Trent's Trust Page #5

"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

								

upon keeping the bag. He thought of the parting words of the president,
and resolved upon "hanging on to his trust," whatever happened. But he
was agreeably surprised to find that he was received at the office with
a certain respect not usually shown to the casual visitor. "Your caller
turned up to-day"--Randolph started--"from the Eureka bank," continued
the clerk. "Sorry we could not give your name, but you know you
only left a deposit in your letter and sent a messenger for your key
yesterday afternoon. When you came you went straight to your room.
Perhaps you would like to register now." Randolph no longer hesitated,
reflecting that he could explain it all later to his unknown benefactor,
and wrote his name boldly. But he was still more astonished when the
clerk continued: "I reckon it was a case of identifying you for a
draft--it often happens here--and we'd have been glad to do it for you.
But the bank clerk seemed satisfied with out description of you--you're
easily described, you know" (this in a parenthesis, complimentarily
intended)--"so it's all right. We can give you a better room lower down,
if you're going to stay longer." Not knowing whether to laugh or to be
embarrassed at this extraordinary conclusion of the blunder, Randolph
answered that he had just come from the bank, adding, with a pardonable
touch of youthful pride, that he was entering the bank's employment the
next day.

Another equally agreeable surprise met him on his arrival there the next
morning. Without any previous examination or trial he was installed at
once as a corresponding clerk in the place of one just promoted to
a sub-agency in the interior. His handwriting, his facility of
composition, had all been taken for granted, or perhaps predicated
upon something the president had discerned in that one quick, absorbing
glance. He ventured to express the thought to his neighbor.

"The boss," said that gentleman, "can size a man in and out, and all
through, in about the time it would take you and me to tell the color of
his hair. HE don't make mistakes, you bet; but old Dingy--the dep--you
settled with your clothes."

"My clothes!" echoed Randolph, with a faint flush.

"Yes, English cut--that fetched him."

And so his work began. His liberal salary, which seemed to him
munificent in comparison with his previous earnings in the mines,
enabled him to keep the contents of the buckskin purse intact, and
presently to return the borrowed suit of clothes to the portmanteau. The
mysterious owner should find everything as when he first placed it in
his hands. With the quick mobility of youth and his own rather mercurial
nature, he had begun to forget, or perhaps to be a little ashamed of his
keen emotions and sufferings the night of his arrival, until that night
was recalled to him in a singular way.

One Sunday a vague sense of duty to his still missing benefactor
impelled him to spend part of his holiday upon the wharves. He had
rambled away among the shipping at the newer pier slips, and had gazed
curiously upon decks where a few seamen or officers in their Sunday
apparel smoked, paced, or idled, trying vainly to recognize the face
and figure which had once briefly flashed out under the flickering wharf
lamp. Was the stranger a shipmaster who had suddenly transferred himself
to another vessel on another voyage? A crowd which had gathered around
some landing steps nearer shore presently attracted his attention. He
lounged toward it and looked over the shoulders of the bystanders down
upon the steps. A boat was lying there, which had just towed in the body
of a man found floating on the water. Its features were already
swollen and defaced like a hideous mask; its body distended beyond all
proportion, even to the bursting of its sodden clothing. A tremulous
fascination came over Randolph as he gazed. The bystanders made their
brief comments, a few authoritatively and with the air of nautical
experts.

"Been in the water about a week, I reckon."

"'Bout that time; just rucked up and floated with the tide."

"Not much chance o' spottin' him by his looks, eh?"

"Nor anything else, you bet. Reg'larly cleaned out. Look at his
pockets."

"Wharf-rats or shanghai men?"

"Betwixt and between, I reckon. Man who found him says he's got an ugly
cut just back of his head. Ye can't see it for his floating hair."

"Wonder if he got it before or after he got in the water."

"That's for the coroner to say."

"Much he knows or cares," said another cynically. "It'll just be a case
of 'Found drowned' and the regular twenty-five dollars to HIM, and five
to the man who found the body. That's enough for him to know."

Thrilled with a vague anxiety, Randolph edged forward for a nearer view
of the wretched derelict still gently undulating on the towline. The
closer he looked the more he was impressed by the idea of some frightful
mask that hid a face that refused to be recognized. But his attention
became fixed on a man who was giving some advice or orders and examining
the body scrutinizingly. Without knowing why, Randolph felt a sudden
aversion to him, which was deepened when the man, lifting his head, met
Randolph's eyes with a pair of shifting yet aggressive ones. He bore,
nevertheless, an odd, weird likeness to the missing man Randolph was
seeking, which strangely troubled him. As the stranger's eyes followed
him and lingered with a singular curiosity on Randolph's dress, he
remembered with a sudden alarm that he was wearing the suit of the
missing man. A quick impulse to conceal himself came upon him, but he as
quickly conquered it, and returned the man's cold stare with an anger he
could not account for, but which made the stranger avert his eyes. Then
the man got into the boat beside the boatman, and the two again towed
away the corpse. The head rose and fell with the swell, as if nodding a
farewell. But it was still defiant, under its shapeless mask, that even
wore a smile, as if triumphant in its hideous secret.

II

The opinion of the cynical bystander on the wharf proved to be a correct
one. The coroner's jury brought in the usual verdict of "Found drowned,"
which was followed by the usual newspaper comment upon the insecurity of
the wharves and the inadequate protection of the police.

Randolph Trent read it with conflicting emotions. The possibility he had
conceived of the corpse being that of his benefactor was dismissed when
he had seen its face, although he was sometimes tortured with doubt, and
a wonder if he might not have learned more by attending the inquest. And
there was still the suggestion that the mysterious disappearance might
have been accomplished by violence like this. He was satisfied that if
he had attempted publicly to identify the corpse as his missing friend
he would have laid himself open to suspicion with a story he could
hardly corroborate.

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