Jubilee Trail by Gwen Bristow Read Free Book Online Page B

cheerful. But now, in spite of her efforts, there were tears in her eyes.
    “Mother,” Garnet exclaimed, “are you—are you crying?”
    “I’m afraid I am.” The tears trembled on Pauline’s eyelids. She took out her handkerchief and wiped them away. “I’m sorry,” she said, and managed to smile. “I thought I’d done all the crying I was going to do. But—it’s so far away, Garnet!”
    Garnet threw her arms around her mother’s waist. “Mother, you’re so good! I don’t know how to say this—but so many girls’ mothers would be pacing the floor and carrying on—but you don’t.”
    “No, Garnet, I don’t and I never will,” Pauline said firmly. “You’ve heard your father and me talk about the trouble we had getting married. We laugh about it now. But it wasn’t funny then. I loved my parents. I remember it—the nights I lay awake and sobbed till morning, the days I was so nervous I couldn’t hold a fork at table. And all because he hadn’t a dollar and they didn’t know who his grandfather was.” She stroked Garnet’s black hair. “And I remember too, when they told me my baby was a girl, I thought: whatever happens, she’s not going through what I did to get the man she wants. Unless he’s an utter reprobate, she can have him.”
    Pauline was not crying any more. But Garnet was.
    As soon as she could speak, Garnet promised that she would be very, very good. She would write home every chance she got. She would write from New Orleans, from Independence, and again from Santa Fe. One of the returning traders would bring her letter while she went on to California. And if there was a Yankee ship in port at San Diego, she would send a letter by the captain.
    Next year, Oliver would bring her back to New York. Then they would live just like other people. Oliver would manage the New York office of his uncle’s shipping company. They would have a house like this one, and a carriage. She would do everything right. Her mother and father would never, never have any reason to be sorry they had let her marry Oliver. And she would always love them, better than she loved anybody in the world but Oliver, because they were so good and wise.
    Garnet and Oliver were married in the parlor of her home in Union Square. His uncle came down from Boston for the ceremony. The elder Mr. Hale was a ruddy, jovial man, and Garnet liked him. He told her how glad he was that she was going to bring Oliver back home. He had no sons of his own, and he had always wanted one of his nephews to take over the business when he got old.
    The other guests were astounded, or doubtful, or puzzled, or—Garnet caught it here and there—envious. These last ones shook hands with Oliver, and made the proper remarks of congratulation, and added, almost bashfully, “You know, I used to think when I was younger—those ships that go out to Asia around Cape Horn—what is this country again, Mr. Hale?”
    “California,” Oliver said politely.
    “Yes, yes. Is that near India? Well, well. Good luck, young man.”
    Garnet began to understand what her father had said about Americans. She wondered why more of them hadn’t had the nerve to do what they wanted to do.
    Three hours after the wedding reception, Garnet and Oliver took the coastwise boat for New Orleans. The boat left from the end of Wall Street. There was a bitter wind blowing, and the fog on the East River made it hard to see the outlines of the city. Garnet and Oliver stood on deck, watching through the gathering gloom.
    “I can’t believe it,” said Garnet. “I’m on my way to California. Before I see New York again—”
    The wind blew the rest of her words down her throat. Oliver smiled at her. She was wrapped in a heavy fur-trimmed mantle, and her hands were tucked into a muff. Little tendrils of black hair were blowing out from the edge of her bonnet. The wind had made her cheeks red as apples. Oliver put his head down close to hers so she could hear what he was