Through the Ivory Gate
by Mary Raymond Shipman Andrews
Breeze filtered through shuffling leafage, the June morning
sunlight came in at the open window by the boy's bed, under the green shades,
across the shadowy, white room, and danced a noiseless dance of youth and
freshness and springtime against the wall opposite. The boy's head stirred on his
pillow. He spoke a quick word from out of his dream. "The key?" he said
inquiringly, and the sound of his own voice awoke him. Dark, drowsy eyes
opened, and he stared half-seeing, at the picture that hung facing him. Was it the
play of mischievous sunlight, was it the dream that still held his brain? He knew
the picture line by line, and there was no such figure in it. It was a large
photograph of Fairfield, the southern home of his mother's people, and the boy
remembered it always hanging there, opposite his bed, the first sight to meet his
eyes every morning since his babyhood. So he was certain there was no figure in
it, more than all one so remarkable as this strapping little chap in his queer
clothes, his dress of conspicuous plaid with large black velvet squares sewed on
it, who stood now in front of the old manor house. Could it be only a dream?
Could it be that a little ghost, wandering childlike in dim, heavenly fields, had
joined the gay troop of his boyish visions and slipped in with them through the
ivory gate of pleasant dreams? The boy put his fists to his eyes and rubbed them
and looked again. The little fellow was still there, standing with sturdy legs wide
apart as if owning the scene; he laughed as he held toward the boy a key a small
key tied with a scarlet ribbon. There was no doubt in the boy's mind that the key
was for him, and out of the dim world of sleep he stretched his young arm for it;
to reach it he sat up in bed. Then he was awake and knew himself alone in the
peace of his own little room, and laughed shamefacedly at the reality of the vision
which had followed him from dreamland into the very boundaries of
consciousness, which held him even now with gentle tenacity, which drew him
back through the day, from his studies, from his play, into the strong current of its
The first time Philip Beckwith had this dream he was only
twelve years old, and, withheld by the deep reserve of childhood, he told not even
his mother about it, though he lived in its atmosphere all day and remembered it
vividly days longer. A year after it came again; and again it was a June morning,
and as his eyes opened the little boy came once more out of the picture toward
him, laughing and holding out the key on its scarlet string. The dream was a
pleasant one, and Philip welcomed it eagerly from his sleep as a friend. There
seemed something sweet and familiar in the child's presence beyond the one
memory of him, as again the boy, with eyes half-open to everyday life, saw him
standing, small but masterful, in the garden of that old house where the Fairfields
had lived for more than a century. Half-consciously he tried to prolong the vision,
tried not to wake entirely for fear of losing it; but the picture faded surely from the
curtain of his mind as the tangible world painted there its heavier outlines. It was
as if a happy little spirit had tried to follow him, for love of him, from a country
Iying close, yet separated; it was as if the common childhood of the two made it
almost possible for them to meet; as if a message that might not be spoken, were
yet almost delivered.
The third time the dream came it was a December morning of
the year when Philip was fifteen, and falling snow made wavering light and
shadow on the wall where hung the picture. This time, with eyes wide open, yet
with the possession of the dream strongly on him, he lay subconsciously alert and
gazed, as in the odd unmistakable dress that Philip knew now in detail, the
bright-faced child swung toward him, always from the garden of that old place, always
trying with loving, merry efforts to reach Philip from out of it always holding to
him the red ribboned key. Like a wary hunter the big boy lay knowing it unreal,
yet living it keenly and watched his chance. As the little figure glided close to
him, he put out his hand suddenly, swiftly for the key he was awake. As always,
the dream was gone; the little ghost was baffled again; the two worlds might not
That day Mrs. Beckwith, puffing in order an old mahogany
secretary, showed him a drawer full of photographs, daguerreotypes. The boy and
his gay young mother were the best of friends, for, only nineteen when he was
born, she had never let the distance widen between them; had held the freshness
of her youth sacred against the time when he should share it. Year by year, living
in his enthusiasms, drawing him to hers, she had grown young in his childhood,
which year by year came closer to her maturity. Until now there was between the
tall, athletic lad and the still young and attractive woman, an equal friendship, a
common youth, which gave charm and elasticity to the natural tie between them.
Yet even to this comrade-mother the boy had not told his dream, for the difficulty
of putting into words the atmosphere, the compelling power of it. So that when
she opened one of the old-fashioned black cases which held the early
sun-pictures, and showed him the portrait within, he startled her by a sudden
exclamation. From the frame of red velvet and tarnished gilt there laughed up at
him the little boy of his dream. There was no mistaking him, and if there were
doubt about the face, there was the peculiar dress the black and white plaid with
large squares of black velvet sewed here and there as decoration. Philip stared in
astonishment at the sturdy figure; the childish face with its wide forehead and
level, strong brows; its dark eyes straight-gazing and smiling.
"Mother who is he? Who is he?" he demanded.
"Why, my lamb, don't you know? It's your little uncle Philip
my brother, for whom you were named Philip Fairfield the sixth. There was
always a Philip Fairfield at Fairfield since 1790. This one was the last, poor baby!
And he died when he was five. Unless you go back there some day that's my
hope, but it's not likely to come true. You are a Yankee, except for the big half of
you that's me. That's southern, every inch." She laughed and kissed his fresh
cheek impulsively. "But what made you so excited over this picture, Phil?"
Philip gazed down, serious, a little embarrassed, at the open
case in his hand. "Mother," he said after a moment, "you'll laugh at me, but I've
seen this chap in a dream three times now."
"Oh!" She did laugh at him. "Oh, Philip! What have you been
eating for dinner, I'd like to know? I can't have you seeing visions of your
ancestors at fifteen it's unhealthy."
The boy, reddening, insisted. "But, Mother, really, don't you
think it was queer? I saw him as plainly as I do now and I've never seen this
"Oh, yes, you have you must have seen it," his mother threw
back lightly. "You've forgotten, but the image of it was tucked away in some dark
corner of your mind, and when you were asleep it stole out and played tricks on
you. That's the way forgotten ideas do: they get even with you in dreams for
having forgotten them."
"Mother, only listen " But Mrs. Beckwith, her eyes lighting
with a swift turn of thought, interrupted him laid her finger on his lips.
"No you listen, boy dear quick, before I forget it! I've
never told you about this, and it's very interesting."
And the youngster, used to these willful ways-of his
sistermother, laughed and put his fair head against her shoulder and listened.
"It's quite a romance," she began, "only there isn't any end to it;
it's all unfinished and disappointing. It's about this little Philip here, whose name
you have my brother. He died when he was five, as I said, but even then he had
a bit of dramatic history in his life. He was born just before wartime in 1859, and
he was a beautiful and wonderful baby; I can remember all about it, for I was six
years older. He was incarnate sunshine, the happiest child that ever lived, but far
too quick and clever for his years. The servants used to ask him, 'Who is you,
Marse Philip, sah?' to hear him answer, before he could speak it plainly, 'I'm
Philip Fairfield of Fairfield'; he seemed to realize that, and his responsibility to
them and to the place, as soon as he could breathe. He wouldn't have a darky
scolded in his presence, and every morning my father put him in front of him in
the saddle, and they rode together about the plantation. My father adored him, and
little Philip's sunshiny way of taking possession of the slaves and the property
pleased him more deeply, I think, than anything in his life. But the war came
before this time, when the child was about a year old, and my father went off, of
course, as every southern man went who could walk, and for a year we did not see
him. Then he was badly wounded at the battle of Malvern Hill; and came home to
get well. However, it was more serious than he knew, and he did not get well.
Twice he went off again to join our army, and each time he was sent back within a
month, too ill to be of any use. He chafed constantly, of course, because he must
stay at home and farm, when his whole soul ached to be fighting for his flag; but
finally in December 1863, he thought he was well enough at last for service. He
was to join General John Morgan, who had just made his wonderful escape from
prison at Columbus, and it was planned that my mother should take lithe Philip
and me to England to live there till the war was over and we could all be together
at Fairfield again. With that in view my father drew all of his ready money it
was ten thousand dollars in gold from the banks in Lexington, for my mother's
use in the years they might be separated. When suddenly, the day before he was to
have gone, the old wound broke out again, and he was helplessly ill in bed at the
hour when he should have been on his horse riding toward Tennessee. We were
fifteen miles out from Lexington, yet it might be rumored that father had drawn a
large sum of money, and, of course, he was well known as a Southern officer.
Because of the Northern soldiers, who held the city, he feared very much to have
the money in the house, yet he hoped still to join Morgan a lithe later, and then it
would be needed as he had planned. Christmas morning my father was so much
better that my mother went to church, taking me, and leaving lithe Philip, then
four years old, to amuse him. What happened that morning was the point of all
this rambling; so now listen hard, my precious thing."
The boy, sitting erect now, caught his mother's hand silently,
and his eyes stared into hers as he drank in every word:
"Mammy, who was, of course, little Philip's nurse, told my
mother afterward that she was sent away before my father and the boy went into
the garden, but she saw them go and saw that my father had a tin box a box
about twelve inches long, which seemed very heavy in his arms, and on his
finger swung a long red ribbon with a little key strung on it. Mother knew it as the
key of the box, and she had tied the ribbon on it herself.
"It was a bright, crisp Christmas day, pleasant in the garden
the box hedges were green and fragrant, aromatic in the sunshine. You don't even
know the smell of box in sunshine, you poor child! But I remember that day, for I
was ten years old, a right big girl, and it was a beautiful morning for an invalid to
take the air. Mammy said she was proud to see how her 'handsome boy' kept step
with his father, and she watched the two until they got away down by the rose
garden, and then she couldn't see little Philip behind the three-foot hedge, so she
turned away. But somewhere in that big garden, or under the trees beside it, my
father buried the box that held the money ten thousand dollars. It shows how he
trusted that baby, that he took him with him, and you'll see how his trust was only
too well justified. For that evening, Christmas night, very suddenly my father died
before he had time to tell my mother where he had hidden the box. He tried;
when consciousness came a few minutes before the end he gasped out, 'I buried
the money' and then he choked. Once again he whispered just two words:
'Philip knows.' And my mother said, 'Yes, dearest Philip and I will find it
don't worry, dearest,' and that quieted him. She told me about it so many times.
"After the funeral she took little Philip and explained to him as
well as she could that he must tell Mother where he and Father had put the box,
and this is the point of it all, Philip he wouldn't tell. She went over and over
it all, again and again, but it was no use. He had given his word to my father never
to tell, and he was too much of a baby to understand how death had dissolved that
promise. My mother tried every way, of course, explanations and reasoning first,
then pleading, and finally severity; she even punished the poor lithe martyr, for it
was awfully important to us all. But the four-year-old baby was absolutely
incorruptible. He cried bitterly and sobbed out:
"'Farver said I mustn't never tell anybody never! Farver said
Philip Fairfield of Fairfield mustn't never bweak his words,' and that was all.
"Nothing could induce him to give the least hint. Of course
there was great search for it, but it was well hidden and it was never found.
Finally, Mother took her obdurate son and me and came to New York with us,
and we lived on the little income which she had of her own. Her hope was that as
soon as Philip was old enough she could make him understand, and go back with
him and get that large sum Iying underground lying there yet, perhaps. But in
less than a year the little boy was dead and the secret was gone with him."
Philip Beckwith's eyes were intense and wide. The Fairfield
eyes, brown and brilliant, their young fire was concentrated on his mother's face.
"Do you mean that money is buried down there, yet, mother?"
he asked solemnly.
Mrs. Beckwith caught at the big fellow's sleeve with slim
fingers. "Don't go today, Phil wait till after lunch, anyway!"
"Please don't make fun, Mother I want to know about it.
Think of it lying there in the ground!"
"Greedy boy! We don't need money now, Phil. And the old
place will be yours when I am dead " The lad's arm went about his mother's
shoulders. "Oh, but I'm not going to die for ages! Not till I'm a toothless old
person with side curls, hobbling along on a stick. Like this!" she sprang to her
feet and the boy laughed a great peal at the haglike effect as his young mother
threw herself into the part. She dropped on the divan again at his side.
"What I meant to tell you was that your father thinks it very
unlikely that the money is there yet, and almost impossible that we could find it in
any case. But some day when the place is yours you can have it put through a
sieve if you choose. I wish I could think you would ever live there, Phil; but I
can't imagine any chance by which you should. I should hate to have you sell it
it has belonged to a Philip Fairfield so many years."
A week later the boy left his childhood by the side of his
mother's grave. His history for the next seven years may go in a few lines. School
days, vacations, the four years at college, outwardly the commonplace of an even
and prosperous development, inwardly the infinite variety of experience by which
each soul is a person; the result of the two so wholesome a product of young
manhood that no one realized under the frank and open manner a deep reticence,
an intensity, a sensitiveness to impressions, a tendency toward mysticism which
made the fiber of his being as delicate as it was strong.
Suddenly, in a turn of the wheel, all the externals of his life
changed. His rich father died penniless and he found himself on his own hands,
and within a month the boy who had owned five polo ponies was a hard-working
reporter on a great daily. The same quick-wittedness and energy which had made
him a good polo player made him a good reporter. Promotion came fast and, as
those who are busiest have the most time to spare, he fell to writing stories. When
the editor of a large magazine took one, Philip first lost respect for that dignified
person, then felt ashamed to have imposed on him, then rejoiced utterly over the
check. After that editors fell into the habit; the people he ran against knew about
his books; the checks grew better reading all the time; a point came where it was
more profitable to stay at home and imagine events than to go out and report
them. He had been too busy as the days marched to generalize; but suddenly he
knew that he was a successful writer, that if he kept his head and worked, a future
was before him. So he soberly put his own English by the side of that of a master
or two from his bookshelves, to keep his perspective clear, and then he worked
harder. And it came to be five years after his father's death.
At the end of those years three things happened at once. The
young man suddenly was very tired and knew that he needed the vacation he had
gone without; a check came in large enough to make a vacation easy; and he had
his old dream. His fagged brain had found it but another worry to decide where he
should go to rest, but the dream settled the vexed question offhand he would go
to Kentucky. The very thought of it brought rest to him, for like a memory of
childhood, like a bit of his own soul, he knew the country the "God's Country"
of its people which he had never seen. He caught his breath as he thought of
warm, sweet air that held no hurry or nerve strain; of lingering sunny days whose
hours are longer than in other places; of the soft speech, the serene and kindly
ways of the people; of the royal welcome waiting for him as for everyone,
heartfelt and heart-warming; he knew it all from a daughter of Kentucky his
mother. It was May now, and he remembered she had told him that the land was
filled with roses at the end of May he would go then. He owned the old place,
Fairfield, and he had never seen it. Perhaps it had fallen to pieces; perhaps his
mother had painted it in colors too bright; but it was his, the bit of the earth that
belonged to him. The Anglo-Saxon joy of landowning stirred for the first time
within him he would go to his own place. Buoyant with the new thought, he sat
down and wrote a letter. A cousin of the family, of a younger branch, a certain
John Fairfield, lived yet upon the land. Not in the great house, for that had been
closed many years, but in a small house almost as old, called Westerly. Philip had
corresponded with him once or twice about affairs of the estate, and each letter of
the older man's had brought a simple and urgent invitation to come South and
visit him. So, pleased as a child with the plan, he wrote that he was coming on a
certain Thursday, late in May. The letter sent, he went about in a dream of the
South, and when its answer, delighted and hospitable, came simultaneously with
one of those bleak and windy turns of weather which make New York, even in
May, a marvelously fitting place to leave, he could not wait. Almost a week ahead
of his time he packed his bag and took the Southwestern Limited, and on a bright
Sunday morning he awoke in the old Phoenix Hotel in Lexington. He had arrived
too late the night before to make the fifteen miles to Fairfield, but he had looked
over the horses in the livery stable and chosen the one he wanted, for he meant to
go on horseback, as a southern gentleman should, to his domain. That he meant to
go alone, that no one, not even John Fairfield, knew of his coming, was not the
least of his satisfactions, for the sight of the place of his forefathers, so long
neglected, was becoming suddenly a sacred thing to him. The old house and its
young owner should meet each other like sweethearts, with no eyes to watch their
greeting, their slow and sweet acquainting; with no living voices to drown the
sound of the ghostly voices that must greet his homecoming from those walls
voices of his people who had lived there, voices gone long since into eternal
A little crowd of loungers stared with frank admiration at the
young fellow who came out smiling from the door of the Phoenix Hotel, big and
handsome in his riding clothes, his eyes taking in the details of girths and bits and
straps with the keenness of a horseman.
Philip laughed as he swung into the saddle and looked down at
the friendly faces, most of them black faces, below. "Goodbye," he said. "Wish
me good luck, won't you?" and a willing chorus of "Good luck, boss," came flying
after him as the horse's hoofs clattered down the street.
Through the bright drowsiness of the little city he rode in the
early Sunday morning, and his heart sang for joy to feel himself again across a
horse, and for the love of the place that warmed him already. The sun shone hotly,
but he liked it; he felt his whole being slipping into place, fitting to its
environment; surely, in spite of birth and breeding, he was southern born and
bred, for this felt like home more than any home he had known!
As he drew away from the city, every little while, through
stately woodlands, a dignified sturdy mansion peeped down its long vista of trees
at the passing cavalier, and, enchanted with its beautiful setting, with its air of
proud unconsciousness, he hoped each time that Fairfield would look like that. If
he might live here and go to New York, to be sure, two or three times a year to
keep the edge of his brain sharpened but if he might live his life as these people
lived, in this unhurried atmosphere, in this perfect climate, with the best things in
his reach for everyday use; with horses and dogs, with out-of-doors and a great,
lovely country to breathe in; with he smiled vaguely with sometime perhaps
a wife who loved it as he did he would ask from earth no better life than that.
He could write, he felt certain, better and larger things in such surroundings.
But he pulled himself up sharply as he thought how idle a
daydream it was. As a fact, he was a struggling young author, he had come South
for two weeks' vacation, and on the first morning he was planning to live here
he must be lightheaded. With a touch of his heel and a word and a quick pull on
the curb, his good horse broke into a canter, and then, under the loosened rein,
into a rousing gallop, and Philip went dashing down the country road, past the
soft, rolling landscape, and under cool caves of foliage, vivid with emerald greens
of May, thoughts and dreams all dissolved in exhilaration of the glorious
movement, the nearest thing to flying that the wingless animal, man, may achieve.
He opened his coat as the blood rushed faster through him, and
a paper fluttered from his pocket. He caught it, and as he pulled the horse to a trot,
he saw that it was his cousin's letter. So, walking now along the brown shadows
and golden sunlight of the long white pike, he fell to wondering about the family
he was going to visit. He opened the folded letter and read:
"My dear Cousin," it said the kinship was the first thought in
John Fairfield's mind "I received your welcome letter on the 14th. I am
delighted that you are coming at last to Kentucky, and I consider that it is high
time you paid Fairfield, which has been the cradle of your stock for many
generations, the compliment of looking at it. We closed our house in Lexington
three weeks ago, and are settled out here now for the summer, and find it lovelier
than ever. My family consists only of myself and Shelby, my one child, who is
now twenty-two years of age. We are both ready to give you an old-time
Kentucky welcome, and Westerly is ready to receive you at any moment you wish
The rest was merely arrangements for meeting the traveler, all
of which were done away with by his earlier arrival.
"A prim old party, with an exalted idea of the family,"
commented Philip mentally. "Well-to-do, apparently, or he wouldn't be having a
winter house in the city. I wonder what the boy Shelby is like. At twenty-two he
should be doing something more profitable than spending an entire summer out
here, I should say."
The questions faded into the general content of his mind at the
glimpse of another stately old pillared homestead, white and deep down its
avenue of locusts. At length he stopped his horse to wait for a ragged Negro
trudging cheerfully down the road.
"Do you know a place around here called Fairfield?" he asked.
"Yessah. I does that, sah. It's that ar' place right hyeh, sah, by
yo' hoss. That ar's Fahfiel'. Shall I open the gate fo' you, boss?" and Philip turned
to see a hingeless ruin of boards held together by the persuasion of rusty wire.
"The home of my fathers looks down in the mouth," he
The old Negro's eyes, gleaming from under shaggy sheds of
eyebrows, watched him, and he caught the words.
"Is you a Fahfiel', boss?" he asked eagerly. "Is you my young
marse?" He jumped at the conclusion promptly. "You favors de fam'ly mightily,
sah. I heerd you was comin"'; the rag of a hat went off and he bowed low. "Hit's
cert'nly good news fo' Fahfiel', Marse Philip, hit's mighty good news fo' us
niggers, sah. I'se btlonged to the Fahfiel' fam'ly a hundred years, Marse me and
my folks, and I wishes yo' a welcome home, sah welcome home, Marse Philip."
Philip bent with a quick movement from his horse and gripped
the twisted old black hand, speechless. This humble welcome on the highway
caught at his heart deep down, and the appeal of the colored people to
southerners, who know them, the thrilling appeal of a gentle, loyal race, doomed
to live forever behind a veil and hopeless without bitterness, stirred for the first
time his manhood. It touched him to be taken for granted as the child of his
people; it pleased him that he should be "Marse Philip" as a matter of course,
because there had always been a Marse Philip at the place. It was bred deeper in
the bone of him than he knew, to understand the soul of the black man; the stuff
he was made of had been southern two hundred years.
The old man went off down the white limestone road singing
to himself, and Philip rode slowly under the locusts and beeches up the long drive,
grass-grown and lost in places, that wound through the woodland three-quarters of
a mile to his house. And as he moved through the park, through sunlight and
shadow of these great trees that were his, he felt like a knight of King Arthur, like
some young knight long exiled, at last coming to his own. He longed with an
unreasonable seizure of desire to come here to live, to take care of it, beautify it,
fill it with life and prosperity as it had once been filled, surround it with cheerful
faces of colored people whom he might make happy and comfortable. If only he
had money to pay off the mortgage, to put the place once in order, it would be the
ideal setting for the life that seemed marked out for him the life of a writer.
The horse turned a corner and broke into a canter up the slope,
and as the shoulder of the hill fell away there stood before him the picture of his
childhood come to life, smiling drowsily in the morning sunlight with shuttered
windows that were its sleeping eyes the great white house of Fairfield. Its high
pillars reached to the roof; its big wings stretched away at either side; the flicker
of the shadow of the leaves played over it tenderly and hid broken bits of
woodwork, patches of paint cracked away, windowpanes gone here and there. It
stood as if too proud to apologize or to look sad for such small matters, as serene,
as stately as in its prime. And its master, looking at it for the first time, loved it.
He rode around to the side and tied his mount to an old
horse-rack, and then walked up the wide front steps as if each lift were an event.
He turned the handle of the big door without much hope that it would yield, but it
opened willingly, and he stood inside. A broom lay in a corner, windows were
open his cousin had been making ready for him. There was the huge mahogany
sofa, horsehair-covered, in the window under the stairs, where his mother had
read lvanhoe and The Talisman. Philip stepped softly across the wide hall and laid
his head where must have rested the brown hair of the little girl who had come to
be, first all of his life, and then its dearest memory. Half an hour he spent in the
old house, and its walls echoed to his footsteps as if in ready homage, and each
empty room whose door he opened met him with a sweet half-familiarity. The
whole place was filled with the presence of the child who had loved it and left it,
and for whom this tall man, her child, longed now as if for a little sister who
should be here, and whom he missed. With her memory came the thought of the
five-year-old uncle who had made history for the family so disastrously. He must
see the garden where that other Philip had gone with his father to hide the money
on the fated Christmas morning. He closed the house door behind him carefully,
as if he would not disturb a little girl reading in the window, a little boy sleeping
perhaps in the nursery above. Then he walked down the broad sweep of the
driveway, the gravel crunching under the grass, and across what had been a bit of
velvet lawn, and stood for a moment with his hand on a broken vase, weed-filled,
which capped the stone post of a gateway.
All the garden was misty with memories. Where a tall golden
flower nodded alone from out of the tangled thicket of an old flowerbed a
bright-haired child might have laughed with just that air of starred, gay
naughtiness, from the forbidden center of the blossoms. In the molded tan-bark of
the path was a vague print, like the ghost of a footprint that had passed down the
way a lifetime ago. The box, half-dead, half-sprouted into high unkept growth,
still stood stiffly against the riotous overflow of weeds as if it yet held loyally to
its business of guarding the borders. Philip shifted his gaze slowly, lingering over
the dim contours, the shadowy shape of what the garden had been. Suddenly his
eyes opened wide. How was this? There was a hedge as neat, as clipped, as any of
Southampton in midseason, and over it a glory of roses, red and white and pink
and yellow, waved gay banners to him in trim luxuriance. He swung toward them,
and the breeze brought him for the first time in his life the fragrance of box in
Three feet tall, shaven and thick and shining, the old hedge
stood, and the garnered sweetness of a hundred years' slow growth breathed
delicately from it toward the great-great-grandson of the man who planted it. A
box hedge takes as long in the making as a gentleman, and when they are done the
two are much of a sort. No plant in all the garden has so subtle an air of breeding,
so gentle a reserve, yet so gracious a message of sweetness for all of the world
who will stop to learn it. It keeps a firm dignity under the stress of tempest when
lighter growths are tossed and torn; it shines bright through the snow; it has a
well-bred willingness to be background, with the well-bred gift of presence,
whether as background or foreground. The soul of the box tree is an aristocrat,
and the sap that runs through it is the blue blood of vegetation.
Saluting him bravely in the hot sunshine with its myriad
shining sword points, the old hedge sent out to Philip on the May breeze its
ancient welcome of aromatic fragrance, and the tall roses crowded gaily to look
over its edge at the new master. Slowly, a little dazed at this oasis of shining order
in the neglected garden, he walked to the opening and stepped inside the hedge.
The rose garden! The famous rose garden of Fairfield, and as his mother had
described it, in full splendor of cared-for, orderly bloom. Across the paths he
stepped swiftly till he stood amid the roses, giant bushes of Jacqueminot and
Marechal Niel; of pink and white and red and yellow blooms in thick array. The
glory of them intoxicated him. That he should own all of this beauty seemed too
good to be true, and instantly he wanted to taste his ownership. The thought came
to him that he would enter into his heritage with strong hands here in the rose
garden; he caught a deep-red Jacqueminot almost roughly by its gorgeous head
and broke off the stem. He would gather a bunch, a huge, unreasonable bunch of
his own flowers. Hungrily he broke one after another; his shoulders bent over
them, he was deep in the bushes.
"I reckon I shall have to ask you not to pick any more of those
roses," a voice said.
Philip threw up his head as if he had been shot; he turned
sharply with a great thrill, for he thought his mother spoke to him. Perhaps it was
only the southern inflection so long unheard, perhaps the sunlight that shone in his
eyes dazzled him, but, as he stared, the white figure before him seemed to him to
look exactly as his mother had looked long ago. Stumbling over his words, he
caught at the first that came.
"I I think it's all right," he said.
The girl smiled frankly, yet with a dignity in her puzzled air.
"I'm afraid I shall have to be right decided," she said. "These roses are private
property and I mustn't let you have them."
"Oh!" Philip dropped the great bunch of gorgeous color guiltily
by his side, but still held tightly the prickly mass of stems, knowing his right, yet
half-wondering if he could have made a mistake. He stammered:
"I thought to whom do they belong?"
"They belong to my cousin, Mr. Philip Fairfield Beckwith"
the sound of his own name was pleasant as the falling voice strayed through it.
"He is coming home in a few days, so I want them to look their prettiest for him
for his first sight of them. I take care of this rose garden," she said, and laid a
motherly hand on the nearest flower. Then she smiled. "It doesn't seem right
hospitable to stop you, but if you will come over to Westerly, to our house, Father
will be glad to see you, and I will certainly give you all the flowers you want."
The sweet and masterful apparition looked with a gracious certainty of obedience
straight into Philip's bewildered eyes.
"The boy Shelby!" Many a time in the months after, Philip
Beckwith smiled to himself reminiscently, tenderly, as he thought of "the boy
Shelby" whom he had read into John Fairfield's letter; "the boy Shelby" who was
twenty-two years old and the only child; "the boy Shelby" whom he had blamed
with such easy severity for idling at Fairfield; "the boy Shelby" who was no boy
at all, but this white flower of girlhood, called after the quaint and reasonable
southern way as a boy is called, by the surname of her mother's people.
Toward Westerly, out of the garden of the old time, out of the
dimness of a forgotten past, the two took their radiant youth and the brightness of
today. But a breeze blew across the tangle of weeds and flowers as they wandered
away, and whispered a hope, perhaps a promise; for as it touched them each tall
stalk nodded gaily and the box hedges rustled delicately an answering undertone.
And just at the edge of the woodland, before they were out of sight, the girl turned
and threw a kiss back to the roses and the box.
"I always do that," she said. "I love them so!"
Two weeks later a great train rolled into the Grand Central
Station of New York at half-past six at night, and from it stepped a monstrosity
a young man without a heart. He had left all of it, more than he had thought he
owned, in Kentucky. But he had brought back with him a store of memories
which gave him more joy than ever the heart had done, to his best knowledge, in
all the years. They were memories of long and sunshiny days; of afternoons spent
in the saddle, rushing through grassy lanes where trumpet flowers flamed over
gray farm fences, or trotting slowly down white roads; of whole mornings only an
hour long, passed in the enchanted stillness of an old garden; of gay, desultory
searches through its length and breadth, and in the park that held it, for buried
treasure; of moonlit nights; of roses and June and Kentucky and always,
through all the memories, the presence that made them what they were, that of a
girl he loved.
No word of love had been spoken, but the two weeks had made
over his life; and he went back to his work with a definite object, a hope stronger
than ambition, and, set to it as music to words, came insistently another hope, a
dream that he did not let himself dwell on a longing to make enough money to
pay off the mortgage and put Fairfield in order, and live and work there all his life
with Shelby. That was where the thrill of the thought came in, but the place was
very dear to him in itself.
The months went, and the point of living now was the mail
from the South, and the feast days were the days that brought letters from
Fairfield. He had promised to go back for a week at Christmas, and he worked
and hoarded all the months between with a thought which he did not formulate,
but which ruled his down-sitting and his up-rising, the thought that if he did well
and his bank account grew enough to justify it he might, when he saw her at
Christmas, tell her what he hoped; ask her he finished the thought with a jump
of his heart. He never worked harder or better, and each check that came in meant
a step toward the promised land; and each seemed for the joy that was in it to
quicken his pace, to lengthen his stride, to strengthen his touch. Early in
November he found one night when he came to his rooms two letters waiting for
him with the welcome Kentucky postmark. They were in John Fairfield's
handwriting and in his daughter's, and "place aux dames" ruled rather than respect
to age, for he opened Shelby's first. His eyes smiling, he read it.
"I am knitting you a diamond necklace for Christmas," she
wrote. "Will you like that? Or be sure to write me if you'd rather have me hunt in
the garden and dig you up a box of money. I'll tell you there ought to be luck in
the day, for it was hidden on Christmas and it should be found on Christmas; so
on Christmas morning we'll have another look, and if you find it I'll catch you
'Christmas gif" as the darkies do, and you'll have to give it to me, and if I find it
I'll give it to you; so that's fair, isn't it? Anyway 151;" and Philip's eyes jumped from
line to line, devouring the clear, running writing. "So bring a little present with
you, please just a tiny something for me," she ended, "for I'm certainly going to
catch you 'Christmas gif'."'
Philip folded the letter back into its envelope and put it in his
pocket, and his heart felt warmer for the scrap of paper over it. Then he cut John
Fairfield's open dreamily, his mind still on the words he had read, on the threat
"I'm going to catch you 'Christmas gif'."' What was there good enough to give
her? Himself, he thought humbly, very far from good enough for the girl, the lily
of the world. With a sigh that was not sad he dismissed the question and began to
read the other letter. He stood reading it by the fading light from the window, his
hat thrown by him on a chair, his overcoat still on, and, as he read, the smile died
from his face. With drawn brows he read on to the end, and then the-letter
dropped from his fingers to the floor and he did not notice; his eyes stared widely
at the high building across the street, the endless rows of windows, the lights
flashing into them here and there. But he saw none of it. He saw a stretch of quiet
woodland, an old house with great white pillars, a silent, neglected garden, with
box hedges sweet and ragged, all waiting for him to come and take care of them
the honor of his fathers, the home he had meant, had expected he knew it now
would be some day his own, the home he had lost! John Fairfield's letter was to
tell him that the mortgage on the place, running now so many years, was suddenly
to be foreclosed; that, property not being worth much in the neighborhood, no one
would take it up; that on January 2nd Fairfield, the house and land, were to be
sold at auction. It was a hard blow to Philip Beckwith, With his hands in his
overcoat pockets he began to walk up and down the room, trying to plan, to see if
by any chance he might save this place he loved. It would mean eight thousand
dollars to pay the mortgage. One or two thousand more would put the estate in
order, but that might wait if he could only tide over this danger, save the house
and land. An hour he walked so, forgetting dinner, forgetting the heavy coat
which he still wore, and then he gave it up. With all he had saved and it was a
fair and promising beginning he could not much more than half-pay the
mortgage, and there was no way, which he would consider, by which he could get
the money. Fairfield would have to go, and he set his teeth and clenched his fists
as he thought how much he wanted to keep it. A year ago it had meant nothing to
him, a year from now if things went his way he could have paid the mortgage.
That it should happen just this year just now! He could not go down at
Christmas; it would break his heart to see the place again as his own when it was
just slipping from his grasp. He would wait until it was all over, and go, perhaps,
in the spring. The great hope of his life was still his own, but Fairfield had been
the setting of that hope; he must readjust his world before he saw Shelby again.
So he wrote them that he would not come at present, and then tried to dull the
ache of his loss with hard work.
But three days before Christmas, out of the unknown forces
beyond his reasoning swept a wave of desire to go South, which took him off his
feet. Trained to trust his brain and deny his impulse as he was, yet there was a
vein of sentiment, almost of superstition, in him which the thought of the old
place pricked sharply to life. This longing was something beyond him he must
go and he had thrown his decisions to the winds and was feverish until he could
As before, he rode out from the Phoenix Hotel, and at ten
o'clock in the morning he turned into Fairfield. It was a still, bright Christmas
morning, crisp and cool, and the air like wine. The house stood bravely in the
sunlight, but the branches above it were bare and no softening leafage hid the
marks of time; it looked old and sad and deserted today, and its master gazed at it
with a pang in his heart. It was his, and he could not save it. He turned away and
walked slowly to the garden, and stood a moment as he had stood last May, with
his hand on the stone gateway. It was very silent and lonely here, in the hush of
winter; nothing stirred; even the shadows of the interlaced branches above lay
almost motionless across the walks.
Something moved to his left, down the pathway he turned to
look. Had his heart stopped, that he felt this strange, cold feeling in his breast?
Were his eyes could he be seeing? Was this insanity? Fifty feet down the path,
half in the weaving shadows, half in clear sunlight, stood the little boy of his
lifelong vision, in the dress with the black velvet squares, his little uncle, dead
forty years ago. As he gazed, his breath stopping, the child smiled and held up to
him, as of old, a key on a scarlet string, and turned and flitted as if a flower had
taken wing, away between the box hedges. Philip, his feet moving as if without
his will, followed him. Again the baby face turned its smiling dark eyes toward
him, and Philip knew that the child was calling him, though there was no sound;
and again without volition of his own his feet took him where it led. He felt his
breath coming difficulty, and suddenly a gasp shook him there was no footprint
on the unfrozen earth where the vision had passed. Yet there before him, moving
through the deep sunlit silence of the garden, was the familiar, sturdy little form in
its Old-World dress. Philip's eyes were open; he was awake, walking; he saw it.
Across the neglected tangle it glided, and into the trim order of Shelby's rose
garden; in the opening between the box walls it wheeled again, and the sun shone
clear on the bronze hair and fresh face, and the scarlet string flashed and the key
glinted at the end of it. Philip's fascinated eyes saw all of that. Then the apparition
slipped into the shadow of the beech trees and Philip quickened his step
breathlessly, for it seemed that life and death hung on the sight. In and out
through the trees it moved; once more the face turned toward him; he caught the
quick brightness of a smile. The little chap had disappeared behind the broad tree
trunk, and Philip, catching his breath, hurried to see him appear again. He was
gone. The little spirit that had strayed from over the border of a world who can
say how far, how near? unafraid in this earth-corner once its home, had slipped
away into eternity through the white gate of ghosts and dreams.
Philip's heart was pumping painfully as he came, dazed and
staring, to the place where the apparition had vanished. It was a giant-beech tree,
all of two hundred and fifty years old, and around its base ran a broken wooden
bench, where pretty girls of Fairfield had listened to their sweethearts, where
children destined to be generals and judges had played with their black mammies,
where gray-haired judges and generals had come back to think over the fights that
were fought out. There were letters carved into the strong bark, the branches
swung down whisperingly, the green tent of the forest seemed filled with the
memory of those who had camped there and gone on. Philip's feet stumbled over
the roots as he circled the veteran; he peered this way and that, but the woodland
was hushed and empty; the birds whistled above, the grasses rustled below,
unconscious, casual, as if they knew nothing of a child-soul that had wandered
back on Christmas day with a Christmas message, perhaps, of goodwill to its own.
As he stood on the farther side of the tree where the little ghost
had faded from him, at his feet lay, open and conspicuous, a fresh, deep hole. He
looked down absent-mindedly. Some animal a dog, a rabbit had scratched far
into the earth. A bar of sunlight struck a golden arm through the branches above,
and as he gazed at the upturned, brown dirt the rays that were its fingers reached
into the hollow and touched a square corner, a rusty edge of tin. In a second the
young fellow was down on his knees digging as if for his life, and in less than
dive minutes he had loosened the earth which had guarded it so many years, and
staggering with it to his feet had lifted to the bench a heavy tin box. In its lock
was the key, and dangling from it a long bit of no-colored silk, that yet, as he
untwisted it, showed a scarlet thread in the crease. He opened the box with the
little key; it turned scrapingly, and the ribbon crumbled in his fingers, its long
duty done. Then, as he tilted the heavy weight, the double eagles, packed closely,
slipped against each other with a soft clink of sliding metal. The young man
stared at the mass of gold pieces as if he could not trust his eyesight; he half
thought even then that he dreamed it. With a quick memory of the mortgage he
began to count. It was all there ten thousand dollars in gold! He lifted his head
and gazed at the quiet woodland, the open shadowwork of the bare branches, the
fields beyond Iying in the calm sunlit rest of a southern winter. Then he put his
hand deep into the gold pieces, and drew a long breath. It was impossible to
believe, but it was true. The lost treasure was found. It meant to him Shelby and
home; as he realized what it meant, his heart felt as if it would break with the joy
of it. He would give her this for his Christmas gift, this legacy of his people and
hers, and then he would give her himself It was all easy now life seemed not to
hold a difficulty. And the two would keep tenderly, always, the thought of a child
who had loved his home and his people and who had tried so hard, so long, to
bring them together. He knew the dream-child would not visit him again the
little ghost was laid that had followed him all his life. From over the border
whence it had come with so many loving efforts it would never come again.
Slowly, with the heavy weight in his arms, with the eyes of a man who had seen a
solemn thing, he walked back to the garden sleeping in the sunshine, and the box
hedges met him with a wave of fragrance, the sweetness of a century ago; and as
he passed through their shining door, looking beyond, he saw Shelby. The girl's
figure stood by the stone column of the garden entrance. The light shone on her
bare head, and she had stopped, surprised, as she saw him. Philip lifted his hat
high, and his pace quickened with his heartthrob as he looked at her and thought
of the little ghostly hands that had brought theirs together; and as he looked the
smile that meant his welcome and his happiness broke over her face, and with the
sound of her voice all the shades of this world and the next dissolved in light.
"'Christmas gif',' Marse Philip!" called Shelby.