|
Main
- books.jibble.org
My Books
- IRC Hacks
Misc. Articles
- Meaning of Jibble
- M4 Su Doku
- Computer Scrapbooking
- Setting up Java
- Bootable Java
- Cookies in Java
- Dynamic Graphs
- Social Shakespeare
External Links
- Paul Mutton
- Jibble Photo Gallery
- Jibble Forums
- Google Landmarks
- Jibble Shop
- Free Books
- Intershot Ltd
|
books.jibble.org
Previous Page
| Next Page
Page 51
"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."
Previous Page
| Next Page
|
|