Trent's Trust, and Other Stories

“What had she been a-doing?”

The colonel was amazed, embarrassed, and speechless. He was totally unprepared for the question, and as unable to answer it. His abrupt departure from the shop had been to evade the very truth now demanded of him. Only a supreme effort of mendacity was left him. He wiped his brow with his handkerchief, coughed, and began deliberately:—

“The—er—lady in question is in the habit of using a scent called—er—patchouli, a—er—perfume exceedingly distressing to me. I detected it instantly on her entrance. I wished to avoid it—without further contact. It is—er—singular but accepted fact that some people are—er—peculiarly affected by odors. I had—er—old cherished friend who always—er—fainted at the odor of jasmine; and I was intimately acquainted with General Bludyer, who—er—dropped like a shot on the presentation of a simple violet. The—er—habit of using such perfumes excessively in public,” continued the colonel, looking down upon the innocent Pansy, and speaking in tones of deadly deliberation, “cannot be too greatly condemned, as well as the habit of—er—frequenting places of public resort in extravagant costumes, with—er—individuals who—er—intrude upon domestic privacy. I trust you will eschew such perfumes, places, costumes, and—er—companions FOREVER and—ON ALL OCCASIONS!” The colonel had raised his voice to his forensic emphasis, and Pansy, somewhat alarmed, assented. Whether she entirely accepted the colonel’s explanation was another matter.

The incident, although not again alluded to, seemed to shadow the rest of their brief afternoon holiday, and the colonel’s manner was unmistakably graver. But it seemed to the child more affectionate and thoughtful. He had previously at parting submitted to be kissed by Pansy with stately tolerance and an immediate resumption of his loftiest manner. On this present leave-taking he laid his straight closely shaven lips on the crown of her dark head, and as her small arms clipped his neck, drew her closely to his side. The child uttered a slight cry; the colonel hurriedly put his hand to his breast. Her round cheek had come in contact with his derringer—a small weapon of beauty and precision—which invariably nestled also at his side, in his waistcoat pocket. The child laughed; so did the colonel, but his cheek flushed mightily.

It was four months later, and a turbulent night. The early rains, driven by a strong southwester against the upper windows of the Magnolia Restaurant, sometimes blurred the radiance of the bright lights within, and the roar of the encompassing pines at times drowned the sounds of song and laughter that rose from a private supper room. Even the clattering arrival and departure of the Sacramento stage coach, which disturbed the depths below, did not affect these upper revelers. For Colonel Starbottle, Jack Hamlin, Judge Beeswinger, and Jo Wynyard, assisted by Mesdames Montague, Montmorency, Bellefield, and “Tinky” Clifford, of the “Western Star Combination Troupe,” then performing “on tour,” were holding “high jinks” in the supper room. The colonel had been of late moody, irritable, and easily upset. In the words of a friend and admirer, “he was kam only at twelve paces.”

In a lull in the general tumult a Chinese waiter was seen at the door vainly endeavoring to attract the attention of the colonel by signs and interjections. Mr. Hamlin’s quick eye first caught sight of the intruder. “Come in, Confucius,” said Jack pleasantly; “you’re a trifle late for a regular turn, but any little thing in the way of knife swallowing”—

“Lill missee to see connle! Waitee waitee, bottom side housee,” interrupted the Chinaman, dividing his speech between Jack and the colonel.

“What! ANOTHER lady? This is no place for me!” said Jack, rising with finely simulated decorum.

“Ask her up,” chirped “Tinky” Clifford.

But at this moment the door opened against the Chinaman, and a small figure in a cloak and hat, dripping with raindrops, glided swiftly in. After a moment’s half-frightened, half-admiring glance at the party, she darted forward with a little cry and threw her wet arms round the colonel. The rest of the company, arrested in their festivity, gasped with vague and smiling wonder; the colonel became purple and gasped. But only for a moment. The next instant he was on his legs, holding the child with one hand, while with the other he described a stately sweep of the table.

“My ward—Miss Pansy Stannard,” he said with husky brevity. But drawing the child aside, he whispered quickly, “What has happened? Why are you here?”

But Pansy, child-like, already diverted by the lights, the table piled with delicacies, the gayly dressed women, and the air of festivity, answered half abstractedly, and as much, perhaps, to the curious eyes about her as to the colonel’s voice,—

“I runned away!”

“Hush!” whispered the colonel, aghast.

But Pansy, responding again to the company rather than her guardian’s counsel, and as if appealing to them, went on half poutingly: “Yes! I runned away because they teased me! Because they didn’t like you and said horrid things. Because they told awful, dreadful lies! Because they said I wasn’t no orphan!—that my name wasn’t Stannard, and that you’d made it all up. Because they said I was a liar—and YOU WAS MY FATHER!”

A sudden outbreak of laughter here shook the room, and even drowned the storm outside; again and again it rose, as the colonel staggered gaspingly to his feet. For an instant it seemed as if his struggles to restrain himself would end in an apoplectic fit. Perhaps it was for this reason that Jack Hamlin checked his own light laugh and became alert and grave. Yet the next moment Colonel Starbottle went as suddenly dead white, as leaning over the table he said huskily, but deliberately, “I must request the ladies present to withdraw.”

“Don’t mind US, Colonel,” said Judge Beeswinger, “it’s all in the family here, you know! And now I look at the girl—hang it all! she DOES favor you, old man. Ha! ha!”

“And as for the ladies,” said Wynyard with a weak, vinous laugh, “unless any of ‘em is inclined to take the matter as PERSONAL—eh?”

“Stop!” roared the colonel.

There was no mistaking his voice nor his intent now. The two men, insulted and instantly sobered, were silent. Mr. Hamlin rose, playfully but determinedly tapped his fair companions on the shoulders, saying, “Run away and play, girls,” actually bundled them, giggling and protesting, from the room, closed the door, and stood with his back against it. Then it was seen that the colonel, still very white, was holding the child by the hand, as she shrank back wonderingly and a little frightened against him.

“I thank YOU, Mr. Hamlin,” said the colonel in a lower voice—yet with a slight touch of his habitual stateliness in it, “for being here to bear witness, in the presence of this child, to my unqualified statement that a more foul, vile, and iniquitous falsehood never was uttered than that which has been poured into her innocent ears!” He paused, walked to the door, still holding her hand, and, as Mr. Hamlin stepped aside, opened it, told her to await him in the public parlor, closed the door again, and once more faced the two men. “And,” he continued more deliberately, “for the infamous jests that you, Judge Beeswinger, and you, Mr. Wynyard, have dared to pass in her presence and mine, I shall expect from each of you the fullest satisfaction—personal satisfaction. My seconds will wait on you in the morning!”

The two men stood up sobered—yet belligerent.

“As you like, sir,” said Beeswinger, flashing.

“The sooner the better for me,” added Wynyard curtly.

They passed the unruffled Jack Hamlin with a smile and a vaguely significant air, as if calling him as a witness to the colonel’s madness, and strode out of the room.

As the door closed behind them, Mr. Hamlin lightly settled his white waistcoat, and, with his hands on his hips, lounged towards the colonel. “And THEN?” he said quietly.

“Eh?” said the colonel.

“After you’ve shot one or both of these men, or one of ‘em has knocked you out, what’s to become of that child?”

“If—I am—er—spared, sir,” said the colonel huskily, “I shall continue to defend her—against calumny and sneers”—

“In this style, eh? After her life has been made a hell by her association with a man of your reputation, you propose to whitewash it by a quarrel with a couple of drunken scallawags like Beeswinger and Wynyard, in the presence of three painted trollops and a d–d scamp like myself! Do you suppose this won’t be blown all over California before she can be sent back to school? Do you suppose those cackling hussies in the next room won’t give the whole story away to the next man who stands treat?” (A fine contempt for the sex in general was one of Mr. Hamlin’s most subtle attractions for them.)

“Nevertheless, sir,” stammered the colonel, “the prompt punishment of the man who has dared”—

“Punishment!” interrupted Hamlin, “who’s to punish the man who has dared most? The one man who is responsible for the whole thing? Who’s to punish YOU?”

“Mr. Hamlin—sir!” gasped the colonel, falling back, as his hand involuntarily rose to the level of his waistcoat pocket and his derringer.

But Mr. Hamlin only put down the wine glass he had lifted from the table and was delicately twirling between his fingers, and looked fixedly at the colonel.

“Look here,” he said slowly. “When the boys said that you accepted the guardianship of that child NOT on account of Dick Stannard, but only as a bluff against the joke they’d set up at you, I didn’t believe them! When these men and women to-night tumbled to that story of the child being YOURS, I didn’t believe that! When it was said by others that you were serious about making her your ward, and giving her your property, because you doted on her like a father, I didn’t believe that.”

“And—why not THAT?” said the colonel quickly, yet with an odd tremor in his voice.

“Because,” said Hamlin, becoming suddenly as grave as the colonel, “I could not believe that any one who cared a picayune for the child could undertake a trust that might bring her into contact with a life and company as rotten as ours. I could not believe that even the most God-forsaken, conceited fool would, for the sake of a little sentimental parade and splurge among people outside his regular walk, allow the prospects of that child to be blasted. I couldn’t believe it, even if he thought he was acting like a father. I didn’t believe it—but I’m beginning to believe it now!”

There was little to choose between the attitudes and expressions of the two set stern faces now regarding each other, silently, a foot apart. But the colonel was the first to speak:—

“Mr. Hamlin—sir! You said a moment ago that I was—er—ahem—responsible for this evening’s affair—but you expressed a doubt as to who could—er—punish me for it. I accept the responsibility you have indicated, sir, and offer you that chance. But as this matter between us must have precedence over—my engagements with that canaille, I shall expect you with your seconds at sunrise on Burnt Ridge. Good-evening, sir.”

With head erect the colonel left the room. Mr. Hamlin slightly shrugged his shoulders, turned to the door of the room whither he had just banished the ladies, and in a few minutes his voice was heard melodiously among the gayest.

For all that he managed to get them away early. When he had bundled them into a large carryall, and watched them drive away through the storm, he returned for a minute to the waiting room for his overcoat. He was surprised to hear the sound of the child’s voice in the supper room, and the door being ajar, he could see quite distinctly that she was seated at the table, with a plate full of sweets before her, while Colonel Starbottle, with his back to the door, was sitting opposite to her, his shoulders slightly bowed as he eagerly watched her. It seemed to Mr. Hamlin that it was the close of an emotional interview, for Pansy’s voice was broken, partly by sobs, and partly, I grieve to say, by the hurried swallowing of the delicacies before her. Yet, above the beating of the storm outside, he could hear her saying,—

“Yes! I promise to be good—(sob)—and to go with Mrs. Pyecroft—(sob)—and to try to like another guardian—(sob)—and not to cry any more—(sob)—and—oh, please, DON’T YOU DO IT EITHER!”

But here Mr. Hamlin slipped out of the room and out of the house, with a rather grave face. An hour later, when the colonel drove up to the Pyecrofts’ door with Pansy, he found that Mr. Pyecroft was slightly embarrassed, and a figure, which, in the darkness, seemed to resemble Mr. Hamlin’s, had just emerged from the door as he entered.

Yet the sun was not up on Burnt Ridge earlier than Mr. Hamlin. The storm of the night before had blown itself out; a few shreds of mist hung in the valleys from the Ridge, that lay above coldly reddening. Then a breeze swept over it, and out of the dissipating mist fringe Mr. Hamlin saw two black figures, closely buttoned up like himself, emerge, which he recognized as Beeswinger and Wynyard, followed by their seconds. But the colonel came not, Hamlin joined the others in an animated confidential conversation, attended by a watchful outlook for the missing adversary. Five, ten minutes elapsed, and yet the usually prompt colonel was not there. Mr. Hamlin looked grave; Wynyard and Beeswinger exchanged interrogatory glances. Then a buggy was seen driving furiously up the grade, and from it leaped Colonel Starbottle, accompanied by Dick MacKinstry, his second, carrying his pistol case. And then—strangely enough for men who were waiting the coming of an antagonist who was a dead shot—they drew a breath of relief!

MacKinstry slightly preceded his principal, and the others could see that Starbottle, though erect, was walking slowly. They were surprised also to observe that he was haggard and hollow eyed, and seemed, in the few hours that had elapsed since they last saw him, to have aged ten years. MacKinstry, a tall Kentuckian, saluted, and was the first one to speak.

“Colonel Starbottle,” he said formally, “desires to express his regrets at this delay, which was unavoidable, as he was obliged to attend his ward, who was leaving by the down coach for Sacramento with Mrs. Pyecroft, this morning.” Hamlin, Wynyard, and Beeswinger exchanged glances. “Colonel Starbottle,” continued MacKinstry, turning to his principal, “desires to say a word to Mr. Hamlin.”

As Mr. Hamlin would have advanced from the group, Colonel Starbottle lifted his hand deprecatingly. “What I have to say must be said before these gentlemen,” he began slowly. “Mr. Hamlin—sir! when I solicited the honor of this meeting I was under a grievous misapprehension of the intent and purpose of your comments on my action last evening. I think,” he added, slightly inflating his buttoned-up figure, “that the reputation I have always borne in—er—meetings of this kind will prevent any—er—misunderstanding of my present action—which is to—er—ask permission to withdraw my challenge—and to humbly beg your pardon.”

The astonishment produced by this unexpected apology, and Mr. Hamlin’s prompt grasp of the colonel’s hand, had scarcely passed before the colonel drew himself up again, and turning to his second said, “And now I am at the service of Judge Beeswinger and Mr. Wynyard—whichever may elect to honor me first.”

But the two men thus addressed looked for a moment strangely foolish and embarrassed. Yet the awkwardness was at last broken by Judge Beeswinger frankly advancing towards the colonel with an outstretched hand. “We came here only to apologize, Colonel Starbottle. Without possessing your reputation and experience in these matters, we still think we can claim, as you have, an equal exemption from any misunderstanding when we say that we deeply regret our foolish and discourteous conduct last evening.”

A quick flush mounted to the colonel’s haggard cheek as he drew back with a suspicious glance at Hamlin.

“Mr. Hamlin!—gentlemen!—if this is—er—!”

But before he could finish his sentence Hamlin had clapped his hand on the colonel’s shoulder. “You’ll take my word, colonel, that these gentlemen honestly intended to apologize, and came here for that purpose;—and—SO DID I—only you anticipated me!”

In the laughter that followed Mr. Hamlin’s frankness the colonel’s features relaxed grimly, and he shook the hands of his late possible antagonists.

“And now,” said Mr. Hamlin gayly, “you’ll all adjourn to breakfast with me—and try to make up for the supper we left unfinished last night.”

It was the only allusion to that interruption and its consequences, for during the breakfast the colonel said nothing in regard to his ward, and the other guests were discreetly reticent. But Mr. Hamlin was not satisfied. He managed to get the colonel’s servant, Jim, aside, and extracted from the negro that Colonel Starbottle had taken the child that night to Pyecroft’s; that he had had a long interview with Pyecroft; had written letters and “walked de flo’” all night; that he (Jim) was glad the child was gone!

“Why?” asked Hamlin, with affected carelessness.

“She was just makin’ de kernel like any o’ de low-down No’th’n folks—keerful, and stingy, and mighty ‘fraid o’ de opinions o’ de biggety people. And fo’ what? Jess to strut round wid dat child like he was her ‘spectable go to meeting fader!”

“And was the child sorry to leave him?” asked Hamlin.

“Wull—no, sah. De mighty curos thing, Marse Jack, about the gals—big and little—is dey just USE de kernel—dat’s all! Dey just use de ole man like a pole to bring down deir persimmons—see?”

But Mr. Hamlin did not smile.

Later it was known that Colonel Starbottle had resigned his guardianship with the consent of the court. Whether he ever again saw his late ward was not known, nor if he remained loyal to his memories of her.

Readers of these chronicles may, however, remember that years after, when the colonel married the widow of a certain Mr. Tretherick, both in his courtship and his short married life he was singularly indifferent to the childish graces of Carrie Tretherick, her beloved little daughter, and that his obtuseness in that respect provoked the widow’s ire.

PROSPER’S “OLD MOTHER”

“It’s all very well,” said Joe Wynbrook, “for us to be sittin’ here, slingin’ lies easy and comfortable, with the wind whistlin’ in the pines outside, and the rain just liftin’ the ditches to fill our sluice boxes with gold ez we’re smokin’ and waitin’, but I tell you what, boys—it ain’t home! No, sir, it ain’t HOME!”

The speaker paused, glanced around the bright, comfortable barroom, the shining array of glasses beyond, and the circle of complacent faces fronting the stove, on which his own boots were cheerfully steaming, lifted a glass of whiskey from the floor under his chair, and in spite of his deprecating remark, took a long draught of the spirits with every symptom of satisfaction.

“If ye mean,” returned Cyrus Brewster, “that it ain’t the old farmhouse of our boyhood, ‘way back in the woods, I’ll agree with you; but ye’ll just remember that there wasn’t any gold placers lying round on the medder on that farm. Not much! Ef thar had been, we wouldn’t have left it.”

“I don’t mean that,” said Joe Wynbrook, settling himself comfortably back in his chair; “it’s the family hearth I’m talkin’ of. The soothin’ influence, ye know—the tidiness of the women folks.”

“Ez to the soothin’ influence,” remarked the barkeeper, leaning his elbows meditatively on his counter, “afore I struck these diggin’s I had a grocery and bar, ‘way back in Mizzoori, where there was five old-fashioned farms jined. Blame my skin ef the men folks weren’t a darned sight oftener over in my grocery, sittin’ on barrils and histin’ in their reg’lar corn-juice, than ever any of you be here—with all these modern improvements.”

“Ye don’t catch on, any of you,” returned Wynbrook impatiently. “Ef it was a mere matter o’ buildin’ houses and becomin’ family men, I reckon that this yer camp is about prosperous enough to do it, and able to get gals enough to marry us, but that would be only borryin’ trouble and lettin’ loose a lot of jabberin’ women to gossip agin’ each other and spile all our friendships. No, gentlemen! What we want here—each of us—is a good old mother! Nothin’ new-fangled or fancy, but the reg’lar old-fashioned mother we was used to when we was boys!”

The speaker struck a well-worn chord—rather the worse for wear, and one that had jangled falsely ere now, but which still produced its effect. The men were silent. Thus encouraged, Wynbrook proceeded:—

“Think o’ comin’ home from the gulch a night like this and findin’ yer old mother a-waitin’ ye! No fumblin’ around for the matches ye’d left in the gulch; no high old cussin’ because the wood was wet or you forgot to bring it in; no bustlin’ around for your dry things and findin’ you forgot to dry ‘em that mornin’—but everything waitin’ for ye and ready. And then, mebbe, she brings ye in some doughnuts she’s just cooked for ye—cooked ez only SHE kin cook ‘em! Take Prossy Riggs—alongside of me here—for instance! HE’S made the biggest strike yet, and is puttin’ up a high-toned house on the hill. Well! he’ll hev it finished off and furnished slap-up style, you bet! with a Chinese cook, and a Biddy, and a Mexican vaquero to look after his horse—but he won’t have no mother to housekeep! That is,” he corrected himself perfunctorily, turning to his companion, “you’ve never spoke o’ your mother, so I reckon you’re about fixed up like us.”

The young man thus addressed flushed slightly, and then nodded his head with a sheepish smile. He had, however, listened to the conversation with an interest almost childish, and a reverent admiration of his comrades—qualities which, combined with an intellect not particularly brilliant, made him alternately the butt and the favorite of the camp. Indeed, he was supposed to possess that proportion of stupidity and inexperience which, in mining superstition, gives “luck” to its possessor. And this had been singularly proven in the fact that he had made the biggest “strike” of the season.

Joe Wynbrook’s sentimentalism, albeit only argumentative and half serious, had unwittingly touched a chord of simple history, and the flush which had risen to his cheek was not entirely bashfulness. The home and relationship of which they spoke so glibly, HE had never known; he was a foundling! As he lay awake that night he remembered the charitable institution which had protected his infancy, the master to whom he had later been apprenticed; that was all he knew of his childhood. In his simple way he had been greatly impressed by the strange value placed by his companions upon the family influence, and he had received their extravagance with perfect credulity. In his absolute ignorance and his lack of humor he had detected no false quality in their sentiment. And a vague sense of his responsibility, as one who had been the luckiest, and who was building the first “house” in the camp, troubled him. He lay staringly wide awake, hearing the mountain wind, and feeling warm puffs of it on his face through the crevices of the log cabin, as he thought of the new house on the hill that was to be lathed and plastered and clapboarded, and yet void and vacant of that mysterious “mother”! And then, out of the solitude and darkness, a tremendous idea struck him that made him sit up in his bunk!

A day or two later “Prossy” Riggs stood on a sand-blown, wind-swept suburb of San Francisco, before a large building whom forbidding exterior proclaimed that it was an institution of formal charity. It was, in fact, a refuge for the various waifs and strays of ill-advised or hopeless immigration. As Prosper paused before the door, certain told recollections of a similar refuge were creeping over him, and, oddly enough, he felt as embarrassed as if he had been seeking relief for himself. The perspiration stood out on his forehead as he entered the room of the manager.

It chanced, however, that this official, besides being a man of shrewd experience of human weakness, was also kindly hearted, and having, after his first official scrutiny of his visitor and his resplendent watch chain, assured himself that he was not seeking personal relief, courteously assisted him in his stammering request.

“If I understand you, you want some one to act as your housekeeper?”

“That’s it! Somebody to kinder look arter things—and me—ginrally,” returned Prosper, greatly relieved.