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Title: Through the Ivory Gate
Author: Mary Raymond Shipman Andrews
* A Project Gutenberg of Australia eBook *
eBook No.: 0605071.txt
Language: English
Date first posted: August 2006
Date most recently updated: August 2006

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Through the Ivory Gate
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
fascination.

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 lying 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 meet.

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
picture before."

"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 lying
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 silence.

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 to come."

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 reflected aloud.

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 sunshine.

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--" 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 get away.

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 lying 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.


THE END



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