Jubilee Trail

by Gwen Bristow

  She shook her head firmly. “I won’t ever find that out. I don’t want to.”

  “You’ve already found it out,” said John.

  “I have not. I need you. I don’t need you for the sake of beef and beans—I can earn those for myself as long as there are men to get drunk. But I need you, John.”

  “No you don’t,” John said with assurance, and he looked proud to be saying it. “That’s why I’m so happy at the thought of having you. Anything you give me will be absolutely free, because you want to give it, not because you want something back. You’ve got independence of spirit. You won’t have to be told a dozen times a day that you’re wanted and appreciated.”

  “I hope not,” she said smiling. “But how do you know I won’t?”

  John let go her hand and put his good left arm behind his head, to raise himself a little. He was regarding her with affection and a glint of mischief. He said, “You haven’t even asked me, not once since you’ve been here, if I loved you.”

  Garnet set her teeth hard on her lip. Over and over, she had nearly bitten her tongue in half to keep from asking.

  “And do you know,” said John, “I believe I do.”

  “John!” she cried. She could not say any more. Hearing him speak sent a wave of delight breaking over her and flooding her with ecstasy. John went on,

  “I didn’t want to say it. I’m as bashful about saying it as any fool in the moonlight. I hate the word, because as I told you before it’s been so kicked about that it’s worn out, but I suppose there’s no other word to use.”

  Garnet slipped to her knees beside the bed. “Don’t stop, John!” she pled breathlessly. “Tell me some more.”

  John spoke slowly. “I’ve thought a lot about what it is I feel for you. It’s not just wanting a woman because she’s got an exciting body. I’m used to that. This is different. It’s not merely that I want you more than I’ve ever wanted any other woman. It’s different. I feel so right when you’re with me and so lost and empty when you’re not.” He shook his head a little, as though the whole thing puzzled him, and asked, “Is that love, Garnet?”

  He asked it like a boy asking a question about the big world. She stroked back his crisp dark hair and kissed him where the hair grew into a point on his forehead. “Yes, John,” she said.

  “And I can talk to you,” said John. “I never could talk to anybody before. Just talk and talk about anything that comes into my head, with no feeling that you’ll be bored or that you’ll laugh at me.”

  “Be bored? Laugh at you? Oh John!”

  “Is that love, Garnet?”

  “Yes. John, don’t you understand what I’ve tried to tell you?”

  “I’m not sure,” said John. “It’s so new and I’m so astonished by it. Maybe it’s everything you said it was. Maybe it’s not. I don’t know. Maybe it will last. Maybe I’ll get over it and wonder what ever possessed me. But right now, right this minute, it’s true. I can’t tell you any more than that.”

  “That’s enough,” said Garnet. She laid her cheek against his. “That’s all I wanted.”

  “It’s not all you wanted. You wanted a lot of stuff about the next forty years.”

  “I don’t any more. I told you I’ve decided to live one day at a time.”

  “I hope so,” John said, “because that’s the best I can do myself.”

  Garnet raised her head so she could look down at his face, the dark skin and green eyes and the harshly cut lines about his mouth. He was watching her with a tender teasing look. “John,” she said, “why have you been so afraid of love? So apart from people?” He looked puzzled, and she asked, “Didn’t anybody ever love you?”

  He shook his head.

  “I don’t mean the way I love you,” said Garnet. “But there must have been some people who cared about you.”

  “Why no,” said John. He shrugged his good shoulder. “I’m afraid that sounds as if I were making a bid for sympathy. I don’t mean to be.”

  Garnet had been kneeling by the bed. She moved back a little and sat on the floor, looking at him in a pained astonishment. “Not even your mother and father, John?”

  “Oh, I suppose they did. But they died when I was a year old.”

  “And then what happened?”

  “I told you I was an object of charity,” John returned.

  Garnet gave him a long look. She saw the tenseness about his eyes, and the hard set of his mouth; John was remembering, and what he was remembering was not pleasant. “John, my darling,” she exclaimed, “what did they do to you? Did they beat you?”

  “Certainly not. They gave me expensive clothes to wear and linen sheets to sleep on and a tutor to teach me Latin. Everybody said how kind they were and how grateful I ought to be. Grateful!”

  John said the last word as though it were an ugly oath. Then he gave a one-sided smile as though ashamed of his own vehemence. He added,

  “I suppose I’m being too hard on them. They never meant to be cruel. But they resented me so much they couldn’t help themselves. You see, I was the shame of a fine old clan. The Ives family has been in Virginia since what amounts to the year one for Americans. They’re very rich, and very proud. My uncle Augustus was typical of them. Augustus improved his plantation, he was a pillar of society, he married just as they had hoped. Aunt Edith was the perfect wife for him. She never did anything that was not utterly correct. Garnet, do you know that kind of woman?”

  Garnet was reminded of the mother of Henry Trellen, that pompous young bore who had asked her to marry him just before she met Oliver. She remembered the description she had secretly given Mrs. Trellen long ago. Hearing what John said about his aunt Edith, she asked, “You mean she looked like a marble angel on a tombstone?”

  “Exactly,” John said with a tart amusement.

  “Go on about the Ives family,” said Garnet.

  John continued. “Edith and Augustus had just the sort of life they wanted. The only flaw in their peace was Augustus’ brother, John Richard. He was my father. From his youth on, John Richard was no good. He drank, he gambled, he spent his money on worthless women—”

  “John!” she interrupted him sharply.

  He turned with a look of surprise. “Don’t you understand?”

  “John, they didn’t tell you all this about your father!”

  “Why yes they did. How else would I have known?”

  “But even if it was true, why tell you? You couldn’t be blamed for it!”

  “You think not?” he asked with a cold wisdom.

  Garnet shivered at the thought of what they had done to him. John went on.

  He told her John Richard Ives had finally run off and married a girl who worked in a milliner’s shop. The Ives family never saw this girl, or wanted to. They knew nothing about her. But since they set so high a value on property and blue blood, it was plain to them that she must be a smart little baggage who had enticed John Richard Ives into marrying her because he had money and a fine old name. It was equally plain that John Richard was an even bigger fool than they had thought he was.

  John Richard took a house in Norfolk, where he poured out money buying his wife every silly frippery he could think of. Among other things, he bought a pleasure boat so they could go sailing on the bay. They were out in the boat one day when there came a sudden storm. The boat was torn to pieces. A day or two later both their bodies were cast up by the tide.

  At least the wastrel brother could now bring no more shame upon the family. Augustus might have sighed with relief, except for two appalling facts. The wastrel brother had left five thousand dollars’ worth of debts. He had also left a son a year old.

  Augustus and his wife Edith talked it over. There was a disagreeable duty before them. They told each other in grim righteousness that they were not people to shirk their duty. Augustus paid the debts. He and Edith took the baby into their home to grow up with their own children. Everybody told them how noble they were. Haloed with nobility, they put Jo
hn through eighteen years of torture.

  They never cuffed him about, or let him shiver for lack of coat or blanket. They merely talked to him. They explained to him, in the kindest way, how much they were doing for him. They told him he must be good, he must be grateful, and they sorrowfully said he was not good and he was not grateful. They told him he must not be like his parents, and they told him every day that he was just like them. Every childish fault of his was met with the gentle reproach, “Now that’s how your father used to behave. You don’t want to be like your father, do you, dear?” Rumpled hair and untidy clothes brought the advice that if he wanted people to forget his mother had been a common woman, he must not look common himself. And the general rebuke, the one he heard oftenest, from an aunt and uncle with pain in their voices, was, “After all we’ve done for you, this is our reward!”

  When he was fourteen years old John ran away. They found him the next day and brought him back. They were surprised and hurt. They could not understand why a boy who had such a happy home should not appreciate it.

  They sent him to the University of Virginia with his cousin, their own son. But John could not stand any more of their self-righteous favors. By this time he had made up his mind that he was going to repay his uncle and aunt every cent they had spent on him, and then he was going to make himself richer than they had ever been. He was never again going to be dependent on anybody in any way.

  He quit the university, and with six dollars in his pocket he went to Boston. He went there for no reason except that it was a busy town where a man should be able to make a living. He had no equipment for making a living. He had studied Latin, philosophy, and Greek, but he had never learned carpentry or tailoring. He got jobs at unskilled labor. He hung around the wharfs, loaded cargo, carried baggage for travelers. He worked twelve or fourteen hours a day and lived in a tenement room. For the first time in his life he had a sense of independence.

  He made no friends. He did not quarrel with his fellow-workers, but he did not know how to make friends. They thought he was a good laborer, but stuck-up. John was held back from them by a dread of intimacy. He had a compulsion to pay for everything he received, and he was afraid that if he got close to anybody he would somehow get under obligation.

  He unloaded ships bringing hides from California. The sailors told him about the big ranchos, and said an American could get a land-grant there. It sounded like a place where a shrewd fellow could get rich. John found a job as assistant to the supercargo of a ship going around the Horn. When he got to California, he made his way up to Los Angeles and asked Mr. Abbott for work.

  As always, he worked hard and talked little. He made no friends except the Brute, and this was the Brute’s doing more than his own. John found it very pleasant to have a friend. It did not enter his head that he had been starving for human affection. He knew only that he liked the big Russian very much, and he was surprised at how much the big Russian liked him.

  But he never talked to the Brute about himself. He hated people who complained. His aunt Edith’s attacks of refined self-pity had given him a dread of whining. Until this very day, when he finally told Garnet about it, he had never spoken of his childhood to a living soul.

  He had kept silent about it for so long that telling of it now was not easy. He talked in brief sentences, speaking in a monotone that Garnet found more moving than any passionate speech. He did not tell her a great deal, but she heard more than he said. Between his sentences she heard the secret sobs of a little boy who could not understand why nobody wanted him, and behind his quiet voice she guessed the shell of indifference he had put on to protect himself from ever being hurt like that again. She knelt by him and put her arms around him and told him she loved him. It was all she could do, and as she felt his good left arm go around her and hold her as close to him as he could, she knew it was enough.

  FORTY-SIX

  GARNET WENT BACK TO Los Angeles with the Brute. He stayed only a day or two before returning to Santa Barbara, but he came back soon, bringing another note crookedly printed by John’s left hand. John said he was taking the ship to San Francisco, but would come south again as soon as he could and they would be married.

  Garnet had gone back to work at the bar. Florinda had said it was not necessary, but Garnet could see how much she was needed. The traders were back from Santa Fe, and the saloon was full all day.

  Garnet was glad to see the traders. She had not seen them last winter, for when the train came in she and Florinda had been at Doña Manuela’s. But she was somewhat dismayed to find that Mr. Penrose was back with the others. She had nearly forgotten him. But here he was, again gazing eagerly upon Florinda. Garnet thought Florinda would have at least a few sharp words to say to him, reminding him that he had left her half dead at Don Antonio’s. But to Garnet’s surprise, Florinda regarded him with indifference. If he spoke to her she said carelessly, “Oh run along, do. Can’t you see I’m busy?”

  She really felt no resentment toward him. Florinda had not taken the trail because of any love for Mr. Penrose. She had wanted to come to California and she had needed an escort. He was not the only man in the train who would have been glad to have her. She had chosen him because he was thick-headed enough not to give her any trouble. Penrose was a successful trader, and one reason for his success was his lubberly insensitiveness. He could work a mule to death or kick a dying Indian out of his way, without any feeling in the matter. Florinda knew this. She was too clear in her thinking to feel any wrath toward him simply because he had behaved as he might have been expected to behave. Right now he was a bit of a nuisance, but no more.

  Garnet admired her coolness. Florinda had had a long hard battle, and it had taught her not to expect too much of the human race. Garnet envied such wisdom, because she knew very well that she did not have it.

  She did not, for instance, feel indifferent about Mrs. Charles Hale. She felt for her a guilty dislike. Though she found it impossible to believe any woman could have married Charles for love of him, though she knew that Mr. Radney’s fortune and Charles’ together had made Lydia Hale an immensely rich woman, still the fact remained that she herself had fired the gun. Lydia did not know this, but it was still true. Garnet was glad when she heard that Lydia had sailed for Boston on the brig of which she was now half owner. She had left the rancho in charge of a Yankee she had brought down from the north, promising that she would attend to her property in Boston and come back to California on the brig’s next voyage. That seemed to Garnet an excellent arrangement. By the time Lydia got back she herself would have been long married to John. She was never going to try to get any of the Hale property. Leaving it in Lydia’s hands seemed like making some compensation for having shot Lydia’s husband. Her conscience was not quite clear on any of it, but it was the best she could do.

  For several days she wondered what had become of Captain Brown. Other officers came to the bar as often as ever, but Captain Brown did not. Florinda did not speak of him and Garnet was pretty sure she would not until she was asked. So one evening when they were alone she asked what he was doing.

  “He’s in town,” said Florinda. “Probably will be here till the New York Regiment is mustered out. But you won’t see him if he can help it. He asked me to let him know when you got back, so I did.”

  “I suppose he hates every bone in my body,” said Garnet.

  “No,” Florinda said quietly, “I don’t think so. He and I had a couple of long talks. I told him how things were.”

  “What did you tell him?”

  “I told him you had been just about to marry him. But I said, ‘Captain Brown, she was no more in love with you than she was in love with General Kearny. She’d have made you a good wife as they go. But she’d have been unfaithful to you in her mind every night of her life.’”

  “You said that to him?”

  “I did, my dear, because that’s the truth, isn’t it? I’m a very good liar, as you know, but there are times when I tell the trut
h. I believe he was a bit shocked at my mentioning such things, but he got the idea. He’s badly hurt, but he’ll get over it. He told me to tell you he hoped he wouldn’t have to see you again, because he thought it would be easier on you both if he didn’t. That’s all.”

  Garnet went over to her and kissed the top of her head. “Thank you, Florinda,” she said.

  “Did I do right?”

  “You did it better than anybody else could have. Thank you.”

  A week after her return to Los Angeles, Mr. Abbott wrote Garnet a note about Texas. He told her Texas had said to him, several times, that if anything should happen to him he wanted his little property to be given to Mrs. Hale and her baby. There was nothing about this in writing, but Texas had no natural heirs and Mr. Abbott thought he ought to follow his wishes. After everything Texas owed had been paid up, there was about a thousand dollars in hides and merchandise on deposit. If Mrs. Hale would call at the store to sign a receipt, he would put this to her account.

  Garnet felt rich. In a town where living was so cheap, a thousand dollars was a fortune. She told Mr. Abbott to give a hundred dollars to Señora Vargas, Texas’ landlady, to reward her for taking care of him so many times when he was drunk. Señora Vargas, who had never had this much money at one time in her life, bought a red shawl and a pair of red shoes and invited her friends to a party at which, also for the first time, she got drunk herself.

  Garnet told Florinda she wanted to keep her promise of helping to pay Estelle for the business she had lost by letting Texas die at her house. The episode had cost a good deal, for Estelle’s place had been closed for several days while the army investigated Charles’ death. Garnet asked Florinda how much she should give her.

  Florinda considered, and said, “Would two hundred be all right?”

  “Yes, that’s all right. How do I give it to her? Would it shock Mr. Abbott if I told him to assign two hundred dollars’ worth of my credit to Estelle?”

  “He would die of insulted modesty, dear. Have it assigned to me, and I’ll transfer it to Silky. Since Silky and I own the saloon jointly Mr. Abbott will think nothing of that. I’ll tell Silky you gave it to me, and what it’s for. I won’t mention that I told you he had any connection with Estelle’s business, but I will personally stand over him while he writes the paper giving Estelle her share.”