This morning, shorn of their finery, but of none of their courage, the people of San Francisco had met for church services wherever they could be held. There had been ministers preaching in every square, priests saying mass on the steps of ruined churches, children attending Sunday School beside the flower beds of Golden Gate Park.

  Judith released a long-drawn breath and sat down on a bench. “Well,” she said with a bite in her voice, “there’s a city out there for Ritchie to rebuild. But of course he never will. He uses all his energy to avoid proving himself. If he would use a fraction of what he uses in running away to do what he might be capable of doing—” She broke off with an impatient sound.

  Sara watched her, still feeling removed from all emotion, still uninvolved. You had to want something to be able to feel. And what was there she might dare to want?

  “Perhaps this is your chance to get Ritchie to do what he really could do if he tried,” she said.

  “Do you think I haven’t attempted that before this?” Judith asked. “I had such plans when I promised to marry him. I remember that day when I told you so highhandedly what I could do for Ritchie. And I couldn’t have been more wrong.”

  “Perhaps the time wasn’t right,” said Sara.

  Judith wore the same suit of cornflower blue that she had worn to escape the fire, and it was smudged now, with a long rip in the skirt that she had tried inexpertly to mend. She fingered the rough stitches absently. The old crystal calm behind which she had sheltered was gone and she had not regained it.

  “Why are you talking to me like this, Sara? I thought you wanted Ritchie yourself.”

  Sara shook her head. “That’s over. I don’t believe Ritchie has ever loved anyone as he loves you. Or ever will again. You’re the only one who can help him. Perhaps he’s been through enough now to listen to you.”

  A wind from the bay caught at loose tendrils of Judith’s hair and curled them above her forehead. It was chilly here. They must go down soon. But first there were certain things which must be said. Sara had not planned to say them. Had not, in fact, thought very much ahead. But now the moment was here and the words presented themselves.

  Quietly she told Judith just what Ritchie had done on the eve of the earthquake; how he had planned in his mistaken way to make Judith notice him and perhaps value him more by getting Nick to create a scene.

  Judith listened in surprise. “But how could he possibly think I might love him better under such circumstances? No one could reason that way.”

  “Ritchie could,” Sara said. “He would rather have you angry and hurt, than to have you indifferent toward him as he thinks you are. There must be a sort of emptiness inside Ritchie that he keeps trying to fill. Because if he doesn’t fill it he will be nothing.”

  Judith moved restlessly from the bench. “I’m cold. Let’s go down. I don’t want to talk about Ritchie. That’s over and done with.”

  They walked home in silence. Judith did not speak again until they reached the steps of the Varady house. Then she touched Sara lightly on the arm.

  “Thank you for telling me,” she said.

  Sara followed her silently into the house. Threads had been left dangling and she had tried to tie them up—that was all.

  Perhaps she could find something to read, she thought, and went to the library door. Nick stood beside the long table in the middle of the room sorting out the records and papers he had brought away from the office. His back was toward her and she would have turned away if a mirror across the room had not revealed her presence.

  “Please come in, Sara,” he said curtly.

  Now that she had faced her own feelings about Nick, she did not want to be near him, knowing so well how he felt about her. But before she could turn away, he spoke again and she could only stand there listening, fi
xing her attention on his lean, strong hands as he sorted papers, so that she needn’t watch his face.

  “Everything is in a thorough mess,” he went on more easily. “I’m trying to sort all this correspondence and the rest of the material into alphabetical headings under subject or name. That’s the first step so we can see what we have. Later there will be a good many letters to write. Perhaps Mr. Merkel will bring over a typewriter from Oakland. Of course we can pay you nothing for this work at the moment. But since your aunt is taking care of you, you might be willing to give some time—”

  “I don’t mean to be dependent on Aunt Hester,” Sara said quickly. “I want to find some sort of paying work for myself as soon as I can. But today at least I can help you with this.”

  She went to work on the opposite side of the table. Sometimes Nick talked as he sorted, but it was as if he were thinking out loud, more than speaking to her.

  “It’s a funny thing,” he said. “Always before I’ve regarded insurance as the dullest business in the world. It seemed to require nothing but routine. Now, suddenly, it has stopped being statistics and has turned into people.”

  Sara sorted and said nothing. Nick put a typewritten sheet on the “D” pile and went on.

  “Henry Dawson. I remember him very well. He has an invalid wife. They owned a building on Clay Street and lived on the top floor. I wonder if he got his wife out all right. There was a child too—a bright little boy of eight. They’ve lost everything material they had in the world. Everything but this insurance. And perhaps the records of that have been destroyed in the fire. This letter reminds me of Henry, so we’ll find a way to get him that money.”

  As he spoke Sara could almost see the Dawsons. She glanced at Nick wonderingly.

  “You’ve lost everything too. What about that?”

  A look flashed into his face that she had never seen before. “No, I’ve gained. I’ve learned something. A man is what he is. It’s what he can do with his own two hands and his own brain that matters. Nothing else. In the end that’s all any of us has that can be counted on.”

  Sara went thoughtfully back to her sorting. What Nick had just said made all her longings for position and wealth seem empty, uncertain. But she did not want to be uncertain about all she demanded of life. What was she in herself? What could she become?

  As they worked in silence, Mrs. Renwick wandered into her room, yawning, and stared at the heap of papers spread over the table.

  “Hello, children. I envy you your industry. I am getting bored with my own idle company. When I put my head out a window I find that all San Francisco is pitching in except me. Is there anything useful I can do?”

  “Of course, Mother,” Nick said. “You can help right now if you like.”

  Sara showed her what they were doing and Mrs. Renwick went happily to work.

  In a few moments they had two more visitors. Allison came into the room, propelling ahead of her a fat little girl with plump cheeks, short, pudgy legs, and stringy blond hair that hung down her back in a tangled mat.

  Allison looked doubtful when she spied her mother, as if she would like to retreat. But the other child had a stolid air of not being easily budged. Having been pushed in here, she meant to stay and see what was going on. She regarded the room with round blue eyes.

  “This is Miranda Schultz,” Allison said hesitantly and introduced the three adults. Sara smiled at the plump little girl and Nick nodded to her in a friendly way. Mrs. Renwick stared.

  “My papa,” Miranda began at once, with an air of stating her own importance in the scheme of things, “is in prison.”

  Allison broke in hurriedly. “I think we’d better go look for Comstock now, Miranda.”

  Miranda stayed where she was, waiting for some recognition of her unique position. Nick seemed to have taken her statement in his stride, but Mrs. Renwick was plainly impressed.

  “Does—does Miranda live near here?” she recovered sufficiently to inquire.

  “Right now she lives in Lafayette Square,” Allison said, taking the lead before Miranda, who was a slow starter, could speak. “Mrs. Schultz’s delicatessen store was burned out in the fire. And her mother is afraid there won’t be any insurance money because people in the park are saying that the companies will in—invoke the—the earthquake clause and never pay up.” Allison stopped for breath and looked inquiringly at her brother. “That isn’t true, is it, Nick?”

  “I can’t speak for all companies,” Nick told Miranda gravely. “But I believe most will do their utmost to meet obligations.”

  “There—you see?” said Allison.

  “Mama likes to worry about things,” Miranda said placidly. “Of course she has a great deal to worry about. My papa—”

  With a great show of enthusiasm, Allison waved her hands in a gesture that took in the room. “Look, Miranda! Did you ever see so many books? There are even more here than we had in our house up on Nob Hill.”

  Distracted by Allison’s hand-waving, Miranda looked about, more in puzzlement than in awe. “Who’d ever read so many books?” she asked.

  “I’ll read some of them,” said Allison. “And so will Nick and Sara.”

  “Don’t you like to read, Miranda?” Nick asked.

  “I don’t like to read at all,” said Miranda with conviction.

  “But she likes to listen,” Allison explained quickly. “I’ve been telling her stories and she loves to hear them. Don’t you, Miranda?”

  Miranda agreed, but was not to be outdone. “I can tell stories too. Mama says I’m a little pitcher when it comes to stories. Like the time I told company about the masher my Aunt Agnes—”

  At this point Allison decided on action. She flung her own slight weight upon the firmly planted Miranda, jarred her loose from the spot to which she seemed rooted, and went out of the room, half pulling, half pushing her puzzled friend.

  Mrs. Renwick forgot her sorting. “What are we to do?” she demanded of Nick. “Have you any idea why this child’s father is in prison?”

  “He strangled somebody,” Sara offered. “Miranda feels that it was quite justified. Though the victim didn’t really die.”

  “You’ll have to speak to Allison, Nick,” Mrs. Renwick wailed. “We can’t have her running around with murderers’ children!”

  “I expect Miranda and Allison will be very good for each other,” Nick said.

  Mrs. Renwick threw up her hands. “You’re confusing me terribly. I’m sure there is something extremely unwise here, but you’ve turned me all around.”

  “Don’t worry, Mother.” Nick smiled at her. “One doesn’t inherit a tendency to murder. Allison has never had a satellite before. Let her enjoy the experience while it lasts. And she’ll give Miranda a new experience too.”

  “Very well, Nick. Though I know exactly what William would have said about the matter.” This reminded her of something and she turned to Sara. “Did you find out why Allison was so upset because I didn’t scold her over breaking another plate?”

  Sara nodded. “I can understand how she felt. After all, you did make rather a fuss when the first one was broken. And that gave Allison an exaggerated idea about the importance of those plates. When you actually let her carry them she felt you’d put a real trust in her. Then when it developed that you didn’t mind another one getting broken, all the importance of your trust fell through. I’m afraid that means to Allison that you don’t care about her.”

  “But that’s ridiculous! Allison is more important to me than any plate.”

  “I think you should tell her that,” Sara said.

  She glanced at Nick and was disconcerted to find his dark gaze upon her, grave and puzzled. As if he wanted to thank her for understanding Allison, yet found it hard to believe that good might come from Sara Jerome. Sara flushed and turned hurriedly back to her sorting.

  They worked
on for a while without further talk, and after a time Allison reappeared in the doorway, without Miranda, beckoning to Sara. Her manner was one of exaggerated secrecy and Sara left her task and went into the hall.

  “I’ve found something,” Allison whispered. “Come see, Sara.”

  She led the way cautiously to a door beneath the stairs and pulled it open.

  “Mostly it’s locked with a padlock,” she said. “But somebody left it open this time.”

  The closet was large and deep and there were shelves along the sides. Sara did not find their contents alarming. The rows of phials and bottles and canisters undoubtedly held Aunt Hester’s medical supplies.

  “Miss Varady knows a great deal about medicine and sickness,” Sara said. “She bandaged Nick’s hands when he was burned. This is where she keeps the things she needs for such purposes.”

  “Look!” Allison pointed to a bottle plainly marked with a skull and crossbones. “I’ll bet she poisons people.”

  “Don’t be foolish,” Sara said. “That’s disinfectant. It’s marked that way so no one will make a mistake and drink it.”

  Allison was plainly disappointed at having her discovery fall so flat. She made one more effort to arrest Sara’s attention.

  “Well, then—look at those books! Aren’t they sort of queer? Why should she keep them locked up?”

  “They’re medical books, probably,” Sara said. She looked more closely and saw other titles as well. The collection was certainly on the esoteric side. A volume or two on spiritualism, a book of accounts by people who had seen visions, a short treatise on reincarnation and so on. These hidden titles gave Sara a slightly creepy feeling. She didn’t like to think about Hester Varady sitting alone in this old house reading such queer subjects. They might do odd things to the mind. For Allison’s benefit, however, she shrugged the books aside.

  “Don’t let your imagination run away with you, honey,” she told the child as she closed the door upon books and medicine.

  By Saturday evening, the fourth day after the earthquake, trolley cars, cheered by the populace, had begun to run again on Fillmore Street. And on Monday an overhead trolley was operating on Market. There was still no electricity, no gas, no running water in the houses. But water was available and there was no shortage.