Trent's Trust, and Other Stories. Bret Harte
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thought it was the umbrella,” said Miss Avondale dryly.
She had once before halted him on the perilous edge of sentiment by a similar cynicism, but this time it cut him deeply. For he could not be blind to the fact that she treated him like a mere boy, and in dispelling the illusions of his instincts and beliefs seemed as if intent upon dispelling his illusions of HER; and in her half-smiling abstraction he read only the well-bred toleration of one who is beginning to be bored. He made his excuses early and went home. Nevertheless, although regretting he had not left her the letter and photograph, he deposited them in the bank safe the next day, and tried to feel that he had vindicated his character for grown-up wisdom.
Then, in his conflicting emotions, he punished himself, after the fashion of youth, by avoiding the beloved one’s presence for several days. He did this in the belief that it would enable him to make up his mind whether to reveal his real feelings to her, and perhaps there was the more alluring hope that his absence might provoke some manifestations of sentiment on her part. But she made no sign. And then came a reaction in his feelings, with a heightened sense of loyalty to his benefactor. For, freed of any illusion or youthful fancy now, a purely unselfish gratitude to the unknown man filled his heart. In the lapse of his sentiment he clung the more closely to this one honest romance of his life.
One afternoon, at the close of business, he was a little astonished to receive a message from Mr. Dingwall, the deputy manager, that he wished to see him in his private office. He was still more astonished when Mr. Dingwall, after offering him a chair, stood up with his hands under his coat tails before the fireplace, and, with a hesitancy half reserved, half courteous, but wholly English, said,—
“I—er—would be glad, Mr. Trent, if you would—er—give me the pleasure of your company at dinner to-morrow.”
Randolph, still amazed, stammered his acceptance.
“There will be—er—a young lady in whom you were—er—interested some time ago. Er—Miss Avondale.”
Randolph, feeling he was coloring, and uncertain whether he should speak of having met her since, contented himself with expressing his delight.
“In fact,” continued Mr. Dingwall, clearing his throat as if he were also clearing his conscience of a tremendous secret, “she—er—mentioned your name. There is Sir William Dornton coming also. Sir William has recently succeeded his elder brother, who—er—it seems, was the gentleman you were inquiring about when you first came here, and who, it is now ascertained, was drowned in the bay a few months ago. In fact—er—it is probable that you were the last one who saw him alive. I thought I would tell you,” continued Mr. Dingwall, settling his chin more comfortably in his checked cravat, “in case Sir William should speak of him to you.”
Randolph was staggered. The abrupt revelation of his benefactor’s name and fate, casually coupled with an invitation to dinner, shocked and confounded him. Perhaps Mr. Dingwall noticed it and misunderstood the cause, for he added in parenthetical explanation: “Yes, the man whose portmanteau you took charge of is dead; but you did your duty, Mr. Trent, in the matter, although the recovery of the portmanteau was unessential to the case.”
“Dead,” repeated Randolph, scarcely heeding him. “But is it true? Are they sure?”
Mr. Dingwall elevated his eyebrows. “The large property at stake of course rendered the most satisfactory proofs of it necessary. His father had died only a month previous, and of course they were seeking the presumptive heir, the so-called ‘Captain John Dornton’—your man—when they made the discovery of his death.”
Randolph thought of the strange body at the wharf, of the coroner’s vague verdict, and was unconvinced. “But,” he said impulsively, “there was a child.” He checked himself as he remembered this was one of Miss Avondale’s confidences to him.
“Ah—Miss Avondale has spoken of a child?” said Mr. Dingwall dryly.
“I saw her with one which she said was Captain Dornton’s, which had been left in her care after the death of his wife,” said Randolph in hurried explanation.
“John Dornton had no WIFE,” said Mr. Dingwall severely. “The boy is a natural son. Captain John lived a wild, rough, and—er—an eccentric life.”
“I thought—I understood from Miss Avondale that he was married,” stammered the young man.
“In your rather slight acquaintance with that young lady I should imagine she would have had some delicacy in telling you otherwise,” returned Mr. Dingwall primly.
Randolph felt the truth of this, and was momentarily embarrassed. Yet he lingered.
“Has Miss Avondale known of this discovery long?” he asked.
“About two weeks, I should say,” returned Mr. Dingwall. “She was of some service to Sir William in getting up certain proofs he required.”
It was three weeks since she had seen Randolph, yet it would have been easy for her to communicate the news to him. In these three weeks his romance of their common interest in his benefactor—even his own dream of ever seeing him again—had been utterly dispelled.
It was in no social humor that he reached Dingwall’s house the next evening. Yet he knew the difficulty of taking an aggressive attitude toward his previous idol or of inviting a full explanation from her then.
The guests, with the exception of himself and Miss Avondale, were all English. She, self-possessed and charming in evening dress, nodded to him with her usual mature patronage, but did not evince the least desire to seek him for any confidential aside. He noticed the undoubted resemblance of Sir William Dornton to his missing benefactor, and yet it produced a singular repulsion in him, rather than any sympathetic predilection. At table he found that Miss Avondale was separated from him, being seated beside the distinguished guest, while he was placed next to the young lady he had taken down—a Miss Eversleigh, the cousin of Sir William. She was tall, and Randolph’s first impression of her was that she was stiff and constrained—an impression he quickly corrected at the sound of her voice, her frank ingenuousness, and her unmistakable youth. In the habit of being crushed by Miss Avondale’s unrelenting superiority, he found himself apparently growing up beside this tall English girl, who had the naivete of a child. After a few commonplaces she suddenly turned her gray eyes on his, and said,—
“Didn’t you like Jack? I hope you did. Oh, say you did—do!”
“You mean Captain John Dornton?” said Randolph, a little confused.
“Yes, of course; HIS brother”—glancing toward Sir William. “We always called him Jack, though I was ever so little when he went away. No one thought of calling him anything else but Jack. Say you liked him!”
“I certainly did,” returned Randolph impulsively. Then checking himself, he added, “I only saw him once, but I liked his face and manner—and—he was very kind to me.”
“Of course he was,” said the young girl quickly. “That was only like him, and yet”—lowering her voice slightly—“would you believe that they all say he was wild and wicked and dissipated? And why? Fancy! Just because he didn’t care to stay at home and shoot and hunt and race and make debts, as heirs usually do. No, he wanted to see the world and do something for himself. Why, when he was quite young, he could manage a boat like any sailor. Dornton Hall, their place, is on the coast, you know, and they say that, just for adventure’s sake, after he went away, he shipped as first mate somewhere over here on the Pacific, and made two or three voyages. You know—don’t you?—and how every one was shocked at such conduct in the heir.”
Her face was so girlishly animated, with such sparkle of eye and responsive color, that he could hardly reconcile it with her first restraint or with his accepted traditions of her unemotional race, or, indeed, with her relationship to the principal guest. His latent feeling of gratitude to the dead man warmed under the young girl’s voice.
“It’s so dreadful to think of him as drowned, you know, though even that they put against him,” she went on hurriedly, “for they say he was probably drowned in some drunken fit—fell through