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Page 50
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.
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