Trent's Trust Page #2

"Trent's Trust" is a short story by Bret Harte that explores themes of honor, loyalty, and the complexities of human relationships. Set in the rugged backdrop of the American West, the narrative follows the character of a man named Trent, who is faced with a moral dilemma involving a trust left to him. The story delves into his internal conflict as he navigates the expectations of society, personal integrity, and the bonds of friendship. Harte's rich storytelling and keen observations of character reveal the nuances of trust and the weight of choices in a rapidly changing world.

• Short story

								

youth--shame.

The street was deserted, and the few lights he had previously noted in
warehouses and shops were extinguished. It had grown darker with the
storm; the incongruous buildings on either side had become misshapen
shadows; the long perspective of the wharf was a strange gloom from
which the spars of a ship stood out like the cross he remembered as a
boy to have once seen in a picture of the tempest-smitten Calvary. It
was his only fancy connected with the future--it might have been his
last, for suddenly one of the planks of the rotten wharf gave way
beneath his feet, and he felt himself violently precipitated toward
the gurgling and oozing tide below. He threw out his arms desperately,
caught at a strong girder, drew himself up with the energy of
desperation, and staggered to his feet again, safe--and sane. For with
this terrible automatic struggle to avoid that death he was courting
came a flash of reason. If he had resolutely thrown himself from the
pier head as he intended, would he have undergone a hopeless revulsion
like this? Was he sure that this might not be, after all, the terrible
penalty of self-destruction--this inevitable fierce protest of mind and
body when TOO LATE? He was momentarily touched with a sense of gratitude
at his escape, but his reason told him it was not from his ACCIDENT, but
from his intention.

He was trying carefully to retrace his steps, but as he did so he saw
the figure of a man dimly lurching toward him out of the darkness of the
wharf and the crossed yards of the ship. A gleam of hope came over him,
for the emotion of the last few minutes had rudely displaced his pride
and self-love. He would appeal to this stranger, whoever he was; there
was more chance that in this rude locality he would be a belated sailor
or some humbler wayfarer, and the darkness and solitude made him feel
less ashamed. By the last flickering street lamp he could see that he
was a man about his own size, with something of the rolling gait of a
sailor, which was increased by the weight of a traveling portmanteau
he was swinging in his hand. As he approached he evidently detected
Randolph's waiting figure, slackened his speed slightly, and changed his
portmanteau from his right hand to his left as a precaution for defense.

Randolph felt the blood flush his cheek at this significant proof of
his disreputable appearance, but determined to accost him. He scarcely
recognized the sound of his own voice now first breaking the silence for
hours, but he made his appeal. The man listened, made a slight gesture
forward with his disengaged hand, and impelled Randolph slowly up to the
street lamp until it shone on both their faces. Randolph saw a man a
few years his senior, with a slightly trimmed beard on his dark,
weather-beaten cheeks, well-cut features, a quick, observant eye, and a
sailor's upward glance and bearing. The stranger saw a thin, youthful,
anxious, yet refined and handsome face beneath straggling damp curls,
and dark eyes preternaturally bright with suffering. Perhaps his
experienced ear, too, detected some harmony with all this in Randolph's
voice.

"And you want something to eat, a night's lodging, and a chance of work
afterward," the stranger repeated with good-humored deliberation.

"Yes," said Randolph.

"You look it."

Randolph colored faintly.

"Do you ever drink?"

"Yes," said Randolph wonderingly.

"I thought I'd ask," said the stranger, "as it might play hell with you
just now if you were not accustomed to it. Take that. Just a swallow,
you know--that's as good as a jugful."

He handed him a heavy flask. Randolph felt the burning liquor scald his
throat and fire his empty stomach. The stranger turned and looked down
the vacant wharf to the darkness from which he came. Then he turned to
Randolph again and said abruptly,--

"Strong enough to carry this bag?"

"Yes," said Randolph. The whiskey--possibly the relief--had given him
new strength. Besides, he might earn his alms.

"Take it up to room 74, Niantic Hotel--top of next street to this, one
block that way--and wait till I come."

"What name shall I say?" asked Randolph.

"Needn't say any. I ordered the room a week ago. Stop; there's the key.
Go in; change your togs; you'll find something in that bag that'll fit
you. Wait for me. Stop--no; you'd better get some grub there first."
He fumbled in his pockets, but fruitlessly. "No matter. You'll find a
buckskin purse, with some scads in it, in the bag. So long." And before
Randolph could thank him, he lurched away again into the semi-darkness
of the wharf.

Overflowing with gratitude at a hospitality so like that of his reckless
brethren of the mines, Randolph picked up the portmanteau and started
for the hotel. He walked warily now, with a new interest in life,
and then, suddenly thinking of his own miraculous escape, he paused,
wondering if he ought not to warn his benefactor of the perils of the
rotten wharf; but he had already disappeared. The bag was not heavy, but
he found that in his exhausted state this new exertion was telling,
and he was glad when he reached the hotel. Equally glad was he in his
dripping clothes to slip by the porter, and with the key in his pocket
ascend unnoticed to 74.

Yet had his experience been larger he might have spared himself that
sensitiveness. For the hotel was one of those great caravansaries
popular with the returning miner. It received him and his gold dust in
his worn-out and bedraggled working clothes, and returned him the next
day as a well-dressed citizen on Montgomery Street. It was hard indeed
to recognize the unshaven, unwashed, and unkempt "arrival" one met on
the principal staircase at night in the scrupulously neat stranger one
sat opposite to at breakfast the next morning. In this daily whirl of
mutation all identity was swamped, as Randolph learned to know.

At present, finding himself in a comfortable bedroom, his first act
was to change his wet clothes, which in the warmer temperature and
the decline of his feverishness now began to chill him. He opened the
portmanteau and found a complete suit of clothing, evidently a foreign
make, well preserved, as if for "shore-going." His pride would have
preferred a humbler suit as lessening his obligation, but there was no
other. He discovered the purse, a chamois leather bag such as miners and
travelers carried, which contained a dozen gold pieces and some paper
notes. Taking from it a single coin to defray the expenses of a meal, he
restrapped the bag, and leaving the key in the door lock for the benefit
of his returning host, made his way to the dining room.

For a moment he was embarrassed when the waiter approached him
inquisitively, but it was only to learn the number of his room to
"charge" the meal. He ate it quickly, but not voraciously, for his
appetite had not yet returned, and he was eager to get back to the

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