The Trembling Hills

by Phyllis A. Whitney

  Sara held her mother’s hand comfortingly.

  Mary went on, remembering. “She was waiting for us in the drawing room, sitting below that portrait of Consuelo the way she likes to do. She is prouder of family than anyone should be. When Leland helped me out of my cape she looked me up and down and asked me how I could possibly wear a dress to which I could do so little justice.”

  Sara’s grasp on her mother’s hand tightened. “What did my father say?”

  “He didn’t say anything. He knew better than to oppose her openly. But he began to look at me through her eyes. I could feel it, and straightaway I turned into a wren. I never wore the dress again. But I kept it in my wardrobe closet and sometimes I used to hide my face against it and live over every detail of that lovely night.”

  For the first time Sara turned in distaste from the memory of her father. If Leland Bishop could do such a thing to so gentle a bride as Mary Jerome must have been—

  Her mother opened her eyes and saw Sara’s expression. “You mustn’t blame him. She made him the way he was when he was too young to help himself.”

  Sara could not excuse Leland Bishop so easily. Something of the cavalier image she had built of her father had begun to crumble in her mind. Sara sat on in thoughtful silence until Mary Jerome turned her head, listening.

  “What was that, Sara?”

  Sara could hear nothing. The evening was fog-filled and Mrs. Jerome had closed her windows against its raw dampness. A vine clattered against the pane, but there was no other sound that she could hear.

  “It was inside the house. It sounded like—like a mewing, Sara.”

  Cold fingers seemed to touch the back of Sara’s neck. The bare little room was suddenly oppressive, as if it held old secrets whose shadow lived on within its walls.

  “Listen!” her mother whispered. “Sara, it’s the little cat! The ghost cat.”

  Now Sara could hear it too. A faint, urgent mewing that seemed to come from anywhere and nowhere. But she did not believe in ghosts and she went to the door and opened it, to listen again. The mewing was more distinct now, and she smiled at her mother.

  “That’s no ghost cat. It’s my friend Comstock. He has a talent for getting into places where he’s not supposed to be.”

  She went into the hall, following the sound. No cat but Comstock mewed so expressively. Undoubtedly he was shut in somewhere and demanding to be let out. The sound came from Geneva’s room, and Geneva was downstairs. Sara went to the door and was about to open it to release the imprisoned Comstock, when she heard someone coming up the stairs.

  The stair carpet muffled footfalls, but the rustle of heavy taffeta was unmistakable. Hester Varady was approaching and it would not do for her to discover Comstock in hiding on the third floor.

  Sara went quickly away from Geneva’s door and started downstairs. If her aunt was looking for her, it might be just as well to face her at once. The two women met at the turn of the stairway on the second-floor landing. Sara knew by Hester’s bright, intense look that she was bent on battle.

  “I wish to have this matter out at once,” said Miss Varady. “I do not propose to be treated disrespectfully in my own house, and by a chit like yourself.”

  Sara felt suddenly unsteady, unsure of herself with that strange, deep-set gaze upon her. She remembered her mother’s words—that sometimes Hester seemed a little mad.

  “Defiance of my word in this house,” her aunt went on, “is something I shall not brook. You picked up that dress and took it to your mother directly against my wishes. Now you will fetch it downstairs and give it to Miss Renwick as I directed.”

  Sara put a hand upon the rail to steady herself. She wanted to drop her gaze, look away from her aunt, but Hester’s eyes held her own, commanded her. In a moment, Sara knew, she would go and do weakly what her aunt directed. It was as if a dark sea were about to close over her head and she could do nothing to save herself.

  On the floor above Comstock had grown impatient again. His mew came plainly through the door, but Miss Varady’s concentration in bending Sara to her will was so great that she did not hear the sound. Its reality, however, released Sara from the spell of Hester Varady’s will. She wrenched her gaze away from her aunt’s, heard the mewing again and spoke quickly, lightly.

  “Aunt Hester, have you ever seen a little white cat walking about up on the third floor? I thought you didn’t like cats, but there’s one there. You can hear it mewing.”

  This was sheer inspiration, and she did not expect it to have so startling an effect. The blood drained from Hester Varady’s face, leaving it parchment-pale, and now there was clearly a little madness in the burning eyes. She took Sara’s wrist in a grip that made the girl gasp with pain.

  “There is no cat!” Hester said. “No cat at all. Do you hear me?” The vise of her hand moved to Sara’s shoulder, shook her roughly. “Never mention a white cat in this house again.”

  For an instant Sara thought her aunt might do her bodily harm. Then Hester raised her head, plainly listening, while Sara winced beneath the pain of her grip. But Comstock chose to be silent now. There was no mewing, nothing. Only the frightened thumping of Sara’s own heart.

  Miss Varady flung her back against the wall of the landing and went downstairs without another word. At least she had been distracted from Sara’s possession of the cherry-red dress.

  Sara stayed where she was for a moment, breathing heavily, truly frightened, as she could never remember having been frightened before, except in her dream. Her legs and arms seemed lead-heavy as she went upstairs again and opened the door of Geneva’s room. Comstock flew out like a streak and vanished downstairs in leaps that hardly touched the steps. However he had come into Geneva’s room, Comstock plainly did not like this house or the smell of Hester Varady’s presence. He would probably return willingly enough to Ah Foong’s cellar now and to pleasant tidbits of fish.

  Sara had no heart for working on those frocks in Miss Varady’s sitting room. Nor had she any wish to return to her big lonely bedroom. Tonight she did not want to be alone. Strangely she’d had no fear of dreaming in this house in the time she had been here. No memories had stirred in her. Not even her sense of recognition of the hallway had returned since she had slept under this roof. But Aunt Hester’s blazing fury had frightened her. It was true that the woman could be dangerous.

  She went to her room only to gather up her night things. Then she carried them upstairs to her mother’s little room.

  “Let me stay here tonight, Mama,” she pleaded. “I—I don’t want to be alone.”

  She did not tell her mother of the meeting on the stairs, and Mrs. Jerome, content with her daughter’s desire to be here, asked no questions.

  When her mother was in bed and the lamp turned off, Sara stood for a few moments looking out the little side window. So heavy was the overgrowth of vines, unshriveled here by the fire, that no curtain was needed. Yet anyone in the room could peer out between fluttering leaves.

  How strangely menacing the fog seemed in this low area. Sara had loved to watch it from the hilltop as it rolled in through the bay in soft billows, engulfing water and shore, enveloping the buildings, one by one. But from this house there was nothing to see. Here one had been enveloped, swallowed.

  There were lights on in the house next door, dimmed by the gauzy gray veil. A length of electric wire between the two houses was strung with droplets of water shining like a strand of beads. The air was clammy cold and smelled dankly of wet ruins.

  Shivering, Sara got into the narrow bed beside her mother. She lay close to her as she had done as a child, gaining comfort from her nearness. For a little while they talked in soft whispers. Desultory talk that followed no pattern.

  “I miss the view we had at the Renwicks’,” Sara said. “I don’t like a house that crouches in a valley as if it had to hide. Someday I want a house with a v
iew of the water and the hills. I like the wind to whistle around my ears.”

  Here the night was quiet, windless, thick with fog. Outside their room lay a strange obscurity in which normal sounds seemed muffled and unnatural.

  “I wish we could lock the door,” Mary Jerome said uneasily. “I think of that every night. If spirits ever do walk in this house, they’ll surely come to this room.”

  Sara dared not let her thoughts follow such a course. She closed her eyes and tried to remember pleasant things. Her mother slept soon enough, quietly, deeply, and Sara lay very still so as not to disturb her.

  The midnight hours ticked by and still Sara lay as if she waited for something. She did not really want to sleep. Sleep might bring her dreams again and she was glad enough to be wakeful. Because she was awake she heard the opening of a door somewhere deep in the house.

  Who would be stirring at this hour and why?

  As one might listen for a second shoe to drop, she waited to hear the door close again. But it did not. Somewhere a door had been opened and left ajar. Why? Because someone had slipped through, not wanting to make the second sound of closing it behind? Or because someone waited in its opening, breathing lightly in the darkness. Waiting. For what?

  Whoever it was had not waited. The footfall in the hall outside their door was light, but Sara, tense with listening, heard it. She stiffened under the covers. She could not see the doorknob when it turned, but she heard its faint squeak. The door opened a crack and a thread of candlelight cut into the dark room.

  As Sara waited, holding her breath, too frightened to move, the thread widened to a ribbon and a hand in a long white sleeve appeared in the opening. A hand which held a candlestick, a tall candle, spear-headed with flame.

  This was the dream again. The glow of candlelight, the hand. But now there was no mirror into which Sara could look, as if into the past. This was real and she was awake. It was impossible to move her frozen body, to make a sound in her tightened throat. Her mother slept on, her breathing slow and steady.

  The dark shadow of the door slowly narrowed, giving way to the glow of light. In the opening stood Hester Varady, a tall figure in her white nightgown. Her hair, long as Sara’s own, hung over her shoulder in a rope-thick braid of iron gray. Her eyes stared, their look senseless, without focus. Sara wanted to cry out, but the muscles of her throat were inflexible bands and she could make no sound.

  What did Hester Varady intend? Had madness finally banished all reason? Had she come here to wreak some punishment on them because they had dared to oppose her?

  With a curious, balanced tread, Hester came into the room. Now her blank eyes seemed to search for something she did not find. The look glided over Sara without recognition, perhaps without knowing she was there, though the candle, held high, lighted the room’s center and sent shadows trembling to the corners.

  With sudden realization, Sara knew that her aunt was asleep. She had come up here walking quietly, steadily, as if with purpose. And she was not awake at all.

  Now something almost frantic seemed to guide this unconscious searching. The woman turned hurriedly, holding the candle to every corner of the small room, as if something might hide there, escaping her. Words came like a rattle from between her lips.

  “Callie! Where are you, Callie? Don’t try to hide from me. Callie, I’ll never let you get away. Answer me, Callie!”

  The rattling mumble was horrible to hear. More dreadful than if Hester had spoken consciously. There was no governing intelligence behind the words. Something had been dredged up out of past depths that could not face consciousness and the light of day. What would happen if Hester wakened suddenly in this room, found Sara staring at her in the quiver of candlelight?

  Before Sara could decide on any move, Ah Foong appeared abruptly in the doorway. He did not glance in Sara’s direction, but put a hand upon Miss Varady’s arm as if he knew exactly what to do. Hester offered no resistance as he led her out of the room.

  Sara watched the light go flickering away through the dark hall. Then, her power of motion recovered, she slipped out of bed and closed the door softly, propped a chair under the knob. Her mother had not stirred and Sara was thankful for that. She crept close to her again in the bed, drawing warmth from her sleeping body. It was a long time before her chill went away.

  Now she knew why Ah Foong slept on a cot outside Miss Varady’s door. The need was not to protect her, but to watch her. Tonight perhaps he had slept too soundly. His mistress must have slipped past him so that he wakened to find her gone. And he had known just where to look for her.

  Sara shivered in the warm bed, remembering the rattling words Hester Varady had spoken. Who was the “Callie” she searched for? And why in this room? Whose spirit was it that haunted this strange house?

  22

  At breakfast the next morning, Ah Foong, without a glance at Sara, announced that Miss Varady was ill. She had a severe headache and would remain in bed today. Mrs. Renwick, who came downstairs to breakfast with the others these days, murmured that it was too bad, but otherwise a faint ripple of relief seemed to flow around the table.

  Sara planned her day with a new sense of freedom. She had not told her mother what had happened in the night, though she had mentioned the name “Callie” to her casually, without result. Her mother had recalled no one of that name and had been puzzled by her inquiry. Sara meant to try the name on others in the household. Ah Foong, for instance, and perhaps Geneva.

  When the breakfast dishes had been cleared away, Sara sought until she found him in the drawing room on his knees, polishing big brass andirons. He ignored her with elaborate unconcern and did not look up until she pulled over a hassock and dropped down beside him. There she could talk to him on his own level, and he had to recognize her presence. He did so wordlessly, with the most guileless of smiles.

  “Does Aunt Hester walk in her sleep very often?” Sara asked directly.

  He did not even blink. Nor did he pause in his busy polishing, though the brass under his cloth already shone.

  “Ah Foong,” Sara said. “I asked you a question. Aunt Hester came to Mama’s room last night walking in her sleep. And you came after her and took her away. Does she do this often?”

  He looked at her again, out of black-currant eyes in a seamy face. “You talkee fool talk,” he said calmly. “Me no savvy.”

  By now she recognized that Ah Foong, when he chose, could put up a wall of obstinacy that was difficult to penetrate.

  “Well then,” she went on, “if you won’t tell me about Aunt Hester, tell me who Callie is. Aunt Hester was calling for someone named Callie. Whom did she mean?”

  The innocent smile stretched his lips again and this time he answered her glibly enough.

  “Callie litty white kitty,” he said. “Velly nice litty white kitty.”

  “A ghost kitty?” Sara asked.

  Ah Foong closed his eyes. “You go ‘way now. You fool ge’l. You talkee fool talk.”

  It was plain that Ah Foong intended to tell her nothing. But now that she had a chance to talk to him without fear of discovery by her aunt, there were other topics she wanted to broach.

  “All right then—we’ll let Callie go for now. Ah Foong, did you know my father when he was a little boy?”

  He looked pleased at the change of subject and nodded willingly. “Him velly fine litty boy. Boy mo’ betta than ge’l. Too solly you mama makee ge’l.”

  Ah Foong gave the handle of the poker a last swipe with his cloth and stood up.

  “Wait, please,” Sara said. “Ah Foong, I know so little about my father. What happened to him in this house? Why did he go away?”

  At once Ah Foong started for the door. “Velly busy, velly busy,” he muttered and would have escaped if Sara had not flung herself after him and caught his blue sleeve in pleading.

  “Tell me about him whe
n he was a little boy, then. Surely you can talk about that.”

  He looked at her for a long moment, small and dignified, old and wise. Then he beckoned to her and went padding through the door. She followed him across the hall, watching his queue swinging jauntily against his blue linen back.

  He led the way into the library, where Nick was already at work writing letters at the big table, his dark brows drawn together in concentration. Mr. Merkel came over from Oakland later these mornings to join him. Probably Ritchie was playing hooky again. Nick did not look up as they came in, and Ah Foong paid no attention to him.

  Quickly the little Chinese brought a stepladder, placed it before the bookshelves in one corner of the room and climbed its few steps. Reaching high, he pulled out several heavy volumes of history and handed them to Sara to hold. Then he dug deep into the hollow where they had been. In a moment he had a wooden cigar box in his hands. This too he handed to Sara, replaced the books and came down the ladder.

  “Sodjers belong you papa,” he said.

  Wonderingly Sara opened the box. Packed in a nest of cotton were a dozen or more tin soldiers. One by one Sara took them out and set them on the library table at the far end from Nick. There were two minor cavalry officers, a number of foot soldiers with muskets on their shoulders, a drummer boy, and a red-coated general on a white horse. The paint had once been bright and the tin shiny. But the little soldiers had obviously fought hard campaigns, marched the years away. Now they were slightly battered, their colors dull.

  Shaking his head, Ah Foong picked up the general. “Him enemy. Him Englis’. No gotchee Amelican boss sodjer now.”

  Sara could see her father more clearly than she had ever seen him before. Not the grown man who had taken his aunt’s side in so unkindly a fashion over Mary’s gown, but a little boy. A boy with fair hair playing in this very room, lining up his armies on the library table. She heard Geneva come in, was aware that the girl stood beside her, looking at the soldiers. But Geneva’s quick perception must have told her that this was a moment of deep feeling, for she did not speak.