Trent's Trust Page #3

"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

								

room and see the stranger again and return to him the coin which was no
longer necessary.

But the stranger had not yet arrived when he reached the room. Over an
hour had elapsed since their strange meeting. A new fear came upon
him: was it possible he had mistaken the hotel, and his benefactor was
awaiting him elsewhere, perhaps even beginning to suspect not only his
gratitude but his honesty! The thought made him hot again, but he was
helpless. Not knowing the stranger's name, he could not inquire without
exposing his situation to the landlord. But again, there was the key,
and it was scarcely possible that it fitted another 74 in another
hotel. He did not dare to leave the room, but sat by the window, peering
through the streaming panes into the storm-swept street below. Gradually
the fatigue his excitement had hitherto kept away began to overcome him;
his eyes once or twice closed during his vigil, his head nodded against
the pane. He rose and walked up and down the room to shake off his
drowsiness. Another hour passed--nine o'clock, blown in fitful, far-off
strokes from some wind-rocked steeple. Still no stranger. How inviting
the bed looked to his weary eyes! The man had told him he wanted rest;
he could lie down on the bed in his clothes until he came. He would
waken quickly and be ready for his benefactor's directions. It was a
great temptation. He yielded to it. His head had scarcely sunk upon the
pillow before he slipped into a profound and dreamless sleep.

He awoke with a start, and for a few moments lay vaguely staring at the
sunbeams that stretched across his bed before he could recall himself.
The room was exactly as before, the portmanteau strapped and pushed
under the table as he had left it. There came a tap at the door--the
chambermaid to do up the room. She had been there once already,
but seeing him asleep, she had forborne to wake him. Apparently the
spectacle of a gentleman lying on the bed fully dressed, even to his
boots, was not an unusual one at that hotel, for she made no comment. It
was twelve o'clock, but she would come again later.

He was bewildered. He had slept the round of the clock--that was natural
after his fatigue--but where was his benefactor? The lateness of the
time forbade the conclusion that he had merely slept elsewhere; he
would assuredly have returned by this time to claim his portmanteau. The
portmanteau! He unstrapped it and examined the contents again. They were
undisturbed as he had left them the night before. There was a further
change of linen, the buckskin bag, which he could see now contained
a couple of Bank of England notes, with some foreign gold mixed with
American half-eagles, and a cheap, rough memorandum book clasped with
elastic, containing a letter in a boyish hand addressed "Dear Daddy"
and signed "Bobby," and a photograph of a boy taken by a foreign
photographer at Callao, as the printed back denoted, but nothing giving
any clue whatever to the name of the owner.

A strange idea seized him: did the portmanteau really belong to the man
who had given it to him? Had he been the innocent receiver of stolen
goods from some one who wished to escape detection? He recalled now that
he had heard stories of robbery of luggage by thieves "Sydney ducks"--on
the deserted wharves, and remembered, too,--he could not tell why the
thought had escaped him before,--that the man had spoken with an English
accent. But the next moment he recalled his frank and open manner, and
his mind cleared of all unworthy suspicion. It was more than likely that
his benefactor had taken this delicate way of making a free, permanent
gift for that temporary service. Yet he smiled faintly at the return of
that youthful optimism which had caused him so much suffering.

Nevertheless, something must be done: he must try to find the man; still
more important, he must seek work before this dubious loan was further
encroached upon. He restrapped the portmanteau and replaced it under the
table, locked the door, gave the key to the office clerk, saying that
any one who called upon him was to await his return, and sallied forth.
A fresh wind and a blue sky of scudding clouds were all that remained
of last night's storm. As he made his way to the fateful wharf, still
deserted except by an occasional "wharf-rat,"--as the longshore vagrant
or petty thief was called,--he wondered at his own temerity of last
night, and the trustfulness of his friend in yielding up his portmanteau
to a stranger in such a place. A low drinking saloon, feebly disguised
as a junk shop, stood at the corner, with slimy green steps leading to
the water.

The wharf was slowly decaying, and here and there were occasional gaps
in the planking, as dangerous as the one from which he had escaped the
night before. He thought again of the warning he might have given to
the stranger; but he reflected that as a seafaring man he must have been
familiar with the locality where he had landed. But had he landed there?
To Randolph's astonishment, there was no sign or trace of any late
occupation of the wharf, and the ship whose crossyards he had seen dimly
through the darkness the night before was no longer there. She might
have "warped out" in the early morning, but there was no trace of her
in the stream or offing beyond. A bark and brig quite dismantled at an
adjacent wharf seemed to accent the loneliness. Beyond, the open channel
between him and Verba Buena Island was racing with white-maned seas and
sparkling in the shifting sunbeams. The scudding clouds above him drove
down the steel-blue sky. The lateen sails of the Italian fishing boats
were like shreds of cloud, too, blown over the blue and distant bay.
His ears sang, his eyes blinked, his pulses throbbed, with the untiring,
fierce activity of a San Francisco day.

With something of its restlessness he hurried back to the hotel. Still
the stranger was not there, and no one had called for him. The room had
been put in order; the portmanteau, that sole connecting link with his
last night's experience, was under the table. He drew it out again, and
again subjected it to a minute examination. A few toilet articles, not
of the best quality, which he had overlooked at first, the linen, the
buckskin purse, the memorandum book, and the suit of clothes he stood
in, still comprised all he knew of his benefactor. He counted the money
in the purse; it amounted, with the Bank of England notes, to about
seventy dollars, as he could roughly guess. There was a scrap of paper,
the torn-off margin of a newspaper, lying in the purse, with an address
hastily scribbled in pencil. It gave, however, no name, only a number:
"85 California Street." It might be a clue. He put it, with the purse,
carefully in his pocket, and after hurriedly partaking of his forgotten
breakfast, again started out.

He presently found himself in the main thoroughfare of last night, which

								Rate this book:0.0 / 0 votes