The Trembling Hills

by Phyllis A. Whitney

  “That’s where you are wrong. Human beings are not wholly averse to disaster, Sara. There has been excitement to buoy everyone up about plans for rebuilding the city. The building itself, however, will be long and tiresome. I fancy that we will be weary of dust and the sound of donkey engines and pile drivers, before the year is up. The novelty of wearing what I’ve heard called ‘earthquake fashions’ will evaporate. In no time people will be yearning for amusement and gaiety. Do you follow me, Sara?”

  Sara was doing her best, but the current was too swift. This was all too sudden, too unforeseen for her to grasp.

  Miss Varady went on. “There will be a certain publicity value in giving the first real party to be held in San Francisco after the fire. It will make you known to those who should know you. I doubt if we’ll have a single refusal. Well, that is all I have to say for the moment. And so far I have heard no words of gratitude from you.”

  Sara looked uneasily at the woman in the bed. It would be quite impossible to lean over and kiss her. One did not run up and kiss the cheek of one of the Fates, even if she were so inclined.

  “I need some time to understand what has happened to me,” Sara said.

  Miss Varady nodded. “Yes, I’m sure you are overwhelmed. Of course your mother must move downstairs now to a more suitable room.” If there was any recollection in her of her own intrusion last night in the upstairs room, Miss Varady did not betray it. “Run along now, Sara, and ask Ah Foong about a change of rooms for her.”

  Sara went out feeling that she was not the same girl who had entered this door an hour before. Anything she wanted she could have. Three dozen taffeta petticoats, if she chose, she thought, smiling wryly to herself. Sara Bishop would possess a Midas wealth and all the position and power it would give her. Yet somehow the taste was flat in her mouth.

  She went upstairs to her mother’s room, though she did not mean to tell her the entire truth as yet. She wanted to think this out for herself first, to understand exactly what was involved. Besides, her mother would only be dismayed. Wealth was never what Mary Jerome had wanted. But now at least Sara could tell her that she was to be moved to a more comfortable room on the floor below.

  Her mother was not in, however. Sara found her door ajar, and Allison on her knees, peering under the bed.

  “What’s the matter?” Sara asked. “Have you lost something, Allison?”

  The face Allison raised to her was tragic and tear-streaked. “Yes! I’ve lost Comstock. He isn’t anywhere. This is the very last place there is to look.”

  At the moment, Sara could not take this seriously. “Oh, I’m sure he’ll turn up. You know he likes to go out on the town. He’ll come home as soon as he’s had his fill of adventure.”

  But Allison shook her head. “I’ll never see him again. I know what’s happened to him. That old witch hates him. And now she’s poisoned him and thrown away his body!”

  “Allison!” Sara cried. “You read too many storybooks. You mustn’t say such things.”

  “I showed you where she keeps all her bottles,” Allison said. “She has a whole closet full of poisons. And there are probably hundreds of bodies buried in the garden.”

  This was more than Sara felt able to cope with. She took Allison downstairs to talk to Nick. As always his untroubled air was quieting. No one could listen to him and believe in the phantasmagoria of the night.

  He did not, he said, hold with Allison’s notions about bodies in the garden. And he had seen that medicine cupboard of “poisons.” Allison must come down to earth. In the meantime, he would inquire around about Comstock. There was nothing as yet to worry about.

  Allison was somewhat soothed, but Sara, watching her, did not believe that the child’s private convictions had changed.

  23

  The next few weeks were busy and disturbing ones for Sara. Not that there was any outward and immediate change in her way of life. Her mother was moved downstairs and given a comfortable, well-furnished room. But she was no happier in it than she had been in her cramped quarters on the third floor. Indeed, the move seemed to alarm her a little.

  “What is behind it?” she demanded more than once of Sara. “Why should Hester Varady be suddenly kind to me? I don’t trust kindness in that woman.”

  Miss Varady had as yet made no announcement to the effect that she meant to make Sara her heir. Sometimes Sara had the feeling that she had dreamed the whole thing. To have the dream come true would be rather alarming. The girl she had once been was a child who would have accepted the waving of a magic wand with unquestioning glee. The present Sara could not hold her hands out quite so guilelessly. Of course it would be pleasant to have the things she had always wanted. But she could not be indifferent to her mother’s fears. Nor could she accept so callously the injury to Geneva. Indeed, she would not permit it.

  Perhaps she ought to talk to her cousin and warn her of what Aunt Hester intended. She could assure the girl that no matter how highhanded their aunt was in this matter, when the time came Sara would share fairly and equally with her cousin. But she winced away from the hurt she must inflict by telling Geneva how Aunt Hester meant to treat her. Perhaps it would be better to let it come first from Miss Varady herself. Then Sara could step in quickly afterwards to reassure and comfort Geneva.

  It was necessary for Sara to tell her mother that an allowance was now being given them, though she did not divulge the full sum for fear of disturbing her still more. During these past weeks money had not been important anyway. There was so little in San Francisco that it would buy.

  But by the middle of June many things were returning to normal operation. The city had gas and electricity again, and of course water. Chimneys had long since been inspected and cooking indoors replaced the sidewalk kitchen. The smell of smoke which still saturated everything had grown more familiar than fresh air.

  There was a ferment of building going on in the cleared lots on the east side of Van Ness. Little redwood shops were springing up and luxury items had begun to appear on their shelves. Already insurance money was dribbling in to some extent, and many who had never had ready money before, had the feel of it now in their pockets, or at least the prospect of it on which to borrow. Fillmore Street, with its crowds and its pennants and signs, had taken on the air of a mining town community and Van Ness, slightly more elegant and professional, ran it a close second.

  Within the Varady house activity had speeded up. Lines of people stood outside for hours, waiting for an interview with Mr. Merkel or Nicholas Renwick. The front door stood open and the house was no longer quiet during the day. Miss Varady retreated to the drawing room and closed the door, or remained upstairs in her own room if the intrusion of business into her house disturbed her too greatly.

  It seemed to Sara, however, that her aunt took these matters far better than might have been expected. Rules that had held before the fire were casually ignored these days. Barriers had been lowered in new comradeship and the rigid social pattern had blurred and run together. Everyone wanted to play his part in the recovery of the city. Even while the outside world commiserated and pitied, San Francisco was too busy to know that she was performing the impossible.

  These days Hester Varady often drove out on some private business of her own. Sometimes dignified gentlemen visited her in the privacy of her drawing room and there was many a consultation held behind closed doors.

  Miss Varady had given up any attempt to use her sitting room for her own purposes. It had been usurped by the women of the household, who were engaged in a frenzy of dressmaking. Here Sara was the acknowledged captain and the others did her bidding. Their confidence was more than rewarded by the surprising creations born anew from old-fashioned garments which had belonged to Elizabeth and Mary Bishop.

  Aunt Hester had insisted upon one change which Mary had been helpless to fight. She was to be known as Mrs. Leland Bishop now, and there was
to be no argument about the matter. The others in the household complied readily enough and thought it a natural change.

  As Sara knew, her mother had tried to rebel, to escape. Day after day she had gone about in the Western Addition, seeking work as a housekeeper. But in the sections which were unburned, there were plenty of servants. Until the wealthy who had been driven out re-established themselves in San Francisco, no one needed her services. In the end, she settled down to sewing under Sara’s direction. Even Mrs. Renwick, who was hardly skilled with a needle, was put to work basting and sewing hems and seams. The Renwicks had still found no place to live which would come within their reduced means and Miss Varady in her role of Lady Bountiful would not hear of their leaving till they found something suitable.

  Sara’s planning and supervisory work did not take as much time or require the application of the actual sewing. Thus she had found it possible to work with Nick for a portion of each day. This had come about naturally and without strain. Whatever his private opinion of her, he needed her help. She typed a good many letters, taking time to run across the hall now and then to make sure the sewing went well. Nick was impersonally grateful for her help and always courteous. Sometimes she even worked with him in the evening, though he made it clear that he regarded her contribution as something she gave to the people of San Francisco, and not to him.

  Sara, however, knew this was not altogether so. Being a woman, it was Nick whom she must serve first. In the beginning she had found it painful to be constantly near him, but now she discovered a certain peace in working beside him and giving herself to his need. She was learning to understand the problems which faced him as Geneva could not. There was a quiet joy in her when she could save Nick some laborious task, or anticipate some need before he was aware of it himself.

  As Nick grew to depend on her, it became increasingly difficult to remember that behind his courteous manner he might be condemning her for what he regarded as unscrupulous behavior. Perhaps there were times when Nick himself forgot and accepted her in the old way. The thing Sara most dreaded was the moment when Aunt Hester would make her planned announcement. There was no telling how Nick would react to that. He might well consider that Sara had somehow tricked Geneva out of her inheritance. It was possible that the news might be one more thing added to his distaste for her. She wondered at times if she ought to tell him herself, so he would know the truth of the matter before Aunt Hester said anything. It would not, however, soften the facts to have them come from her, so she said nothing.

  There was one night when they worked late after a strenuous and frustrating day. Even Ritchie had been kept busy all day long, running errands. Mr. Merkel had stayed to dinner and worked with Nick and Sara for an hour or two before returning to Oakland. Geneva, who liked to be near Nick in the evening, even when he had no time for her, brought in some hand sewing. She busied herself quietly until her eyes wearied. Then she said good night and went up to bed. Geneva was plainly concerned about the way Nick drove himself, but she would never utter a word of protest.

  By now Sara knew just what confronted Nick. He worried constantly—not for himself, but about where he was to get funds for those who needed their insurance money so desperately. The sums he and Judith could put in were like grains of sand used to fill an ocean. Mr. Merkel felt that Nick was being unrealistic. He did not mean to stop the ocean with his private fortune. But he was fearful lest the law take it away from him. Nick’s hope was for some postponement, for some arrangement by which partial payments could be made from time to time, so that the firm would not go under completely, yet the investors would get what was due them.

  Today, however, the pressure had been especially heavy. There had been more harrowing hard-luck stories than usual, and Sara knew that while Nick could appear a rock of calm strength for those who needed him to lean upon, tonight he was hollow and spent with the effort of loaning that strength to others.

  Having finished her letters, Sara was sealing and stamping envelopes so they’d be ready to mail in the morning, when Nick startled her by flinging down a ledger with a slam that shook the library table.

  “There’s no way out!” he said grimly. “We’re cornered. Licked.”

  “It’s eleven thirty,” Sara said, “and you’ve worn yourself out. Why don’t you stop and get some sleep? It won’t look so bad tomorrow.”

  He gave her a haggard, derisive look. “Sleep? What’s that? I can’t remember when I’ve slept a whole night through.”

  “You won’t solve anyone’s problems if you drive yourself till you go to pieces.”

  He put his head in his hands unhappily. “When I go to bed, I see the faces and hear the voices of those I’ve talked to all day. In the days before the fire I used to be restless because I didn’t have anything I could really put my heart into. Now my whole being is in this, but I can’t rest for worrying about how it will all come out.”

  Sara took up the ledger and put it away. Then she plucked at Nick’s sleeve.

  “Come over here,” she said, smiling, drawing him toward a big chair. “I remember one night in the library at the Nob Hill house. Tonight the situation is reversed.”

  He was too weary to oppose her, but sank into the chair, let her bring a pillow for his head, prop his feet on a stool.

  “I’m going to read to you,” she said, “the way I read to my mother sometimes till she falls asleep. Close your eyes and be still while I find a book.”

  She searched the bookshelves for her purpose. She wanted nothing serious. Aunt Hester’s tastes did not run to light novels, but Sara found a copy of Wuthering Heights and settled down with it under a green-shaded lamp.

  There was gloom and violence in this tale of somber moors and unbridled passion, but it held the attention. In a little while she knew that Nick had begun to listen and relax, had been caught again by the illusion of life that Emily Brontë had wrought in this tale of Heathcliff and the woman named Catherine Earnshaw.

  Now and then as she read, Sara stole a look at Nick. His hands had relaxed on the chair arms, his eyes were closed, but she could not be sure whether he slept or not. Finally she paused, weary herself, but ready to go on if he were not yet asleep.

  With all her heart she longed to do more than read to him. She wanted to trace the new furrows in his lean cheeks with loving fingers, smooth cool hands across the place where his brows drew darkly together in worry and concern. If only she could put her arms about him, somehow infuse him with her own vitality and strength in this defeated moment.

  He startled her when he opened his eyes and spoke to her suddenly. “Sara, tell me the truth about that night before the fire when Ritchie came to your room.”

  How often she had imagined herself telling him what had really happened, but the unexpected question left her helpless. After all, what could she say to him, how explain?

  He was looking at her with a kindness she had not expected to see in him again. Her eyelids stung with the promise of tears and she was afraid she might cry. She could talk about this to Judith, but not to Nick. Anything she might say could so easily sound like a made-up defense.

  “It’s for Ritchie to tell the truth,” she said. “Ask him if you want to know. Close your eyes now and be quiet.”

  He did not protest and she began to read again, steadying her voice. When next she paused, she knew that he had fallen asleep. She covered him with a blanket, remembering the bright violet, red and orange squares of the afghan with which he had once covered her—a brightness long since ashes in the fire. For a trembling instant she was tempted to touch her lips lightly, tenderly to his cheek. But she dared not risk his wakening. She tucked the blanket gently about him and then went upstairs to get wearily into bed.

  It was during the next evening as dinner was coming to an end, that Hester Varady, without any warning to Sara, and with her usual sense of the dramatic, made her announcement. She had her audie
nce captive and could savor their reactions.

  “I’ve had a few talks with my niece Sara lately,” she told them, “and I would like you all to know the conclusion to which I have come. As soon as it can be arranged, I plan to change my will.”

  She paused, well aware that every eye was upon her. Sara listened in helpless dismay.

  “I’ve decided that Sara is the one who can most properly carry on the Varady tradition and fortune. I intend to leave everything I have to her. Very shortly now I shall go about making her known in this town in her proper position as my heiress.”

  Sara could not look at her mother. She watched Geneva apprehensively and saw the flush creep into her face. It was wicked of Aunt Hester to do such a thing publicly without preparing Geneva ahead of time. The girl might not care about the money, but she was too sensitive to be so carelessly humiliated. Besides, this disinheritance might seem a frightening thing to her.

  Before anyone could move or comment, Miss Varady signaled that the meal was at an end by rising from the table. Having taken everyone by surprise, she walked out of the room with a curious smile curling her lips.

  Geneva turned away from the table, obviously fighting her own tears. Sara would have gone to her, if Nick had not reached her first. It was Nick who led her gently from the room, and Sara went instead to her mother.

  Mrs. Jerome stood before one of the long dining-room windows, but she was not looking into the yard. Her head was bent and she had covered her face with her hands. She did not speak or move when Sara touched her arm.

  “Please don’t mind so much, Mama,” Sara said. “It doesn’t really matter. It isn’t going to make any difference.”

  Mrs. Jerome shook her head. “It will make all the difference. You will be fully in her hands now.”

  “That’s not true! I’m in no hands but my own, and I can stand up to her. I won’t let Geneva be cut off as Aunt Hester plans. Isn’t it possible to look at the good side—at what this may mean to us?”