The Trembling Hills

by Phyllis A. Whitney

  But her mother could not see it like that. She moved away from Sara’s pleading touch and went upstairs to her room.

  Left alone, Sara had the feeling that every hand in the house had turned suddenly against her. Most of all, she minded the cruel hurt to Geneva. When she went into the hall, she could hear the murmur of Nick’s voice in the library and knew that he was talking to the girl in there. Perhaps he, if anyone, could reassure her, assuage her hurt. Though what he believed now of Sara Bishop, Sara hated to think.

  Since there was nothing to do for the moment, she wandered into the empty drawing room and stood once more before the portrait of Consuelo. This, she thought wryly, should be her moment of triumph. Tonight she had been acknowledged without reservation as the direct descendant of Consuelo Olivero Varady. Yet there was no elation in her, no sense of accomplishment.

  She knew she must see Geneva alone before she went to bed that night, but the soft drone of voices continued in the library and the evening wore on. Sometimes Nick’s voice was raised for an instant, as if he argued or pleaded, but Sara could not hear his words.

  In the end they came out of the library so quietly that Sara would not have heard them if Geneva had not called her name from the hall.

  “I’m in here,” Sara answered. “Geneva, I want to talk to you—” She broke off because the Geneva who stood in the doorway, with Nick’s arm about her, was a girl whose eyes were shining, whose whole face was alight with happiness.

  “Cousin Sara!” Geneva cried. “I want you to be the first to know. Nick and I are going to be married!”

  Sara stared at her blankly.

  “Oh, I know it’s hard to believe,” Geneva ran on. “I was so sure he was just sorry for me after what happened that I wouldn’t believe it myself. But he has been planning this all along.” She glanced up at Nick, shyly anxious even now, but seemed to find reassurance in his eyes.

  Sara forced her lips into a smile, held out her hands as she went toward Geneva. But she could not keep her eyes from Nick’s face and she saw that his own were a cool gray as they rested on her. Falteringly she tried to tell Geneva what she meant to do about the will; that she would never accept all of Aunt Hester’s fortune when half should of course belong to her cousin. But Geneva brushed her words aside.

  “The money doesn’t matter,” she said happily. “Truly I’m glad for you, Sara. And if she leaves it to you, it must all be yours.” She glanced lovingly at the tall man beside her. “Nick and I won’t mind being poor for a time. Except that it means we can’t be married right away. But it’s nice to be engaged. I want to tell the others, Nick. Do you mind? I want to tell Aunt Hester.”

  Sara, watching mutely, saw the lift to Geneva’s chin as she spoke her aunt’s name. The girl wore an armor to protect her now—the armor of Nick’s love.

  All this was something Sara had been through before, she thought dully, as she climbed the stairs to her room. What bad fortune dogged her steps that she must always love a man who cared for someone else?

  Once more she sat before her mirror and this time she saw the change in her face. Hurt was stamped in every line and there was a lost, hopeless look in her eyes. At once she straightened and forced a smile to her lips. There—that was better! It would never do to go about wearing a look that would betray her feelings to the world.

  Sternly she told herself that nothing had really changed. Geneva had always had a claim to Nick’s affections. And Nick did not think highly of Sara Jerome. Yet somehow she had walked with her guard down straight to the very thing that could wound her most. Now there was left only what Aunt Hester could offer. Wealth and position, which she had once valued so highly and which now seemed so empty of meaning. Somehow, somehow, she must believe in them again if she were to save herself.

  Dry-eyed she sat watching the too vulnerable face of the girl in the mirror. What had happened to the old Sara who would storm any citadel for what she wanted?

  24

  One afternoon a week later the women were sewing and chatting in Miss Varady’s sitting room. A signet ring of Nick’s which he’d had fitted for her shone on Geneva’s finger and she was abrim with happiness these days. Of them all, Geneva enjoyed these sewing sessions most. She was doing something she could do well, and enjoying the company of other women, as she had seldom been permitted to do before.

  Allison and Miranda Schultz sat on the floor, using scraps to make clothes for dolls they did not possess. Miranda said she had seen some new dolls in a store on Fillmore Street, and Sara had promised to buy each child her own. Partly this was intended as consolation for Allison.

  Comstock had never returned, never been found, and the child was inconsolable. She grieved as if for a member of her family and refused any suggestion that another cat be given to her. Once Sara had been startled to find the child ghoulishly digging among the neglected flower beds in Miss Varady’s garden. “For bodies,” she said, when Sara asked what she was doing. Sara felt a little squeamish. She could not imagine what would happen if Allison’s ugly suspicions were proved true and Comstock was found in the garden.

  This was all the more reason for encouraging the companionship of Miranda and finding things for the two children to do.

  These days Judith was again in touch with old friends and often away on visits. But this afternoon she came into the sewing room, bringing a friend with her. Mrs. Blanchard was pretty and young and at the moment she wore refugee clothes which did not become her.

  Introduced by Judith, she looked at the busy group in delight. “This is wonderful!” she cried. “I’m going to be the luckiest woman in San Francisco!”

  Sara removed a heap of patterns from a chair and invited her to sit down. She didn’t know what Mrs. Blanchard felt lucky about, but a new face was always welcome. Sara was eager for any distraction these days.

  “You see,” Judith explained to Sara’s mother, “I’ve brought you a customer. Not the sort of charity customers we’ve been. But one who will pay you for making her some dresses. She can furnish the goods. Friends have sent her an assortment of material from New York. But there’s no one here to make it up for her. Miss Millie is living on Octavia Street now, but she is so overworked that she cries at the thought of sewing one more dress. Besides, Mrs. Blanchard wants something with more flair than Miss Millie can manage. I’ve suggested Sara. So if you and Sara are willing to make the dress—”

  Mary Bishop agreed with pleasure and Sara knew that her mother regarded this as a life line flung their way. Mary was still insisting that she would not touch anything Miss Varady settled on Sara, and that she would be out of this house the moment she could earn something for herself. Sara realized that it was because Judith knew this that she had brought Mrs. Blanchard here.

  Sara was happy to throw her own energies into work she enjoyed and which would keep her from thinking about herself. It would be pleasant to design something from goods that would have no tendency to split with age, and which set no restrictions upon her by having been first cut into dresses. Indeed, with this slight opening of a door, she was almost regretful that there was no further need for her to earn her living.

  It was agreed that if Mrs. Blanchard would bring in her materials tomorrow afternoon Sara would see what could be done to plan a new wardrobe.

  That night at dinner Sara talked about what she meant to do, so that Aunt Hester would not think she was hiding anything. Apparently Miss Varady had no objection to her keeping busy in this manner. She had never been one for idleness herself, and Sara’s lack of skill in housewifely matters had already become apparent.

  There was one rather bad moment at dinner that night. After Miranda had gone, Allison had returned to the garden. When Sara called her for dinner, she pretended to be studying a sun dial—in the fog! Sara suspected that the child had been digging for “bodies” again. All through dinner Allison seemed deep in gloom, and more than once Sara c
aught her eye balefully upon Miss Varady. It was a relief when dessert came and Allison still held her peace. Perhaps they would get through without an explosion after all.

  But they were not so fortunate. Allison waited her chance. When the desserts had been set at each place and there was a pause in the conversation she spoke out in a clear voice.

  “Miss Varady,” she said, “where did you bury his body?”

  Hester Varady went as white as the napkin she raised to her lips. Into the room’s stunned silence came the sound of breaking glass. Ah Foong, who never broke anything, had dropped a water pitcher with a resounding crash. Sara was not sure whether he’d dropped it purposely to cover Aunt Hester’s reaction, or whether he himself had been startled into dropping it.

  With false gaiety Sara stumbled into the breach. “Allison is talking about her cat, Comstock. She has a foolish notion—” but Allison’s notion was too unpleasant to speak aloud at the dining table and Sara’s voice trailed into uncomfortable silence.

  With some presence of mind, Miss Varady recovered herself and regarded Allison coldly. “While I did not like your cat, or want him in this house, I can assure you that I had nothing to do with his disappearance. I have noted your activities in the garden and I forbid you to continue them. For lack of a gardener the place has already gone to seed. However, I don’t wish to have it looking as if gophers had been burrowing through it. If I were your mother I would send you to bed at once for your rudeness.”

  Allison shoved back her chair. “My mother doesn’t care what I do! She didn’t even care when I broke another plate! You murdered Comstock and you buried him in the garden. I know you did!”

  She flung down her napkin and ran to the door. Sara went after her, Hilda Renwick following.

  “Allison, wait!” Mrs. Renwick called as Allison started up the stairs.

  Allison paused to look at her mother, tears streaming down her face, while Sara hesitated in the hall. At the foot of the stairs Mrs. Renwick held out her hand.

  “Allison dear, come down here, please,” she said.

  Allison shook her head. “You gave me those old plates to carry because you didn’t care what happened to them any more. Just the way you don’t care what happens to me!”

  For once Mrs. Renwick did not give up in despair over her incomprehensible child. “Don’t you know that you’re more important to me than any plate could ever be?” she asked. “We’d been through a terrible experience and you were safe. So how could I care because a plate was broken?”

  Allison gave her mother a long doubtful look, but she did not come downstairs. She turned instead and ran up to her room. Uncertainly, Mrs. Renwick glanced at Sara, then, as if at last she accepted and faced the difficulties and responsibilities of being Allison’s mother, she followed the child.

  Relieved, Sara went quickly back to the dining room. The others were talking again, behaving like civilized people who did not permit ragged emotions to run riot. But Sara knew that for a few scant moments something primitive and frightening had been loose in this room. Now, though Miss Varady’s color was not entirely normal, and Ah Foong was still clearing up the mess on the floor, the emanation of ugly terror had vanished.

  It was because of this incident and because of Nick’s concern over Allison’s digging obsession, that the picnic was planned. Nick suggested it to Allison the next day to give her something to look forward to. Miranda could come, of course, he said, and she and Allison could pick any place they wanted to visit. He and Geneva would take them next Sunday, if the day was fine. The automobile was in order again and no longer on civic duty, so they might take a trip anywhere they liked.

  Nick was talking to his sister at the door of the library and Sara, coming down the hall just then, could not help hearing. Allison’s choice surprised her.

  “I want to go back to the ruins,” the little girl said. “Nobody ever allows Miranda and me to explore. So we want to go back inside and see what it’s like. Sara—wait!”

  Sara paused unwillingly at the foot of the stairs. This picnic was not her affair and she did not want to remember another picnic to which she had been invited, when Geneva had not been present.

  Nick shook his head at his sister. “Can’t you make a better choice? It’s terribly dusty, you know, and the burned-out stench gets worse when you leave Van Ness. I can’t imagine a less appetizing place for a picnic. Why not go west away from the ruins?”

  “You said I could pick,” Allison said. “And that’s where I want to go. Not just any ruins. Back to our old house. But if you don’t want to go where I want, I don’t care about a picnic. May Sara go too? I don’t want to go without Sara.”

  Nick looked as if he wished he had never brought up the idea, but he was always gentle with his little sister.

  “All right,” he said, giving in helplessly. “We’ll go where you want. And bring Sara, if she will come.”

  Sara was fairly caught. A picnic with Nick and Geneva was not an enticing prospect. It was only because of Allison that she agreed to go.

  That night after Allison had gone to bed, Sara went up to her room. She didn’t feel that the mere distraction of a picnic would be enough to swerve Allison from her gruesome activities. She turned on the light and stood beside her bed while the child blinked up in the glare.

  “If Nick gives you this picnic exactly as you want it,” Sara said, “and if I come, then you must promise to stop this ridiculous digging in the garden.”

  Allison’s mouth trembled and a quiver of revulsion went through her. “I have stopped. I looked again today. There isn’t any more reason to dig. I found it.”

  Sara stared in shocked silence.

  After a moment Allison went tragically on. “It was Comstock. So she did poison him. And she buried his body in the garden, just the way I said. Sara, didn’t you see her face at the table last night? After that I had to keep looking.”

  The child turned over in bed and burrowed into her pillow. Sara sat beside her, helpless to offer comfort. She felt cold with horror. This was like the witch picture Allison kept trying to paint.

  “Did you tell anyone else about this?” she asked gently.

  “I—I can’t talk about it! But I will later. When I g-g-get used to it, I’m going to tell everyone in this house.”

  “Listen, Allison,” Sara went on more urgently. “Promise me that you won’t say anything for at least a week. Not to Aunt Hester, or to anyone else.” She felt that she must talk to someone about this before Allison told her story—perhaps to Nick.

  Allison promised readily enough. The subject was too painful to reveal for the time being. But now Sara could not go off and leave Allison alone with so great a tragedy in her keeping.

  “Come sleep in my big bed tonight,” she whispered. “Then you can talk, or cry, or anything you like. But you won’t be alone and you won’t be frightened.”

  Allison came eagerly. Her small body was cold at first under the covers. But gradually she drew warmth from Sara and fell asleep.

  During the remainder of the week Allison was as good as her word. She told no one. And every night she stole secretly to Sara’s room and slept in her bed.

  Sunday was a beautiful day. The rains were over, and while there were cool mornings and cool nights, the fog rolled in through the Gate almost every afternoon, the middle of the day was often bright and sunny.

  They drove from the house in the automobile, a well-packed lunch provided by Ah Foong resting at their feet. It promised to be a happy day. Allison had thrown off her private tragedy for the moment. It would return, but for a little while she had the flexibility of the child in a temporary forgetting.

  By now the streets were cleared of rubble and the auto could travel without puncturing a tire every few blocks. It carried them into the wilderness of ruins and Allison constantly uttered exclamations of pleasure. How beautiful the col
ors were! Look at that rose and purple wall! This with a nudge for Miranda. Miranda remarked that there sure were an awful lot of bricks in San Francisco. But Allison was not concerned with the bricks.

  “It’s like pictures of Roman ruins. They’re beautiful—so why aren’t these?”

  Geneva and Sara could not share Allison’s objectivity. The wreckage tore at the heart in every block. All these had been loved homes. Fewer people had died in the disaster than might have been expected, but so many, many lives had been changed in one way or another in those three days of the fire.

  The auto, as was its habit, coughed and died on a hill, and Nick set the brakes so they could get out and finish the trip on foot. Fortunately they had only a few more uphill blocks to go. It was strange, Sara found, not to know exactly where she was. There were no street signs, no recognizable landmarks. Each rubble-­filled block looked like the next, and none of it looked like any place she had ever seen before. Only the contour of the hill gave them a clue. Even then Sara would have gone past the fallen walls and crumbling steps of the Renwick house if it had not been for Allison’s scream.

  “Look!” she cried. “There on our steps. Sara, it’s a ghost!”

  But it was not a ghost. There at the top, where the steps dropped off into nothing, sat Comstock, quietly washing his face and observing their approach with interest. Allison flew up the steps and Comstock rose calmly and allowed himself to be smothered in her embrace. He licked her ear in greeting, but seemed to take her appearance somewhat for granted, as if he had been waiting there for her certain arrival.

  Geneva had tears in her eyes and Nick was smiling over the reunion. Miranda followed her friend with interest, but took care to avoid Comstock’s claws. Comstock had never taken kindly to Miranda in the past and she did not trust him. Sara was the last one to climb the steps, lost in puzzled speculation.

  If Comstock was alive—and very plainly he was—then what had Allison Renwick found in Aunt Hester’s garden? This was a matter which called for investigation. There was something else too. If she had not poisoned and buried Comstock, why had Hester Varady turned white with shock at Allison’s words? Why had the careful Ah Foong dropped a water pitcher?