Jubilee Trail

by Gwen Bristow

  “Do you always go there in the summer?”

  “No, we go to different places, but they’re all pretty much alike. My mother says we may go to Europe next year.”

  “But that doesn’t interest you?” Oliver asked.

  “Why yes, it does, in a way—I’ve never been to Europe—but—” She stopped, and he said,

  “Go on, Garnet. Tell me.”

  The thoughts she had been thinking so long came tumbling out over her lips.

  “I’ve never said this before, but I think you’ll know what I mean. There won’t be anything different about going to Europe. We’re the sort of people who take our own world with us wherever we go. The best hotel in one city is very much like the best hotel in another city. Nice people are just nice people, no matter where you meet them. Oh, do you understand what I mean?”

  Oliver took both her hands in his. “What do you want to do, Garnet?”

  Garnet looked up at him. She was thinking that she really should not allow a man to hold her hands like this. But he was not flirting. His smile was very gentle. She answered,

  “I want to find out what goes on in the world! I want to know what people are like who are not like me. There are so many kinds of people I don’t know anything about. I pass them on the street. I wonder what they do, how they live, what they think about. I want to go to the places I’m not allowed to go to. I’m tired of the Park Theater. I want to go to the Jewel Box.”

  She caught her lip between her teeth, as though she had accidentally spoken a word that should not be used in nice conversation. But Oliver was not shocked. He only looked puzzled.

  “The Jewel Box?” he repeated. “What’s that?”

  “It’s a variety theater on Broadway, near the park. You mean you’ve never been there?”

  He shook his head. “But now that you remind me, I believe I’ve seen it. There’s a big sign, with flowers and Cupids all over it—is that the place?”

  Garnet laughed regretfully. “There’s the difference between us. You could have gone there any time you pleased, so you’ve hardly noticed it the whole time you’ve been in New York. And I can’t go there, so I’m dying of curiosity about it.”

  “But what’s wrong with it?” asked Oliver. “Why can’t you go there?”

  “I don’t know!” she returned with exasperation. “It’s there, and when we drive past it in the evenings I see crowds of people going in. Well-dressed people, too. But nobody ever mentions the Jewel Box. Not around me, anyway.”

  “Oh Lord,” said Oliver. “What do they want to do with you? Wrap you up in pink tissue paper and put you in the closet?”

  “Yes!” exclaimed Garnet. “Sometimes it does seem like that.”

  “Why don’t you ask about the Jewel Box?” he suggested with a grin. “Just to hear what your proper friends would say?”

  Garnet glanced down, smothering a little laugh. “I did.”

  “What happened?”

  “You won’t tell on me?”

  “Certainly not.”

  She looked up. “Well, there was a young gentleman named Henry Trellen. He and I were walking up Broadway one day, and as we were about to pass the Jewel Box I thought I’d speak of it, very innocently, you know, as if I’d never thought about it before. So I glanced up at the sign, and remarked that I’d never been there.”

  “What did he say?”

  “He said—” Garnet became very pompous as she quoted—“He said, ‘I am sure, Miss Cameron, that the type of entertainment presented at the Jewel Box would neither amuse nor instruct you.’”

  “Oh my dear grandmother,” said Oliver. “Did you slap his silly face?”

  “I felt like it. I really did. But I can’t do things like that. So I just dropped my eyes and said, ‘Pray forgive me, Mr. Trellen. I had not been told that the Jewel Box was an improper resort.’ And he said, very sweetly, ‘I am sure you had not. I cannot imagine any deliberate suggestion of indelicacy coming from you, Miss Cameron.’”

  Oliver laughed, half in derision and half in sympathy. Garnet did not add that soon after this conversation she had received a very formal letter from Henry Trellen, laying his heart, hand, and fortune at her feet. A lady never mentioned her proposals, but she said to Oliver,

  “That’s the sort of gentlemen I’m used to. Now maybe you know why I was so glad when I met you.”

  “Do you want me to take you to the Jewel Box?” Oliver offered.

  “They wouldn’t let you.”

  “We could say we were going to a concert.”

  “I wouldn’t do that. No, it’s not important.” She tried to explain. “I mean, the Jewel Box itself isn’t important. It’s just that every time I pass the Jewel Box I’m reminded of all the things I can’t do. The things people keep away from young ladies. They might not even be interesting things. Maybe if I went to the Jewel Box I wouldn’t like it, and wouldn’t want to go there again. But I want to know, so I can make up my own mind—do you understand? I mean, if they would just say to me, You can go to the Jewel Box any time you want to—I’d feel—well, I’d feel unwrapped from that pink tissue paper and taken out of the closet.”

  Oliver was laughing softly. But he was not making fun of her.

  Garnet had never talked to anybody so frankly before. She felt as though a knot inside her had been untied. Suddenly she realized that Oliver had been holding her hands all this time. But it seemed all right for him to do so. She did not try to take her hands away.

  There was a silence. Their eyes met. Oliver was not laughing any more. His eyes were no longer mischievous, but earnest, and his big hands were holding hers so hard that he hurt her. He said, very softly,

  “Why don’t you come with me, Garnet?”

  Garnet felt a quiver run through her, like a tingle of fire. Oliver said,

  “You dear girl, come with me.”

  Garnet’s lips parted. The tingle had come up into her throat, and she could hardly push her voice past it. She gasped,

  “Oliver—are you—”

  “Yes,” said Oliver, “I’m asking you to marry me. I’ve never wanted to marry anybody before. I never thought I’d want to. But I want you.”

  All the brightness in the world exploded in front of her. Through the brightness she saw Oliver, with his big shoulders and his sunburnt forehead and his rumpled curls, and beyond him the trail into the far golden promises. She said, still almost unbelieving,

  “You want to marry me? You want to take me to California?”

  “Would you go to California with me? Do you mean you would?”

  “Would I go to—” Garnet could not say any more. Her breaths were all confused. Oliver went on, talking fast.

  “It’s a hard journey, Garnet. I’ve got no right to ask you to take it. I ought to say I’d quit the trail now, and settle down in a civilized place like New York or Boston. But I can’t quit now. I’ve got to go back this year. My brother’s expecting me, and my partner John Ives; and there aren’t any mails. I can’t wind up the business unless I’m there to do it. But we can go to California this summer, and next summer we can come back for good. We can live in New York or Boston or anywhere you please.”

  Garnet tried to make her breaths behave. She could not answer. Oliver thought she was hesitating, and he drew her closer to him.

  “I’m such a fool, Garnet. You haven’t said you’d marry me at all.”

  When she did manage to speak, her voice was low and tense with wonder.

  “But Oliver, of course I will!”

  “Now?” he pled. “Before I go to California? You’ll come with me?” His voice was shaky with eagerness. “I ought to ask you to wait for me. But I can’t ask you to wait! It will be nearly two years before I can possibly get back to the States—and my dearest darling girl, now that I’ve found you, I can’t do without you for two years!”

  Garnet shook her head violently. “No, no, don’t ask me to wait! Please take me with you!”

  “It’s a terrible jo
urney,” he warned again. “From here to Santa Fe it’s easy, but beyond Santa Fe—we go through deserts and wild bare mountains, we sleep on buffalo robes, you’ll travel with strange hard men and the sort of women you’ve never seen before, we live outdoors, we eat strange food, we—Garnet, it’s not like anything you’ve ever done, if you weren’t blooming with health I’d never dare ask you to do it—but will you? Will you, Garnet?”

  His words were like jewels in the air between them. Garnet began to laugh.

  “Oh, Oliver, won’t you ever understand what it’s like to be me? Don’t you know every word you say makes me want to go? Don’t you know you’re telling me what I dreamed about every day at that Academy for Young Ladies? Yes, I’ll go with you. I’ll eat strange food and I’ll sleep on a buffalo robe, and I’ll love it. Oh, Oliver, take me to California!”

  Oliver swept her into his arms and kissed her. He held her so close to him that she thought he must be crushing her ribs. It was wonderful. Oliver was splendid and the whole world was suddenly as glorious as she had always dreamed it might be. She was going over the Jubilee Trail to California.

  THREE

  GARNET AND OLIVER WERE married in March.

  Her mother had shed tears, and her father was graver than Garnet had ever seen him. They liked Oliver. But they said to Garnet that they hadn’t known him long enough, and neither had she. Garnet exclaimed,

  “I know him perfectly well! And I love him. He loves me. Don’t you understand? Didn’t you two love each other when you got married?”

  That was a strong argument. They had loved each other very much, and they still did. But everybody had said her mother was throwing herself away.

  Mrs. Cameron’s name had been Pauline Delacroix. Her father’s ancestors were French Huguenots, her mother’s were English adventurers. She belonged to a family as old and proud as any in New York. Horace Cameron was the son of an obscure Presbyterian minister from a small town upstate. He had come to New York with no fortune but his head and his hands, and when Pauline met him he was only a minor clerk in the bank.

  Pauline had a number of suitors. From everybody’s viewpoint but her own, she could have made a far more promising marriage.

  But Pauline loved him. To get her parents’ consent to the marriage, she and Horace had to fight a battle that lasted a year. Her parents finally yielded, though her mother wept through the ceremony and her father was so angry he could hardly be polite to the wedding guests.

  They began their married life in a tiny little house, with only one servant. But Pauline had fun being thrifty with Horace’s pay. She produced her first baby without making any fuss about it. Altogether, she was so delighted that her parents had to forgive Horace, whose only crime was that of making Pauline happier than she had ever been in her life before. As the baby was a girl, and as she was born in January, Pauline’s father proved his change of heart by ordering a set of garnets, the January birthstone, for his granddaughter to wear when she grew up. Pauline named the baby Garnet for the jewels, because she was so glad to have her father’s favor again. Both she and Horace were essentially conservative, and except for marrying each other they had never done anything that other people did not approve of.

  Everybody approved of them now. Horace had risen in business, they had their three children and their home in Union Square. Nothing had happened to shock them, until Garnet said she was going out to the end of the world with this strange young man.

  They were frightened. But Garnet said she loved him. Her mind was made up. And they remembered, quite well, what it was like to have your mind made up when you were in love.

  Very well, her father said finally, if she loved him she could marry him. But did she have to take that dreadful journey? If Oliver had to make one more trip to California, he could make it without Garnet.

  Garnet protested violently. Oliver laughed at her father’s fears. Oliver pointed out that Garnet was quite healthy. He wanted to take her with him, and she wanted to go. If she hadn’t wanted to go—but she did want to, that was the sort of girl she was and that was why he loved her.

  At last, one day, Garnet’s father led her off alone. He stood with his hand on her shoulder, looking down at her bright cheeks and her zestful eyes. He asked, slowly,

  “Do you love him so much, Garnet?”

  “Yes, father,” she said.

  “You’re quite sure, daughter?”

  “Of course I’m sure! What are you thinking of?”

  He smiled faintly. “I’m wondering,” he said, “if you’re in love with Oliver, or in love with California.”

  “Father, don’t be silly! I’d marry him if he wanted to take me to Smolensk!”

  “I think you would,” her father said gravely. “But would you marry him if he only wanted to move into the house next door?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Garnet pled. “I love him, father! I know what I mean. I’ve had chances to get married before. I didn’t love those men, I didn’t have to think two minutes to be sure about it. But I love Oliver.” She begged, with tears in her eyes, “Don’t you know what I’m trying to say?”

  He did know. He knew very well. But he asked,

  “You don’t want to wait until he comes back next year?”

  Garnet shook her head vehemently.

  Horace Cameron drew a long hard breath. He had never wanted to go out to the end of the world. He had what he wanted: his charming wife and his home and his position in the bank, and the pleasant security of his well-ordered days. Pauline had what she wanted too; he had heard her say a hundred times that she thought herself a very fortunate woman. But Garnet wanted something else. He did not understand it, he thought; and then he reminded himself that he understood it very well.

  He was thinking. Not about himself and Pauline, two quiet happy people who would not have liked to travel beyond the range of clean sheets and safety. But about the people who had come before them. He seldom thought about those people. They were just names in yellowing family Bibles, or mossy epitaphs in the cemeteries. But they had been real and alive, once. They were the Huguenots, the Scottish Dissenters, the English pirates who had stormed up and down the coasts of the American colonies until they got old and virtuous and finally settled down on shore. Those people had come into the wilderness for the glory of God and the chance to have their own way. They were heroes now. Horace had thought sometimes that a good many of the people who were heroes after they were dead must have been great nuisances while they were alive.

  But they had had a quality in them, a quality of strength and daring and defiance. And this was something you could never quite breed out. Sometimes, after many comfortable generations, it quieted down, as it had quieted in himself and Pauline. But it was there. Americans had it, or they wouldn’t be Americans; their ancestors would have stayed at home. So he and Pauline had passed on something they did not even know they had, and here it was, blazing up at him in their daughter.

  Garnet did not know why he had been so silent. He looked at her long and thoughtfully. She asked,

  “Will you let me go, father?”

  “Yes,” he said gently. “I’ll let you go.”

  All of a sudden, though she did not know why, she burst into tears. He put his arm around her, and she buried her face on his shoulder. He led her to a chair and she sat down, and he sat on the arm of it with his hand holding hers, while he told her what he had been thinking about. Garnet listened wonderingly. At last she said,

  “Is that what I’ve got? I never thought about it. But you have it too.”

  “I’m afraid not, Garnet,” he said.

  “Yes you have. Because if you hadn’t, you wouldn’t understand it. And you’re wonderful, and I love you very much.”

  There was a long pause.

  “You’d better go to your room now, Garnet,” he said, “while I talk to your mother.”

  Garnet had shed tears, but as she went upstairs she could feel her heart beating fas
t, as though keeping time to a dance-tune. Her father had said yes.

  Her room was warm and cheerful. It had two windows hung with flowered curtains, overlooking the little square of garden between this house and the next. The bed had twisting mahogany posts holding up curtains that matched the window draperies. On the wall were flower prints in oval frames. There was a bureau with a tall mirror, and on the wall above the washstand was a white linen splasher to keep soapsuds from spattering the wall.

  There was always a fire here in winter. Some people thought a bedroom fire was a foolish extravagance, but Pauline did not. Garnet’s great-grandfather had shivered nobly at Valley Forge, but Pauline said this was no reason why Garnet should shiver in New York when her father was perfectly well able to buy coal.

  Garnet sat down on a hassock by the fireplace. She wondered how it would be to live outdoors for weeks and weeks, and what sort of men the other traders were. She and Oliver would go to California this summer, and spend the winter on the rancho with Oliver’s brother Charles; then next summer they would come back. They would reach New York in October or November of next year. By that time she would have been away a year and eight months. Some of her friends would have been to Europe, but anybody could go to ordinary places like that. She alone would have been out to the end of the world.

  There was a tap on the door, and her mother came in. Garnet stood up.

  Pauline came over to her and took her hands. She did not say anything. She stood looking into Garnet’s eyes, long and searchingly. At last Garnet said,

  “Mother—did father tell you?”

  “Yes, dear, he told me.” Pauline’s teeth closed hard on her lower lip for an instant, but when she went on her voice was steady. “Garnet, my darling, do you love him very, very much?”

  Garnet nodded. She smiled dreamily.

  “And you’re sure you want to go to California with him?” Pauline asked.