The Trembling Hills

by Phyllis A. Whitney

  During the week after the fire Judith and Geneva set off for a relief center and spent their day doling out bread and tinned milk, sorting clothing, assisting in the individual problems of those who came for help. Geneva came home at night looking wan, but happy, while Judith seemed to thrive on the work. Sara had intended to go with them, but what Nick needed done was in a sense relief work too, so for the moment she stayed with him.

  Nick had managed to get in touch with Mr. Merkel over in Oakland and the company of Renwick and Merkel, composed of Nick, Mr. Merkel, and an indifferent Ritchie, had taken over Miss Varady’s library to hold a council and prepare for the uncertain future. The moment they announced themselves open for business, Nick said, there would be lines outside the door down Van Ness.

  The city’s newspapers, burned out as they were, had moved temporarily to Oakland, and had missed only one day of publication. On the second day of the fire a joint edition had been printed from Oakland crying the first frightening news of the disaster. Now every edition carried personal items in which separated families tried to get in touch with one another.

  While exact numbers would perhaps never be known, it was beginning to seem that, in spite of the size of the disaster, fewer had died than might be expected. The total was mounting toward five hundred, and perhaps three times that many had been injured.

  During the following weeks help for San Francisco began to pour in from the outside world. The Red Cross had set up relief agencies. Food was arriving by the carload. President Theodore Roosevelt had given a government sum to San Francisco’s ex-Mayor Phelan and this was being wisely administered.

  Already dynamite blasts were heard again, reminding wincing refugees of the days of the fire. But now the explosions were to clear the way for new buildings, or remove dangerously tottering wreckage. The sound of falling walls was common and there was the new invigorating clatter of preparation for building.

  As Miss Varady had prophesied, business firms and professional offices opened wherever they could find space. Van Ness had changed overnight in character from a quiet residential street to one of professional and business activity. Fillmore, unharmed by the fire, boldly claimed itself the future rival of Market Street.

  One day Sara came upon her aunt standing alone in the drawing room, her back to the clatter and dust of the street, staring at the painting of Consuelo Varady where it hung above the fireplace.

  She did not turn when Sara came into the room, but she spoke her thoughts aloud.

  “This is the end of the old life,” she said. “We will never go back. Rincon Hill and South Park were already finished. And now Van Ness is doomed.”

  “Will you move away?” Sara asked. “Will you build elsewhere or buy a new place?”

  Miss Varady held herself proudly erect. “I shall not. I shall stay here until I die. What becomes of the house afterwards will be up to my heir.” She stared at Sara and then changed the subject. “How grubby you look, child. Is that gray suit the only thing you have to wear?”

  Sara glanced down at the suit which had been her pride so short a time before. There was a rent in the skirt, one sleeve had been ripped at the elbow, and there were smudges everywhere. But she answered Aunt Hester cheerfully.

  “Oh, no, I’m rich! I have two extra skirts and three shirtwaists. I had a suitcase packed to leave even before we knew how bad the fire would be.”

  “Leave? Where were you going?”

  “To this house,” Sara admitted. “I couldn’t stay at the Renwicks’ another day.”

  “Why not?” Miss Varady asked. “After all, you’d received no invitation to come here.”

  “I know. But I couldn’t wait any longer. Something had happened.”

  “May I ask what?”

  “I’d rather not talk about it,” Sara said.

  Miss Varady looked annoyed. “As you wish. I’d suggest, however, that you get into something more presentable if you have extra clothes.”

  “I’m saving my fresh things,” Sara said. “I want to find work as soon as I can and I’ll need them. My mother and I don’t want to depend on your generosity any longer than is necessary.”

  What Miss Varady thought of this announcement, Sara could not tell. Her aunt returned to a study of Consuelo with an air that implied dismissal and Sara knew that for the moment the subject was closed.

  By now the household had settled into something of a routine. Several of Ah Foong’s relatives had remained to help out in the increased household. Sara came upon them dusting, polishing, scrubbing, and always Ah Foong was nearby, ready to give shrill directions in his native tongue.

  Sara’s mother continued to occupy the dismal little room at the top of the house. No ghosts had walked, no little white cat had mewed, and she was far happier than she would have been in the luxurious room which she had once occupied as a bride. She did not like their dependence on Miss Varady, however. Sara had promised to find work as soon as she could in this new San Francisco, but so far no such work had offered itself for either of them. Thus Sara had fallen into the regular habit of working with Nick and Mr. Merkel for a few hours every day.

  Her relationship with Nick was for the most part stiff on both sides. He was courteous, but distant, and it was clear that he had neither forgotten nor forgiven. Sara, on her part, stood rigidly upon her dignity and spoke to him only on business matters. The one thing she must conceal at all costs was her true feeling about him.

  The insurance work was both engrossing and heartbreaking. As Nick had been the first to realize, it had ceased to be statistics and had turned into human beings. Sara found her own interest and her emotions engaged and there were times when she almost forgot the unhappy situation between herself and Nick; times when he forgot, too, and they discussed individual problems with an earnest interest that was companionable, even while it had nothing of the personal in it.

  Sometimes Geneva sat in on these discussions, but she had little head for business and was timid about expressing an opinion. Mostly she hunted for Mr. Merkel’s misplaced spectacles, brought in cups of coffee or tea, and spoke soothing words to those who stood in line on the steps waiting for interviews.

  It was far better, Sara found, to be busy than idle. Only in moments when she sat near Nick in the library taking down a record of some interview he might be holding with an unhappy refugee, did she feel truly alive these days. Listening to Nick’s gentleness, as he dealt with the frightened and destitute, hearing the reassurances he uttered, the promises that might mean ruin to him, her eyes sometimes blurred so that she could hardly see the symbols she wrote. He was so good, so very dear. And he was taking the troubles of others onto his own strong shoulders in a way that began to concern her.

  Since Renwick and Merkel could pay nothing for her services, Nick would not allow her to put in the long hours he did, so she still had time to herself to look for work that proved hopelessly elusive. There seemed to be nothing she could do that anyone wanted.

  One evening after dinner she sat before the sectioned mirror at her dressing table and studied her face as if some answer to an epic question might be revealed in her own features. It seemed to her that she was growing into a different girl than the determined young woman who had so heedlessly engineered the move to San Francisco. She was not sure she was any wiser, but she felt older, and it seemed as though the change ought to be visible in her face.

  She was pondering this when Ah Foong came rapping on her door. Miss Varady, he said, wanted her downstairs in the sitting room. She was to come at once.

  Glad enough for a distraction, Sara left her room and hurried after Ah Foong.

  21

  Candles and lamps were now permitted at night in San Francisco and it was hoped that in another month electricity and gas would be available again.

  Hester Varady’s sitting room glowed in the light of several lamps and Mrs. Renwick, Judith,
and Geneva were already there. Miss Varady was not usually given to social gestures, and Sara was somewhat surprised. A moment later Ah Foong had brought Mrs. Jerome from her third-floor room, and the women of the house were all present.

  Geneva seemed pleased and a little excited. She hovered near the door, as if she awaited some signal from her aunt. Hester Varady, gowned tonight in rich cinnamon-brown taffeta, sat at a drop-front desk with pen and paper before her. She had evidently been making some sort of list. She turned in her chair to regard her guests with a disapproving eye.

  “Geneva has suggested this gathering,” she said, “and I believe it is a good idea. I regret to see my house guests looking as shabby as you ladies have unfortunately grown. I realize that unlike Geneva and me, you have lost most of your wardrobe, and she has suggested that I do something about your sad state. Very well, Geneva, bring in the things.”

  Geneva hurried off and returned a moment later, followed by Ah Foong. Each carried over their arms bright heaps of garments which they flung across the pedestaled table in the middle of the room. It looked as if there were clothes enough here to dress an entire household of ladies.

  When Ah Foong had gone, Miss Varady signaled to Geneva and the girl picked up the top garment, shook it out for them to see. There was a strong odor of moth balls. The dress was of good material, but had an old-fashioned bustle.

  “I suppose with the present earthquake fashions,” Judith said doubtfully, “the dress could be worn. And we’ll certainly be grateful for a change, Miss Varady.”

  Sara picked up the frock and held it out at arm’s length. “The bustle doesn’t matter. There’s so much material here that we can take out the stitches and cut a new costume that will be close enough to today’s styles to fool anyone. The waist can be kept almost as it is, with just a bit of remodeling. And all these yards of skirt goods can be used in a new way. I like these rich old-fashioned materials.”

  “Do you mean you could do something to renovate these things, Sara?” Aunt Hester asked.

  “I couldn’t. But I can cut and plan and make patterns, if the rest of you will sew.” She began to be carried away by her own interest. “There isn’t any limit to what can be made from this old stuff. There must be enough here for each of us to have a dress or two, if that’s what you intend, Aunt Hester.”

  Miss Varady tapped the sheet of paper before her. “That is what I have in mind, Sara.”

  Tossing the frock she held back to Geneva, Sara pulled out another dress that caught her eye. It was of watered silk grosgrain in chrome yellow, taffeta lined. The fullness in back fell into trailing folds as Sara held it up for them to see.

  Her mother’s gasp made the others turn. Mrs. Jerome had put a hand before her eyes as if the glowing color of the dress blinded her.

  “What is it?” Sara asked.

  “Perhaps she has recognized the dress,” said Miss Varady dryly.

  Mary Jerome nodded. “Yes. It is one I wore many years ago.”

  Sara turned quickly to her aunt. “Are these Mama’s dresses you are giving us? In that case, don’t you think—”

  Miss Varady did not let her finish. “Your mother didn’t want them. She left them here. And they are not all hers. Most of them go back to an earlier period. My sister Elizabeth was extremely fond of clothes. She never had my taste or much flair for wearing them, but she had a large wardrobe. Too large to be taken with her on a sea voyage. I packed them away against her return. As you know, she and her husband were lost on the ocean. The garments have been carefully protected from moths and light. Most of them should be in excellent condition. You may select the colors you prefer, ladies.”

  There was a considerable flurry while choices were made. Only Sara’s mother held back. When Sara paused in her excitement over this luxury, she saw tears in Mary Jerome’s eyes. Quickly she went to her.

  “If you don’t want your things touched, Mama,” she whispered, “I’ll get them from Aunt Hester. I’m sure everyone will respect your feelings in the matter.”

  Mary Jerome shook her head. “I know I’m being foolish. There is just one dress.. . . That one Miss Renwick is holding now . . .”

  The gown in Judith’s hands was of bright cherry-red corded silk, with a modest décolletage and little red velvet bows on each shoulder. Sara found it difficult to picture her mother as a young girl wearing this dress. But if she wanted it, she should have it.

  “That is a dress Mama was fond of,” Sara said to Judith. “Do you mind if she has it again?”

  Judith would have handed the frock over at once, but Miss Varady spoke with a deliberate malice.

  “I remember that gown very well. A Paris model, it was. One of Leland’s first gifts after he married Mary. It was a dress which required an air to carry it off successfully. I told him he had dressed a wren in peacock’s clothing. And I must say he agreed after he saw her in it. Let’s not be foolish about it again, Mary. If Sara really has a gift for designing, she can plan something quite effective for Miss Renwick using the material and trimmings.”

  Mrs. Jerome sat very straight in her chair. “I don’t want to wear the dress,” she told Miss Varady. “I would merely like to keep it.”

  “We can’t afford foolish sentiment at a time like this,” said Miss Varady shortly. “The dress is yours, Miss Renwick.”

  With quiet dignity Mary Jerome crossed the room to where Judith stood uncertainly with the shining cherry silk in her hands. Gently Mrs. Jerome touched it, her fingers lingering on the bright material. Then she turned and went out of the room without a word for Miss Varady.

  Judith held the dress out to Sara. “Of course your mother must have it.”

  But Miss Varady was too quick for them. She reached out and took the gown into her own hands.

  “I have made my decision,” she said. “When the time comes the dress shall be cut up for Miss Renwick. It no longer belongs to Mary Bishop. She forfeited all right to anything in this house long ago. In fact, Sara, I tolerate her presence only because you are her daughter.”

  Sara held back a surge of anger. Only tonight she had been considering her own growth. Now she must behave quietly and with dignity.

  “Please let my mother have the dress, Aunt Hester,” she said. Miss Varady tossed the dress onto the pile on the table. “Ladies I apologize for this intrusion of a strictly family matter. Please continue with your choices.”

  Sara stood where she was. A trembling had begun in the pit of her stomach. She wanted to strike out at her aunt, to storm and stamp and denounce. But Miss Varady disregarded her completely. She turned back to her list and began to check off items upon it. Sara might have been no more than a naughty child to be ignored.

  Judith and Mrs. Renwick, unaware of the clash of forces beneath the surface, returned in some embarrassment to the frocks. Only Geneva sensed that Sara was shaken by an anger she was trying to control. With her back to Miss Varady, Geneva mouthed words of reassurance that only Sara could understand.

  “Say nothing. Wait. I’ll get the dress for you later.”

  Sara stared at her blindly, without comprehension. She would not permit her mother to be treated in so humiliating a fashion by Hester Varady. With an outward air of calm, in spite of inner trembling, she picked up the dress and walked toward the door with it.

  Her aunt looked up and spoke sharply. “Sara! Come back here at once!”

  Her voice was imperious, commanding. It brooked no disobedience, but Sara did not hesitate. She opened the door and walked out past Ah Foong, who lingered suspiciously close. Up the stairs she went, running now, to release her tension. An angry elation filled her. She had shown Hester Varady that she could not dominate Sara Bishop as she dominated everyone else in her life.

  Mrs. Jerome’s door was closed and Sara tapped on it lightly, slipped inside when her mother answered. Mrs. Jerome lay upon the bed, her face hidden in t
he crook of an arm, and Sara saw her slight shoulders quivering.

  “Look what I’ve brought you!” Sara cried. “You didn’t think I’d stay and let her give it to anyone else, did you?”

  But her mother sat up and looked at Sara almost fiercely. “It’s not just the dress. It’s this house and that dreadful old woman. The only way she can live is to crush everyone around her into obedience. There’s no use fighting her—she always wins. There’s no honor in her, no consideration for honesty or justice. She won’t hesitate to use any weapon that presents itself, so long as she can get her way. Tomorrow I’m going out and look for a room. Then we can leave this house before something terrible happens.”

  “Rooms are the scarcest thing in San Francisco just now,” Sara reminded her. “And we can’t afford to move until I’ve found some sort of work. Besides, that isn’t the way. I won’t run away from her, Mama. I’m not afraid of her and I’m going to stay right here and stand up to her. In the long run I expect that’s the only way to treat her. Look at Ah Foong. I believe he’s the only human being she really has any use for. And he does as he pleases, even when he pretends to obey her.”

  Mrs. Jerome shook her head. “No, Sara. She’ll tear you to pieces if you try to fight her. She’s not only unscrupulous—she’s dangerous. Sometimes I used to think she wasn’t quite sane. She goes a little mad when anyone opposes her.”

  There was no use reasoning with her mother’s feeling about Hester Varady. Sara changed the subject gently.

  “Tell me about the dress,” she said.

  Mrs. Jerome lay back on the pillow, closed her eyes. “I wore it to the opera with Leland. We had a box that night and for once she stayed home. That was before she told your father that the dress was wrong for me. He thought it looked lovely on me. I—I felt almost beautiful that night. And not afraid of San Francisco, or even of Hester Varady. Afterwards, we went to a fine restaurant and he ordered for me from the French menu, and didn’t mind that I’d been around so little. But she was waiting up for us when we got home. She hadn’t known we were going to have an evening out together and she was furious.”