Trent's Trust Page #6

"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

								


He had once thought of confiding his doubts to Mr. Revelstoke, the bank
president, but he had a dread of that gentleman's curt conclusions
and remembered his injunction to "hang on to his trust." Since his
installation, Mr. Revelstoke had merely acknowledged his presence by
a good-humored nod now and then, although Randolph had an instinctive
feeling that he was perfectly informed as to his progress. It was wiser
for Randolph to confine himself strictly to his duty and keep his own
counsel.

Yet he was young, and it was not strange that in his idle moments his
thoughts sometimes reverted to the pretty girl he had seen on the night
of his arrival, nor that he should wish to parade his better fortune
before her curious eyes. Neither was it strange that in this city, whose
day-long sunshine brought every one into the public streets, he should
presently have that opportunity. It chanced that one afternoon, being
in the residential quarter, he noticed a well-dressed young girl walking
before him in company with a delicate looking boy of seven or eight
years. Something in the carriage of her graceful figure, something in
a certain consciousness and ostentation of coquetry toward her youthful
escort, attracted his attention. Yet it struck him that she was neither
related to the child nor accustomed to children's ways, and that she
somewhat unduly emphasized this to the passers-by, particularly those of
his own sex, who seemed to be greatly attracted by her evident beauty.
Presently she ascended the steps of a handsome dwelling, evidently their
home, and as she turned he saw her face. It was the girl he remembered.
As her eye caught his, he blushed with the consciousness of their former
meeting; yet, in the very embarrassment of the moment, he lifted his
hat in recognition. But the salutation was met only by a cold, critical
stare. Randolph bit his lip and passed on. His reason told him she
was right, his instinct told him she was unfair; the contradiction
fascinated him.

Yet he was destined to see her again. A month later, while seated at his
desk, which overlooked the teller's counter, he was startled to see her
enter the bank and approach the counter. She was already withdrawing
a glove from her little hand, ready to affix her signature to the
receipted form to be proffered by the teller. As she received the gold
in exchange, he could see, by the increased politeness of that official,
his evident desire to prolong the transaction, and the sidelong
glances of his fellow clerks, that she was apparently no stranger but a
recognized object of admiration. Although her face was slightly flushed
at the moment, Randolph observed that she wore a certain proud reserve,
which he half hoped was intended as a check to these attentions. Her
eyes were fixed upon the counter, and this gave him a brief opportunity
to study her delicate beauty. For in a few moments she was gone; whether
she had in her turn observed him he could not say. Presently he rose and
sauntered, with what he believed was a careless air, toward the paying
teller's counter and the receipt, which, being the last, was plainly
exposed on the file of that day's "taking." He was startled by a titter
of laughter from the clerks and by the teller ironically lifting the
file and placing it before him.

"That's her name, sonny, but I didn't think that you'd tumble to it
quite as quick as the others. Every new man manages to saunter round
here to get a sight of that receipt, and I've seen hoary old depositors
outside edge around inside, pretendin' they wanted to see the dep, jest
to feast their eyes on that girl's name. Take a good look at it and
paste a copy in your hat, for that's all you'll know of her, you bet.
Perhaps you think she's put her address and her 'at home' days on the
receipt. Look hard and maybe you'll see 'em."

The instinct of youthful retaliation to say he knew her address already
stirred Randolph, but he shut his lips in time, and moved away. His desk
neighbor informed him that the young lady came there once a month and
drew a hundred dollars from some deposit to her credit, but that was all
they knew. Her name was Caroline Avondale, yet there was no one of that
name in the San Francisco Directory.

But Randolph's romantic curiosity would not allow the incident to rest
there. A favorable impression he had produced on Mr. Dingwall enabled
him to learn more, and precipitated what seemed to him a singular
discovery. "You will find," said the deputy manager, "the statement
of the first deposit to Miss Avondale's credit in letters in your
own department. The account was opened two years ago through a South
American banker. But I am afraid it will not satisfy your curiosity."
Nevertheless, Randolph remained after office hours and spent some time
in examining the correspondence of two years ago. He was rewarded at
last by a banker's letter from Callao advising the remittance of one
thousand dollars to the credit of Miss Avondale of San Francisco. The
letter was written in Spanish, of which Randolph had a fair knowledge,
but it was made plainer by a space having been left in the formal letter
for the English name, which was written in another hand, together with
a copy of Miss Avondale's signature for identification--the usual
proceeding in those early days, when personal identification was
difficult to travelers, emigrants, and visitors in a land of strangers.

But here he was struck by a singular resemblance which he at first put
down to mere coincidence of names. The child's photograph which he
had found in the portmanteau was taken at Callao. That was a mere
coincidence, but it suggested to his mind a more singular one--that the
handwriting of the address was, in some odd fashion, familiar to him.
That night when he went home he opened the portmanteau and took from the
purse the scrap of paper with the written address of the bank, and on
comparing it with the banker's letter the next day he was startled to
find that the handwriting of the bank's address and that in which the
girl's name was introduced in the banker's letter were apparently the
same. The letters in the words "Caroline" and "California" appeared as
if formed by the same hand. How this might have struck a chirographical
expert he did not know. He could not consult the paying teller, who was
supposed to be familiar with signatures, without exposing his secret and
himself to ridicule. And, after all, what did it prove? Nothing. Even
if this girl were cognizant of the man who supplied her address to the
Callao banker two years ago, and he was really the missing owner of the
portmanteau, would she know where he was now? It might make an opening
for conversation if he ever met her familiarly, but nothing more. Yet
I am afraid another idea occasionally took possession of Randolph's
romantic fancy. It was pleasant to think that the patron of his own

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