"Mamma, there are things, like love letters, for instance. Would you go to G.o.d with them?"

"Yes," I replied. "Love letters may be very important things. At any rate, your mother might be better than a priest."

"Mamma, dear, you know that you have a fixed conviction that love affairs should only occur in books. Now Frank is not a 'character,' he is a real, living, very delightful man."

Then I said no more, for Frank Morgan was then a very sore subject of conversation, and I really was not sure in my own mind what I had against the young man. His parents were wealthy, and he was their only son. He was the captain of his company, handsome, gentlemanly, and particularly respectful and attentive to myself. It was hard to think wrong of him, and yet I did; and it was no use my deciding not to do so, for I invariably went back to my first impressions. This feeling made me patient, and perhaps less watchful and inquisitive than I should have been.

But during the first half of 1885 I was very weak, and seldom out of pain, and on the eighteenth of January I went to see Dr. Fleuhrer, who made me very anxious. He said work and company were killing me, and I must go to the mountains and live more in solitude. When I went home I found Mrs. Van Duzen there, and after dinner Nat Urner and his wife came to spend the evening. The next morning I went to the Methodist Book Concern and wrote a preface for "The Hallam Succession," a novel written at Dr. Vincent's request on purely Methodist lines. I wanted to do my very best on this book; for I liked Dr. Vincent, and I liked to write of Methodism, but I did not please myself at all. I was really too sick to write well, and I ought not to have attempted it.

On the twenty-sixth Lilly was at Harper's and found Miss Van Dyne removed from her place as editress of _Young People_, and Mr. Conant's office empty. She said there was general silence and distress; no one would talk, and she came away full of a sense of great trouble. Two days afterwards I went to the _Ill.u.s.trated Christian Weekly_, and was shocked to see on the bulletin boards of all the newspapers "_S. S.

Conant Still Missing_."

I did not stop to read what followed. I was sick at heart, trembling, and glad to get safely into an empty Third Avenue horse-car, and lean for support against its upper-end corner. All the way uptown I was like a woman in a dream, for I was indeed living over a dream I had had a few days previously. This dream had troubled me much at the time, and when I related it to Lilly she listened silently, and made no remark but the following:

"It was an evil dream, and I hope S. S. C. is not going to be ill."

We seldom called Mr. Conant by his full name. When speaking of him we used his initials, as indeed he generally did himself. S. S. C. stood in every writer's mind for S. S. Conant. Well, I had dreamed three nights previously of standing in Park Row and looking up to an angry cloud-tossed sky. On this sky I saw the initials _S. S. C._ blazoned in immense black letters, and, as I watched, great ma.s.ses of vengeful storm clouds came swiftly toward them, and drove them with a wild pa.s.sion over the firmament, and out of sight. The dream made a profound impression on me, and when Lilly told me S. S. C. was lost, I answered, "He will not be found."

"O Mamma, do not say that," she cried. "When he left the office, he said he was going to the Grand Central Railway Station. How can a man be lost between Harper's building and the Grand Central--unless he killed himself."

"He did not do that," I answered, and then we were silent. Indeed, to me the great wonder of the mysterious disappearance was the dislike of any one to speak of it. The man pa.s.sed away like a dream that is told.

But I was anxious and unhappy. For years Mr. Conant had bought a large part of my work, and I looked upon him as a sure reliance. Who would take his place? I knew not, but I felt there had been one door closed forever. Then, I bid myself remember, "that as one door shuts, another opens; and that all the keys of the country did not hang from the Harper's belt." Still the little poem I wrote for Bonner that night shows the loneliness and longing I had for the love and protection once mine, which I had taken as I had taken hitherto my wonderful health and strength, and the daily bread that had never failed me:

LOVED TOO LATE

Year after year with glad content In and out of our home he went, In and out; Ever for us the skies were clear, His heart carried the care and fear, The care and doubt.

Our hands held with a careless hold, All that he won of honor and gold, In toil and pain; O dear hands, that our burdens bore!

Hands that shall toil for us no more, Never again!

Oh, it was hard to learn our loss, Bearing daily the heavy cross, The cross he bore; To say with an aching heart and head, Would to G.o.d that the Love now dead Were here once more!

For when the Love we held too light, Was gone away from our speech and sight, No bitter tears, No pa.s.sionate words of fond regret, No yearning grief could pay the debt, Of thankless years.

Oh, now while the sweet Love lingers near, Grudge not the tender words of cheer, Leave none unsaid; For the heart can have no sadder fate, Than some day to awake--too late-- And find Love dead.

Mr. Conant's disappearance precipitated events. I felt it so much that I could not but understand how far below my usual health I had fallen. I was sitting thinking of various places to which I might retire, and yet keep in touch with my business, when Mrs.

Orr of Cornwall-on-Hudson called. When we were together on the _Devonia_ she had often spoken of Cornwall, and the mountains and river which made it such a beautiful and healthful resort; and when I told her of my desire to come to the country, she offered me a house called Overlook, near their own. The next day Lilly went to see the place, found it roomy and comfortable, and standing on the top of a hill, and she rented it for the following six months. It seemed on the road to nowhere, but it would give me solitude and fine mountain air, and these things, with less work, were all that was required to restore my usual splendid health and spirits. Dr.

Fleuhrer stipulated with me to stay six months in Cornwall, and I intended to do so; but I did not intend to stay the twenty-seven years which I have done.

The clear, pure air and the quiet began its restorative work at once, and it was at this time I commenced a custom which I have observed ever since--that is, I went to my room at nine o'clock, no matter who, or how many were present, and I am sure I owe much of my good health and "staying power" to this custom. I do not sleep from nine to six, but I lie at rest in loose garments, and in the rebuilding darkness. Most of my mental work is prepared in this seclusion, my plots are laid, my characters conceived, and my background and motif determined.

We removed to Cornwall on the second of March, 1885, and on the twenty-sixth I received my first copy of "Jan Vedder's Wife." It had been on the market more than a week, but in my seclusion I had not heard of it. It was Dr. Lyman Abbott who gave me the first news that the book had brought me instant favor and recognition. Lilly was on the train going to the _Ledger_ office one Friday, which was the only day Mr. Bonner received contributions, and Dr. Abbott came to her and said, "Tell your mother 'Jan Vedder' has made her famous. Everyone is reading it, and everyone is praising it." Then Lilly had to pa.s.s Dodd, Mead and Company's store, then on Broadway and Ninth Street, and she saw their windows full of large placards bearing the words "Jan Vedder's Wife" in large letters; at the _Ledger's_ office she met Mr.

Munkitterick, who gave her one of his delightful exaggerations about the beauty of the tale, and its great success. I often wonder where Munkitterick has gone to. No one could write such poems as he could.

Mr. Bonner bought all he could get, and they were the gems of the _Ledger_. So clever, so witty, so good-hearted, what has become of such a rare man? I hope that he has all his desires, wherever he may be.

The record of March is a very happy one in regard to my work, and on the twenty-ninth, my fifty-fourth birthday, I wrote, "All is white and deep with snow, but I feel so much better. I thank G.o.d for the mercies of the past year. Over and over He has saved my life, and He has abundantly supplied my wants. My dear G.o.d, go forward with me, for I cannot direct my own steps, but with Thee, I am always safe and happy."

During April I was steadily and rapidly improving, and very content and peaceful, so much so, that eight lines chronicles this month, and these lines refer mainly to the letters from Mrs. Harriet Beecher Stowe, and John Habberton, who was then on the staff of the _New York Herald_, both of them in praise of "Jan." I said once, happiness is not written down. That is the truth. It is the unhappy, anxious months whose records cover pages; this happy April needed only eight lines.

Much the same conditions with regard to my work continued, and in health and strength I gained steadily. On the sixteenth of May I had a letter from Mr. Libbey, which I prized very highly. He told me that he had watched with great pleasure my steady progress, that he had never lost sight of my brave struggle, and was glad that he had been given the opportunity of helping me when I needed help. If Queen Victoria had written me the words of praise he did, I should not have been half so proud and pleased. I had to put aside my work that day; I was too happy to sit still and write. Mr. Libbey was my first friend in New York. He took me at my own word, and I thank G.o.d I had been able to more than make it good. I was purely and sincerely delighted. All the world seemed beautiful that day, and I went to my room and, kneeling down, not only thanked G.o.d, but told Robert all about the joy in my heart. I thought G.o.d would permit him to share it, and I believe He did.

Some time ago I had sent the novel called "The Last of the McAllisters," which Mr. Henry Holt had praised but refused, to a London magazine, and in June they published it. I ought, of course, to have secured its sale in the United States, but I was yet ignorant of my right to sell both in England and America, and when Harper Brothers pirated it, and sent me what they called an _honorarium_ of fifty dollars I thought it was very kind of them. I had no suspicion that I had been politely robbed, though I did notice a singular expression cross Mr. Mead's face when I told him of the circ.u.mstance. Subsequently Dodd, Mead and Company paid me one hundred dollars to make over to them the American rights in the book.

During all this time I kept up my regular contributions to the papers for which I had so long written, for my books did not bring me enough to warrant my giving up my time to novel writing. At the same time I was writing another, and a better, story for the Methodist Book Concern, called "The Lost Silver of Briffault," which I finished on the nineteenth of July. I was able by this time to take in the ma.n.u.script myself, and after leaving it with Dr. Hunt, I went to the Astor Library and worked there, until the twenty-eighth, making notes and reading for the New York story I had been so long contemplating.

The first morning I went to the library I found my alcove, table and chair, had been taken possession of by a man who looked intelligent, but who was common and ill-mannered. He did not speak to me, or even look at me, when I entered with a boy carrying his arms full of books.

If he had done either, I know I should have said, "Sit still, sir, you will not incommode me, and I hope I shall not annoy you." But he just glared, and dropped his eyes, and so, with a slight apology for displacing some paper--my paper, which he was freely using--I sat down at the other end of the table, which was large, even for two writers.

I could have forgotten he was there, if he would have sat still, but he fidgeted and sighed, and showed such signs of annoyance, that I was not a bit sorry when Professor Valentine came in with a joyful "welcome back" to me; and then launched into his usual enthusiasm, concerning Central America and its buried cities. Mr. Saunders followed, and, with his courtly English civilities about my health and my work, easily pa.s.sed ten minutes. Then a scholarly clergyman connected with the _Churchman_, had something to ask me, and he was quickly joined by Professor Norton--not my starry friend--but an old editor of one department in the _Christian Union_; and we three found something to talk about for nearly half an hour. Every now and then some press writer came to ask help from my index, and though I myself was vexed at the interruptions, I was mean enough to be consoled, because the man at the other end of my table was as much disturbed as a man could be.

The next day I was sorry, and I intended to make him welcome, but he had gone as far from me as he could get, and all I could do was to make an apology, which he received in an injured, sulky temper, that astonished me; for I have always found real scholars, the best and easiest tempered men in the world. Afterwards, I asked Mr. Saunders who the man was, and he told me he was a teacher, writing a mathematical text-book. Then I fully excused him. The work was accountable for the temper. For though mathematics may teach a man how to build a bridge, it is what the Scotch Universities call _the humanities_, that teach him to be civil and sweet-tempered.

In August I wrote to Holland for some directions about the Dutch forms of speech, for one of the Astor librarians who spoke the Dutch language, told me always to remember that the Dutch of the period I wish to write of, thought in Dutch, even if they spoke in English.

Thus, he instanced, an Englishman would say, "Spring will soon be here," but a Dutchman would say, "We come near to the Spring." So then a knowledge of Dutch forms was necessary, and he told me what books to write for. When I had sent off this letter, I considered that my preparations for writing "The Bow of Orange Ribbon" were complete.

They had extended over nearly two years. An historical novel was a new venture, and as I had leisure I had been making myself familiar with the history of the time, and the ways of colonial dressing and housekeeping. Indeed, I had perhaps an exaggerated idea of the necessity of a truthful background, and I have never got over that impression. I am sure that I may fairly claim, that my historical tales of New York are faithful pictures of whatever epoch I am using.

But, though I had done all I could do until the writing of the book should gradually reveal whatever was yet lacking, I did not begin it.

I was waiting for the books from Amsterdam; and I commenced meanwhile, on the first of September, a tale of the fishers of Fife, for that particular humanity and locality was perfectly familiar to me. But by my visit to the library I had brought on a return of the trouble in my foot, and I was writing in bed all September, often twelve hours a day, so that I had finished "A Daughter of Fife" on the third of October. Then I went over it, corrected all errors, and sent it to Dodd, Mead on the ninth. I will insert here an amusing letter from one of Fife's daughters--one of a great many; for the story was a favorite, especially among the Scotch.

MRS. AMELIA BARR:

I have just read "A Daughter of Fife" and I want to say to you, that however well you have portrayed the characteristics of the women of Fife, you have done remarkably well in representing some of the traits of a daughter of Fife; and that is myself. When I was the age of Maggie, I would have sent Aunt Janet back to her home, or thrashed her, or made my own exit in a great deal quicker time than Maggie did, I a.s.sure you.

The trust and confidence in the Lord is much the same. The independence is somewhat more p.r.o.nounced in my case--quoting a phrase--people tell me, if I should fall in the river, I would float up stream. My mother read the book first, and noted the resemblance.

I just write this to tell you, how amusingly near to life, and near to home, your story is.

I am respectfully,

LYDEY FIFE.

BASCOM, OHIO, February 22, 1904.

I then employed myself in writing a short story for the _Ill.u.s.trated Christian Weekly_ called "Bread Upon the Waters," and I also wrote a number of poems to keep the columns of the _Ledger_ and other papers open to me. On the fifteenth of October I had a letter from Mr.

Clark of the _Christian World_, London, asking me for another novel, and I immediately began "Between Two Loves," which I finished on Thanksgiving Day, the twenty-sixth of November, and, after reviewing and correcting it, sent it to London, on the second of December. Then there was Christmas and New Year's work to be done, and I did not really begin "The Bow of Orange Ribbon" until the twenty-eighth of December.

On the last day of this year I was working on "The Bow." It had been a wonderful year full of great mercies and strange sorrows. During it "Jan Vedder's Wife," "The Hallam Succession," and "The Lost Silver of Briffault" had been published; and "The Last of the McAllisters,"

pirated. I had regained my health, and my foot only asked to be used with some mercy and discretion. Though I had lived very simply, I had been comfortable, and had had no care about money matters. As to what went on in my soul, I shall say nothing here. I ought to have been a happy woman, but I was unhappy in my domestic life. I was sure that Lilly was resolved to marry Captain Morgan. He came to see her constantly, and wrote to her once, frequently twice, a day. His influence pervaded the house, darkened my life, and made my success of no consequence.

Hitherto my desire or advice had been sufficient for Lilly, but now they were nothing against a sheet of paper. Only a sheet of paper, written over in a bold, much frescoed style, and there was nothing I could say that could stand against it. The sunlight had gone from my days, and life felt haggard and thin without Lilly's sympathy. I did not blame her much. My position appeared to her unreasonable. I knew nothing wrong of Captain Morgan, and I had been shown a letter which proved him a favorite with his company.

"Why will you think wrong of Frank, Mamma?" she asked one day. "n.o.body says wrong of him."

"But I have an undeniable intuition that something is wrong," I said.

"Intuition!" she cried. "That is not fair, Mamma. I am willing to listen to reason, but intuition, no."