word from him the day before. She was escorted by a strong party of
Confederates, including her brother and cousin. She started out with
just the old negro, and it was arranged that she should meet the party
at the cabin where I found her writing. They were to go with her to
Kelly's Ford, where she was to pass over to the Union post on the other
bank--she had a safe-conduct."
"Oh!" I assimilated this. "And she and her brother were Confederates,
and the father was a Northern general--how extraordinary!"
"Not in the least," the General corrected me. "It happened so in a
number of cases. She was a power in that campaign. She did more work
than either father or brother. A Southern officer told me afterward that
the men half believed what she said--that she was a witch, and got news
of our movements by magic. Nothing escaped her--she had a wonderful
mind, and did not know what fear was. A wonderful woman!"
He was smiling to himself again as he sat, with his great shoulders bent
forward and his scarred hand on his knee, looking into the fire.
"General," I said tentatively, "aren't you going to tell me what she
said when she saw you come into her father's tent?"
"Said?" asked the General, looking up and frowning. "What could she say?
Good-morning, I guess."
I wasn't afraid of his frown or of his hammer-and-tongs manner. I'd got
behind both before now. I persisted.
"But I mean--what did you say to each other, like the day before--how
did it all come out?"
"Oh, we couldn't do any love-making, if that's what you mean," he
explained in a business-like way, "because the old man was on deck. And
I had to leave in about ten minutes to ride back to join my command.
That was all there was to it."
I sighed with disappointment. Of course I knew it was just an idyll of
youth, a day long, and that the book was closed forty years before. But
I could not bear to have it closed with a bang. Somewhere in the
narrative had come to me the impression that the heroine of it had died
young in those exciting war-times of long ago. I had a picture in my
mind of the dancing eyes closed meekly in a last sleep; of the young
officer's hand laid sorrowing on the bright halo of hair.
"Did you ever see the girl again?" I asked softly.
The General turned on me a quick, queer look. Fun was in it, and memory
gave it gentleness; yet there was impatience, too, at my slowness, in
the boyish brown eyes.
"Mrs. Carruthers has red hair," he said briefly.
THROUGH THE IVORY GATE
Breeze-filtered through shifting 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 shipped 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 every-day 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 sub-consciously
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, putting in order an old mahogany secretary,
showed him a drawer full of photographs, daguerrotypes. 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 wilful ways of his sister-mother,
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 war-time 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
little 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 little 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 little 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 drunk 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 little 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 to-day, 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 hag-like
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
fibre 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 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 book-shelves, 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 off-hand--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
every one, 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 land-owning 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 marvellously 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 home-coming 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, "Good-by," 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 every-day 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.