The Guardian of the Accolade
Not the least important of the force of the Weymouth Bank was UncleBushrod. Sixty years had Uncle Bushrod given of faithful service tothe house of Weymouth as chattel, servitor, and friend. Of the colourof the mahogany bank furniture was Uncle Bushrod--thus dark was heexternally; white as the uninked pages of the bank ledgers was hissoul. Eminently pleasing to Uncle Bushrod would the comparison havebeen; for to him the only institution in existence worth consideringwas the Weymouth Bank, of which he was something between porter andgeneralissimo-in-charge.
Weymouth lay, dreamy and umbrageous, among the low foothills along thebrow of a Southern valley. Three banks there were in Weymouthville.Two were hopeless, misguided enterprises, lacking the presence andprestige of a Weymouth to give them glory. The third was The Bank,managed by the Weymouths--and Uncle Bushrod. In the old Weymouthhomestead--the red brick, white porticoed mansion, the first to yourright as you crossed Elder Creek, coming into town--lived Mr. RobertWeymouth (the president of the bank), his widowed daughter, Mrs. Vesey--called "Miss Letty" by every one--and her two children, Nan and Guy.There, also in a cottage on the grounds, resided Uncle Bushrod andAunt Malindy, his wife. Mr. William Weymouth (the cashier of the bank)lived in a modern, fine house on the principal avenue.
Mr. Robert was a large, stout man, sixty-two years of age, with asmooth, plump face, long iron-gray hair and fiery blue eyes. He washigh-tempered, kind, and generous, with a youthful smile and aformidable, stern voice that did not always mean what it sounded like.Mr. William was a milder man, correct in deportment and absorbed inbusiness. The Weymouths formed The Family of Weymouthville, and werelooked up to, as was their right of heritage.
Uncle Bushrod was the bank's trusted porter, messenger, vassal, andguardian. He carried a key to the vault, just as Mr. Robert and Mr.Williams did. Sometimes there was ten, fifteen, or twenty thousanddollars in sacked silver stacked on the vault floor. It was safe withUncle Bushrod. He was a Weymouth in heart, honesty, and pride.
Of late Uncle Bushrod had not been without worry. It was on account ofMarse Robert. For nearly a year Mr. Robert had been known to indulgein too much drink. Not enough, understand, to become tipsy, but thehabit was getting a hold upon him, and every one was beginning tonotice it. Half a dozen times a day he would leave the bank and steparound to the Merchants and Planters' Hotel to take a drink. Mr.Roberts' usual keen judgment and business capacity became a littleimpaired. Mr. William, a Weymouth, but not so rich in experience,tried to dam the inevitable backflow of the tide, but with incompletesuccess. The deposits in the Weymouth Bank dropped from six figures tofive. Past-due paper began to accumulate, owing to injudicious loans.No one cared to address Mr. Robert on the subject of temperance. Manyof his friends said that the cause of it had been the death of hiswife some two years before. Others hesitated on account of Mr.Robert's quick temper, which was extremely apt to resent personalinterference of such a nature. Miss Letty and the children noticed thechange and grieved about it. Uncle Bushrod also worried, but he wasone of those who would not have dared to remonstrate, although he andMarse Robert had been raised almost as companions. But there was aheavier shock coming to Uncle Bushrod than that caused by the bankpresident's toddies and juleps.
Mr. Robert had a passion for fishing, which he usually indulgedwhenever the season and business permitted. One day, when reports hadbeen coming in relating to the bass and perch, he announced hisintention of making a two or three days' visit to the lakes. He wasgoing down, he said, to Reedy Lake with Judge Archinard, an oldfriend.
Now, Uncle Bushrod was treasurer of the Sons and Daughters of theBurning Bush. Every association he belonged to made him treasurerwithout hesitation. He stood AA1 in coloured circles. He wasunderstood among them to be Mr. Bushrod Weymouth, of the WeymouthBank.
The night following the day on which Mr. Robert mentioned his intendedfishing-trip the old man woke up and rose from his bed at twelveo'clock, declaring he must go down to the bank and fetch the pass-bookof the Sons and Daughters, which he had forgotten to bring home. Thebookkeeper had balanced it for him that day, put the cancelled checksin it, and snapped two elastic bands around it. He put but one bandaround other pass-books.
Aunt Malindy objected to the mission at so late an hour, denouncing itas foolish and unnecessary, but Uncle Bushrod was not to be deflectedfrom duty.
"I done told Sister Adaline Hoskins," he said, "to come by here fordat book to-morrer mawnin' at sebin o'clock, for to kyar' it to demeetin' of de bo'd of 'rangements, and dat book gwine to be here whenshe come."
So, Uncle Bushrod put on his old brown suit, got his thick hickorystick, and meandered through the almost deserted streets ofWeymouthville. He entered the bank, unlocking the side door, and foundthe pass-book where he had left it, in the little back room used forconsultations, where he always hung his coat. Looking about casually,he saw that everything was as he had left it, and was about to startfor home when he was brought to a standstill by the sudden rattle of akey in the front door. Some one came quickly in, closed the doorsoftly, and entered the counting-room through the door in the ironrailing.
That division of the bank's space was connected with the back room bya narrow passageway, now in deep darkness.
Uncle Bushrod, firmly gripping his hickory stick, tiptoed gently upthis passage until he could see the midnight intruder into the sacredprecincts of the Weymouth Bank. One dim gas-jet burned there, but evenin its nebulous light he perceived at once that the prowler was thebank's president.
Wondering, fearful, undecided what to do, the old coloured man stoodmotionless in the gloomy strip of hallway, and waited developments.
The vault, with its big iron door, was opposite him. Inside that wasthe safe, holding the papers of value, the gold and currency of thebank. On the floor of the vault was, perhaps, eighteen thousanddollars in silver.
The president took his key from his pocket, opened the vault and wentinside, nearly closing the door behind him. Uncle Bushrod saw, throughthe narrow aperture, the flicker of a candle. In a minute or two--itseemed an hour to the watcher--Mr. Robert came out, bringing with hima large hand-satchel, handling it in a careful but hurried manner, asif fearful that he might be observed. With one hand he closed andlocked the vault door.
With a reluctant theory forming itself beneath his wool, Uncle Bushrodwaited and watched, shaking in his concealing shadow.
Mr. Robert set the satchel softly upon a desk, and turned his coatcollar up about his neck and ears. He was dressed in a rough suit ofgray, as if for travelling. He glanced with frowning intentness at thebig office clock above the burning gas-jet, and then lookedlingeringly about the bank--lingeringly and fondly, Uncle Bushrodthought, as one who bids farewell to dear and familiar scenes.
Now he caught up his burden again and moved promptly and softly out ofthe bank by the way he had come locking the front door behind him.
For a minute or longer Uncle Bushrod was as stone in his tracks. Hadthat midnight rifler of safes and vaults been any other on earth thanthe man he was, the old retainer would have rushed upon him and struckto save the Weymouth property. But now the watcher's soul was torturedby the poignant dread of something worse than mere robbery. He wasseized by an accusing terror that said the Weymouth name and theWeymouth honour were about to be lost. Marse Robert robbing the bank!What else could it mean? The hour of the night, the stealthy visit tothe vault, the satchel brought forth and with expedition and silence,the prowler's rough dress, his solicitous reading of the clock, andnoiseless departure--what else could it mean?
And then to the turmoil of Uncle Bushrod's thoughts came thecorroborating recollection of preceding events--Mr. Robert'sincreasing intemperance and consequent many moods of royal highspirits and stern tempers; the casual talk he had heard in the bank ofthe decrease in business and difficulty in collecting loans. What elsecould it all mean but that Mr. Robert Weymouth was an absconder--wasabout to fly with the bank's remaining funds, leaving Mr. William,Miss Letty, little Nab, Guy, and Uncle Bushrod to bear the disgrace?
During one minute Uncle Bushrod considered these things, and then heawoke to sudden determination and action.
"Lawd! Lawd!" he moaned aloud, as he hobbled hastily toward the sidedoor. "Sech a come-off after all dese here years of big doin's andfine doin's. Scan'lous sights upon de yearth when de Weymouth famblydone turn out robbers and 'bezzlers! Time for Uncle Bushrod to cleanout somebody's chicken-coop and eben matters up. Oh, Lawd! MarseRobert, you ain't gwine do dat. 'N Miss Letty an' dem chillun so proudand talkin' 'Weymouth, Weymouth,' all de time! I'm gwine to stop youef I can. 'Spec you shoot Mr. Nigger's head off ef he fool wid you,but I'm gwine stop you ef I can."
Uncle Bushrod, aided by his hickory stick, impeded by his rheumatism,hurried down the street toward the railroad station, where the twolines touching Weymouthville met. As he had expected and feared, hesaw there Mr. Robert, standing in the shadow of the building, waitingfor the train. He held the satchel in his hand.
When Uncle Bushrod came within twenty yards of the bank president,standing like a huge, gray ghost by the station wall, suddenperturbation seized him. The rashness and audacity of the thing he hadcome to do struck him fully. He would have been happy could he haveturned and fled from the possibilities of the famous Weymouth wrath.But again he saw, in his fancy, the white reproachful face of MissLetty, and the distressed looks of Nan and Guy, should he fail in hisduty and they question him as to his stewardship.
Braced by the thought, he approached in a straight line, clearing histhroat and pounding with his stick so that he might be earlyrecognized. Thus he might avoid the likely danger of too suddenlysurprising the sometimes hasty Mr. Robert.
"Is that you, Bushrod?" called the clamant, clear voice of the grayghost.
"Yes, suh, Marse Robert."
"What the devil are you doing out at this time of night?"
For the first time in his life, Uncle Bushrod told Marse Robert afalsehood. He could not repress it. He would have to circumlocute alittle. His nerve was not equal to a direct attack.
"I done been down, suh, to see ol' Aunt M'ria Patterson. She takensick in de night, and I kyar'ed her a bottle of M'lindy's medercine.Yes, suh."
"Humph!" said Robert. "You better get home out of the night air. It'sdamp. You'll hardly be worth killing to-morrow on account of yourrheumatism. Think it'll be a clear day, Bushrod?"
"I 'low it will, suh. De sun sot red las' night."
Mr. Robert lit a cigar in the shadow, and the smoke looked like hisgray ghost expanding and escaping into the night air. Somehow, UncleBushrod could barely force his reluctant tongue to the dreadfulsubject. He stood, awkward, shambling, with his feet upon the graveland fumbling with his stick. But then, afar off--three miles away, atthe Jimtown switch--he heard the faint whistle of the coming train,the one that was to transport the Weymouth name into the regions ofdishonour and shame. All fear left him. He took off his hat and facedthe chief of the clan he served, the great, royal, kind, lofty,terrible Weymouth--he bearded him there at the brink of the awfulthing that was about to happen.
"Marse Robert," he began, his voice quivering a little with the stressof his feelings, "you 'member de day dey-all rode de tunnament at OakLawn? De day, suh, dat you win in de ridin', and you crown Miss Lucyde queen?"
"Tournament?" said Mr. Robert, taking his cigar from his mouth. "Yes,I remember very well the--but what the deuce are you talking abouttournaments here at midnight for? Go 'long home, Bushrod. I believeyou're sleep-walking."
"Miss Lucy tetch you on de shoulder," continued the old man, neverheeding, "wid a s'ord, and say: 'I mek you a knight, Suh Robert--riseup, pure and fearless and widout reproach.' Dat what Miss Lucy say.Dat's been a long time ago, but me nor you ain't forgot it. And dendar's another time we ain't forgot--de time when Miss Lucy lay on herlas' bed. She sent for Uncle Bushrod, and she say: 'Uncle Bushrod,when I die, I want you to take good care of Mr. Robert. Seem like'--soMiss Lucy say--'he listen to you mo' dan to anybody else. He apt to bemighty fractious sometimes, and maybe he cuss you when you try to'suade him but he need somebody what understand him to be 'round widhim. He am like a little child sometimes'--so Miss Lucy say, wid hereyes shinin' in her po', thin face--'but he always been'--dem was herwords--'my knight, pure and fearless and widout reproach.'"
Mr. Robert began to mask, as was his habit, a tendency to soft-heartedness with a spurious anger.
"You--you old windbag!" he growled through a cloud of swirling cigarsmoke. "I believe you are crazy. I told you to go home, Bushrod. MissLucy said that, did she? Well, we haven't kept the scutcheon veryclear. Two years ago last week, wasn't it, Bushrod, when she died?Confound it! Are you going to stand there all night gabbing like acoffee-coloured gander?"
The train whistled again. Now it was at the water tank, a mile away.
"Marse Robert," said Uncle Bushrod, laying his hand on the satchelthat the banker held. "For Gawd's sake, don' take dis wid you. I knowswhat's in it. I knows where you got it in de bank. Don' kyar' it widyou. Dey's big trouble in dat valise for Miss Lucy and Miss Lucy'schild's chillun. Hit's bound to destroy de name of Weymouth and bowdown dem dat own it wid shame and triberlation. Marse Robert, you cankill dis ole nigger ef you will, but don't take away dis 'er' valise.If I ever crosses over de Jordan, what I gwine to say to Miss Lucywhen she ax me: 'Uncle Bushrod, wharfo' didn' you take good care ofMr. Robert?'"
Mr. Robert Weymouth threw away his cigar and shook free one arm withthat peculiar gesture that always preceded his outbursts ofirascibility. Uncle Bushrod bowed his head to the expected storm, buthe did not flinch. If the house of Weymouth was to fall, he would fallwith it. The banker spoke, and Uncle Bushrod blinked with surprise.The storm was there, but it was suppressed to the quietness of asummer breeze.
"Bushrod," said Mr. Robert, in a lower voice than he usually employed,"you have overstepped all bounds. You have presumed upon the leniencywith which you have been treated to meddle unpardonably. So you knowwhat is in this satchel! Your long and faithful service is someexcuse, but--go home, Bushrod--not another word!"
But Bushrod grasped the satchel with a firmer hand. The headlight ofthe train was now lightening the shadows about the station. The roarwas increasing, and folks were stirring about at the track side.
"Marse Robert, gimme dis 'er' valise. I got a right, suh, to talk toyou dis 'er' way. I slaved for you and 'tended to you from a child up.I went th'ough de war as yo' body-servant tell we whipped de Yankeesand sent 'em back to de No'th. I was at yo' weddin', and I was n' furaway when yo' Miss Letty was bawn. And Miss Letty's chillun, deywatches to-day for Uncle Bushrod when he come home ever' evenin'. Ibeen a Weymouth, all 'cept in colour and entitlements. Both of us isold, Marse Robert. 'Tain't goin' to be long till we gwine to see MissLucy and has to give an account of our doin's. De ole nigger man won'tbe 'spected to say much mo' dan he done all he could by de fambly datowned him. But de Weymouths, dey must say day been livin' pure andfearless and widout reproach. Gimme dis valise, Marse Robert--I'mgwine to hab it. I'm gwine to take it back to the bank and lock it upin de vault. I'm gwine to do Miss Lucy's biddin'. Turn 'er loose,Marse Robert."
The train was standing at the station. Some men were pushing trucksalong the side. Two or three sleepy passengers got off and wanderedaway into the night. The conductor stepped to the gravel, swung hislantern and called: "Hello, Frank!" at some one invisible. The bellclanged, the brakes hissed, the conductor drawled: "All aboard!"
Mr. Robert released his hold on the satchel. Uncle Bushrod hugged itto his breast with both arms, as a lover clasps his first beloved.
"Take it back with you, Bushrod," said Mr. Robert, thrusting his handsinto his pockets. "And let the subject drop--now mind! You've saidquite enough. I'm going to take the train. Tell Mr. William I will beback on Saturday. Good night."
The banker climbed the steps of the moving train and disappeared in acoach. Uncle Bushrod stood motionless, still embracing the precioussatchel. His eyes were closed and his lips were moving in thanks tothe Master above for the salvation of the Weymouth honour. He knew Mr.Robert would return when he said he would. The Weymouths never lied.Nor now, thank the Lord! could it be said that they embezzled themoney in banks.
Then awake to the necessity for further guardianship of Weymouth trustfunds, the old man started for the bank with the redeemed satchel.
* * * * *
Three hours from Weymouthville, in the gray dawn, Mr. Robert alightedfrom the train at a lonely flag-station. Dimly he could see the figureof a man waiting on the platform, and the shape of a spring-waggon,team and driver. Half a dozen lengthy bamboo fishing-poles projectedfrom the waggon's rear.
"You're here, Bob," said Judge Archinard, Mr. Robert's old friend andschoolmate. "It's going to be a royal day for fishing. I thought yousaid--why, didn't you bring along the stuff?"
The president of the Weymouth Bank took off his hat and rumpled hisgray locks.
"Well, Ben, to tell you the truth, there's an infernally presumptuousold nigger belonging in my family that broke up the arrangement. Hecame down to the depot and vetoed the whole proceeding. He means allright, and--well, I reckon he /is/ right. Somehow, he had found outwhat I had along--though I hid it in the bank vault and sneaked it outat midnight. I reckon he has noticed that I've been indulging a littlemore than a gentleman should, and he laid for me with some reachingarguments.
"I'm going to quit drinking," Mr. Robert concluded. "I've come to theconclusion that a man can't keep it up and be quite what he'd like tobe--'pure and fearless and without reproach'--that's the way oldBushrod quoted it."
"Well, I'll have to admit," said the judge, thoughtfully, as theyclimbed into the waggon, "that the old darkey's argument can'tconscientiously be overruled."
"Still," said Mr. Robert, with a ghost of a sigh, "there was twoquarts of the finest old silk-velvet Bourbon in that satchel you everwet your lips with."
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