"Yet, Lilly," I answered, "reason is only human perplexity. If we know, and are sure of a thing, we don"t reason about it. Intuition is far above reason. It is absolute knowledge. It comes from the spiritual region of our nature, and makes the mind knowing, and the object known, one. It never deceives."
"Then I say, it ought to be more precise. It tells you to beware of Frank, it ought also to tell you _why_."
"If there is a finger-post on the sea sands with the word "danger" on it, is it necessary to say what kind of danger? If you value your life, you just give it a wide berth."
Such conversations were frequent, but I knew well that they were useless. I only succeeded in delaying, what was sure to come. And Lilly never succeeded in changing in the least my opinion of her lover. Now,
"Who forged that other influence?
That heat of inward evidence, By which I doubted against sense."
The first part of 1886 I was busy on "The Bow of Orange Ribbon," and various poems and articles for the _Ledger_, _Advance_, and _Independent_. On February, the second, I note that I added four verses to "The Beggars of the Sea," a poem in the early part of the book. On the ninth I notice a great labor riot in London with the comment "the beginning--plenty more to follow." I did not say this from intuition, but from a dream I had recently had. In this dream, I saw the flags of all nations strung across the firmament, and they were blown hither and thither in the midst of flame and thunders and lightnings, and great mult.i.tudes fighting below. And I thought the date was set, but not yet.
On the twenty-fifth of February, I had written two hundred pages of "The Bow." On the first of March I had two hundred and thirty pages composed and had been copying all day. On the third I only wrote seven pages, having a blinding headache. On this day I got "The Last of the McAllisters" in Harper"s Handy Series, and I was rather pleased, not yet knowing how unfair and unjust was their possession of it. On March thirteenth I had finished two hundred and ninety-three pages of "The Bow."
_March 14th._ I was writing all day; had a sore throat.
_15th._ Writing all day. Throat very bad.
_16th._ Ditto. Mrs. Orr to tea.
_17th._ Writing all day on "The Bow."
_18th._ Ditto. Finished 325 pages.
_19th._ Very sick but wrote seventeen pages.
_20th._ Finished 343 pages. Still sick.
_21st._ Wrote all day.
_22nd._ Finished 373 pages.
_23rd._ Working on "The Bow" all day.
_24th._ Finished "The Bow of Orange Ribbon," 404 pages.
_29th._ My fifty-fifth birthday. I was sick and tired and uncertain. I sat still all day, not realizing until the book was done, and out of my hands, how weary I was. But I was not unhappy. Lilly still ordered my home, and I caught her brave, happy look every time I asked it with my smile. And I thought over all the work I had done the past year, and stretched out my right hand to G.o.d, for He knew I had done it faithfully, and could say with McAndrews,
"I ha" lived an" I ha" worked, All thanks to Thee Most High, An" I ha" done, what I ha" done--judge Thou, if ill or well-- Always Thy Grace preventin" me."
On the fourteenth of April, I went to Dodd, Mead"s about "The Bow."
They had many doubts and disparagements. Such a Dutchman as _Joris_ was not natural, and was I sure that _Lady G.o.don_ and her set spoke English as I had represented them? Now I had spent many weeks in studying the court English of the time, and had collected all my forms from Horace Walpole"s and Lord Chesterfield"s letters, et cetera, because it was in correspondence and familiar writing I expected to find the social forms most prevalent. I do not now remember the other criticisms, because I tried to forget them, feeling sure that the book, when published and reviewed, would justify me. I kept a stiff upper lip until I got home, then I broke down. I suppose if I had been a man, I should have said some bad words, being a woman I cried bitterly.
I had expected praise, and had received only doubts and hesitations, but it must be remembered, that it was an entirely new kind of novel, and that Irving"s caricatures of Dutchmen, had formed the popular idea of the early settlers of New Amsterdam. But among these settlers, there were many wealthy men, sons of old Leyden University, and many women who had grown to their rosy grace and refinement in exquisitely ordered homes, wherein the fear of G.o.d, and family affection was the law of their lives.
I did not go again about "The Bow" until the fourteenth of May, when Dodd, Mead offered me six hundred dollars for it, promising to pay me more if the book sold well. I have never received any more.
In the meantime I had begun, on the twenty-sixth of April, a novel called "The Squire of Sandalside," and I finished it in July. Then I went to England very unexpectedly, being led to do so by the following incident:
A prominent editor and literary man of New York, sent me a letter asking me to call on him. I thought he wanted a novel, and I went to see him. His object was very different. He asked me to tell him how much money I had received from Mr. Clark of the _Christian World_ for the English rights of my novels. I told him, of course, that Mr. Clark had paid me nothing. Then he explained the subject fully to me, and advised me to go to see Mr. Clark at once. Finally, he asked me to promise, that in speaking of the subject I would never, never name him as my informer. He was so particular about this, that I made the promise, and have faithfully kept it.
He said he had told me, because he pitied my ignorance, and I felt no grat.i.tude to the man; for I distrusted him, and had a reason for doing so, that he was far from suspecting. I found myself worried, and even cross, when I got home, and Lilly said, "You ought to have gone to Mr. Dodd with this story, Mamma." "No," I answered, "it might annoy him without reason. He probably knows nothing about it." Then we spoke of Dodd, Mead paying me five hundred dollars more on "Jan Vedder"s Wife," because the book sold well; five hundred that I never claimed, or asked for.
Three days afterwards I went to England, but it was no pleasure trip.
I had a heartache about the business, and I did not like to leave Lilly and Alice in such a lonely place without friends, or even acquaintances. But the sea air made me strong, and though the business was hateful to me, I got through it better than I expected.
Mr. Clark listened silently to my story, though I was quite aware of his sympathy. In reply he said, the money unfortunately was lost to me. He had paid others in good faith, supposing they were acting for me, but that in future he would deal directly with myself. He then and there made an arrangement with me for my next novel, which was called "Paul and Christina," the study for which story had already appeared in the _Christian Union_.
He asked me to his house to stay over Sunday, and I went; for I had a curiosity to see how English publishers lived. And I was greatly impressed with his home, its surroundings and furnishings. It was a perfect example of the breadth, solidity, and the last-for-ever kind of chairs, tables, et cetera, which are found in the best English residences. There was a kind of sumptuousness about it, that was never vulgar, nothing in any room screamed, and the effect was very reposeful. I have tried to recall some examples, more particularly, but I can remember nothing but the dinner knives, which were of the finest Indian steel, wonderfully polished, and having exquisite onyx handles. That is a little thing to have remembered, but it typifies the whole.
Mr. Clark was a pleasant English gentleman, with just a trace of the schoolmaster in his manner. And he was one of the finest scholars in English literature I ever met. Indeed I think he was the finest.
Under my father"s care I had become thoroughly acquainted with English authors of an early date, especially those of Cromwell"s and Anne"s time, and during the past fifteen years" study in the Astor Library, I had read carefully those of later date; but I could not quote a line from any writer, that he did not instantly place, and likely give also the preceding and following lines. He was a good man, too, I am sure; one that feared G.o.d, and dealt fairly with his fellows.
I did not remain long in England. Something always drew me northward and, without staying in Edinburgh, I went to the pretty watering place of Burntisland. They are "cannie Scots" that live in Burntisland, and always have been. Even when besieged by Oliver Cromwell, they did not lose sight of their own interests for Prince Charles" sake; for they offered to open their gates to Cromwell, if he would pave their streets, and improve their harbor. And Cromwell kept his part of the obligation so well, that the harbor, with some modern additions, is yet one of the best on the east of Scotland.
From there I went to Kirkcaldy, and once more walked up the High Street to look at the house in which Adam Smith wrote his "Wealth of Nations." I don"t know why I did it. I never opened the "Wealth of Nations," and I cared nothing about Adam Smith. In fact, I gave up looking at his house with impatience, and went to the old Tower of Balwearie, where Michael Scott, the famous wizard, lived. For I knew if I sat still long enough in its eerie shadows, I should find the wizard beside me.
But I suddenly wearied altogether of my solitary travel, and took the first train back to Edinburgh. The idea of home and Lilly and Alice haunted me. They ruled over me by attraction, as others often do by their antipathy; for the moral atmosphere, like the physical, becomes impregnated with certain feelings. And it so happened, that at my hotel I got the very same parlor that Robert and I had occupied on our wedding tour. What were all the royal palaces, and ancient castles, and wizard towers to me? There was a little wood cottage in Cornwall inexpressibly dearer. I resolved to turn homeward the next day.
From the windows of this parlor I had a fine view of the castle, and the old town lying around it. I had sat in my bridal finery with Robert on the same spot, at the same window thirty-six years ago, on just such a lovely summer night; and though I did not wish it, thoughts of the past came through memory, as the stars wore through the dark. A light like dreamland was over everything, and the fragrance of the summer roses in the gardens bordering Prince"s Street, filled the air. It was a melancholy fragrance, it made me sad, for I thought of the lovely flowers pulsing their souls away, and wondered where they went to. Was a fragrance so rich and rare wasted?
If not, for whom were these scented airs, in the glimmering of the summer twilight? Men and women took little heed of them, surely then, they were for the angels all around us, since
"... Thousands at His bidding speed, And post o"er land and ocean without rest."
I sat dreaming until midnight, and then I knew that old doors in palace and castle would be opened, and forth would come the ghosts of ancient sorrows and splendors. So I slowly, very slowly, prepared myself to lie down and sleep, remembering as I did so, Alexander Smith"s almost forgotten description of Edinburgh, left unfinished because death took the pencil out of his fingers:
"Towered, templed Metropolitan, Waited upon by hills, River, and wide-spread ocean; tinged By April"s light, or draped and fringed As April"s vapor wills, Thou hangest like a Cyclop"s dream, High in the shifting weather gleam."
Next morning I took the Caledonian Line as far as Kendal. There was a literary syndicate there, called the Northern Newspaper Syndicate; they bought a good deal of writing from me, and were at the time owing me a few pounds. I should not have called there on that account, but a reminiscent spell was over me, and I was glad of an excuse to indulge it. The money was as safe as if it was in my purse, for the syndicate was directed by Quakers, who certainly made close bargains, but who paid, without demur or delay, whatever they promised to pay. I went to the ancient hostelry called The King"s Arms. It has a long, strange history, and I have been frequently told there are some apartments in it, once occupied by King John, but closed up for centuries as unsafe.
I had no desire to look into them. I wanted to see my mother"s house, also the preacher"s house and chapel, standing among its band of whispering poplar trees. After a good supper of tea, fresh c.o.c.kles, and haver cake I felt in the proper Kendal humor. And if any of my readers ever go to Kendal, and will sup on fresh c.o.c.kles and haver cake, they will remember me pleasantly as long as they live. The c.o.c.kles will be fresh from Morcambe Bay, or Sandside, and if one has never eaten haver cake with the delicious b.u.t.ter that is plentiful there, he has a gastronomical luxury to become acquainted with. Haver cake is, however, so common in Kendal, that the hotels do not serve it, unless asked for; but it is worth asking for, and even paying for.
It is made of oatmeal, as fine as the finest wheat flour, and the cake itself is thin as a wafer, and delightfully crisp. And really one does not know how good cheese is, until he has eaten it with Kendal haver cake. As time goes by, I shall no doubt have many letters of thanks for this information, and I shall be glad of them; for there are few things in life, that awaken such kindly memories as something good to eat.
The bedroom given me was the queerest, most old-fashioned place imaginable. I am sure it had been furnished about A.D. 1650. And the parlor I occupied had the same _past_ look. All was so strange, and yet so familiar, and I could not help feeling, that in every old chair there was either a ghost, or a dream.
The next day was Sunday, and I was awakened by the grandest caroling of the church chimes. No other music between heaven and earth is so touching and elevating, as the pealing chimes from church towers. At intervals all day long, they reminded us that it was the Sabbath, until
"As evening shades descended, Low, and loud, they sweetly blended; Low at times, and loud at times, Rang the beautiful old chimes."
And as I sat listening to them, I could not help thinking how much, and how constantly, bells intermeddled with all the feelings and fortunes of humanity. In the dawn of time, they made a pleasant tinkling among the sons of Asher and Baal. The war horses of Sesostris jangled them on the first battlefields of the world; the priests of Israel wore them upon the hems of their most sacred vestments. They delivered oracles at Dodona, and shook a noisy challenge from the shields of Greek heroes. They have tolled out warnings on lonely coasts for the salvation of human life; they have given the signal for such awful ma.s.sacres as St. Bartholomew and the Sicilian Vespers. They have rang in tyranny, and rang out tyrants; while on the wide ocean, they are given a new dignity, and are made the interpreters of the sun. No place has been so high and so holy, that there they have not been heard; yet the fool has shaken them on his bauble, and the infant on its rattle.
In America at the present day what a wonderful power has been the bell. Inside our homes, from street-cars and railways, from banks and offices, schools and factories, carts and counters, comes constantly the well-known sound of bell metal; and there is nothing inanimate that has so meddled with the joys and sorrows, and business of mankind. Indeed, to write the history of small bells would be to write the social history of nearly forty centuries. That was a labor to think of, so I reminded myself of Tennyson"s invocation to the bells to ring out old shapes of all evil, and ring in the Christ that is to be; and with this divine vision of the time when G.o.d "shall make his tabernacle with men, and wipe all tears from their eyes," I fell happily asleep, and dreamed a strange dream. I thought I was in a beautiful garden, shady and sweet with many shelves of bee skeps, under some large plane trees, and as I looked I saw a woman knocking at the door of each skep, with the big key of the house door, and telling the bees that the master had just died. That was a ceremony always observed in the North of England, when the master died, but what made me dream of it that night? And what strange link was there between the room in which I slept, and the man who died? Had the master died in that room? on that bed? and was I in the old garden, when I heard the news of his death? I mean, was the dream a reminiscence--a reminiscence possible because the room, and the garden, and the master"s death had been in some anterior life, a part of my experience? I cannot tell. I only know I woke with a strange feeling of pity or grief for the dead master; and the humming of the bees in their hives, talking of the sad news was in my ears. Still if I ever should go to Kendal again, I would ask for that ancient bedroom, and bespeak another dream from the pillows that must be full of them. I am stating only a wandering thought, believing that many others must have had a like experience. For a few years ago, in a large hotel in Atlantic City, I had for seven nights the same dream upon the same pillow, but when I sent the pillow away, the dream went with it.
Early in October I was at work again, this time on a Roman Catholic story, called "The Beads of Tasmar." There is a most romantic corner of Scotland on the sh.o.r.es of Ross, where the people have always been Catholics. It is Catholic Kintail. Fifty years ago if you landed at Bundalloch, where the great b.u.t.tresses of Kintail come sheer down to the beach, you were among a people who have lived unchanged by all the revolts and revolutions of the world around them. Among these desolate hills you found the ancient Christian life in all its beauty and simplicity. To their thatched clachans they welcomed you with gentle, mannerly ways, very unlike the glower and greed of the lowlander; and handed you always a bowl of fresh milk, and an oaten cake. It appealed to me strongly as the background for an unusual Scotch tale, and I think "The Beads of Tasmar" is one of the prettiest romances I ever wrote. Dodd, Mead paid me five hundred dollars for it, and I enjoyed the work so much, that I felt well paid. Dodd, Mead were pleased with it, and it was printed and ready to put on the market when one of the members of the firm read it, and refused to give it to the public. He was perfectly conscientious in this decision, and as I had been paid for it, the loss was not mine. He really believed that its publication would injure the reputation, both of the firm, and myself.
So "The Beads of Tasmar" was laid aside, and I began the well beloved "Border Shepherdess," a tale as opposite to "The Beads of Tasmar" as if it related to another planet. For the characters were all of them of the strictest sect of Cameronian Calvinists, the sea was not present, and the men and women were of the intense quality of Border Scots. It was, however, a great favorite, and with few exceptions I have had the most letters about it. The fall of the year after my return home was very still and happy. Two personal events that interested me broke the monotony--a lovely letter of congratulation from Mr. Stedman, with an invitation to a literary reception at his house, and a long letter from Martin F. Tupper. Just about the time I was married, every one was reading and praising Martin F. Tupper. I thought he was a wonderful writer. I learned whole pages of his philosophy and I am a perfect Philistine with regard to my idols. Mr.
Tupper had been mutilated and slashed by later critics, till he was in as bad a case as the G.o.d Dagon, but to me he was just as wonderful as ever. I was so proud of his letter, full of praises and good wishes, that I wrote no more that day. Yet I could not help noticing the sad note of refrain, that comes with every joy, for I found myself saying frequently, as I walked about the room with his letter in my hand, "Oh, if my father had lived to see this letter, how happy he would have been! How happy I should be!"
"Never quite satisfied, Mamma," said Lilly with a sigh; and I was ashamed, and read aloud to her Mr. Stedman"s letter, which had come with the same mail as Mr. Tupper"s, and then began to talk of the dress I must wear. I feared "nothing I had was quite good enough."