"... itself to the Power constraining, With a ready and full surrender; Trusting God in the roughest whirlwind, In a cloud of the thickest night, While I watched and hoped in silence, For the dawn of a richer splendor; Musing what new gifts await me-- What of Knowledge, or Love, or Light!"
In July Professor Libbey and Mrs. Libbey spent two days at Cherry Croft, and at the end of the month I had a visit from the Countess de Bremont. She brought a letter from Mr. Paul of London, and I found her an interesting woman. She had just come from Africa, where she had lived for several months in Paul Kruger's home. Her descriptions of it, and of the Boer President and his family, were of the most unsavory even disgusting character; but I listened to them with a kind of satisfaction. I had no respect for the Boers, and I was heart-sick at their early successes; so much so, that my doctor had forbidden me to read anything respecting the war until my daughter gave me permission.
In August I managed to locate the story of "The Maid of Maiden Lane."
I had begun it half-a-dozen times, but always found myself running across "The Bow of Orange Ribbon;" and I was about to give it up, when I awoke one morning about four o'clock, with the whole story clear in my mind. I made a note of the plot as given me, and then with a good heart finished off "Trinity Bells" for Mrs. Dodge.
On the third of September I was at work again on "The Maid of Maiden Lane," and on the eighth I took tea at Dr. Henry Van Dyke's, who was then occupying the beautiful Club House on Storm King as a summer home. The fourteenth, fifteenth and sixteenth of September, I kept as I have always done in memory of my dear husband's and sons' deaths, and I wrote, "It is thirty-two years ago, but I have forgotten nothing of God's mercy, and of their love.
'Faithful, indeed, the spirit that remembers, After such years of change and suffering.'
I am more alone than ever, but God is sufficient."
_Sept. 30th._ I made bread, tidied drawers and closets, filled all the vases with fresh flowers, and walked for two hours and half.
_Oct. 1st._ Writing in the morning on "The Maid of Maiden Lane," and in the afternoon watching the gathering of the apples, and the digging of the potatoes.
In November I finished "The Maid of Maiden Lane" and made an arrangement with Mr. Dodd to write "The Lion's Whelp." For these two books, I was to receive three thousand dollars each.
In December I suffered a great loss. I had as cook a Mrs. Kirkpatrick, the wife of that Thomas Kirkpatrick, whom I have named as my first caller at Cherry Croft, and who was at this very time my gardener. She had both my trust and my affection, for she was faithful and kind to me, and had fine spiritual instincts, which I delighted to inform and to direct. On Sunday, the eleventh of December, she appeared to be in as perfect health as a woman in the prime of life could be, yet when I awoke out of deep sleep, soon after midnight, I knew that something was going to happen; for I could not move a finger, nor could I open my eyes. I lay motionless waiting and listening. Then I heard steps mounting the stairs--steps, no human foot could make--the strong swift steps of a Messenger whom nothing could delay. At the head of the stairs was a corridor on which my room, my study, a guest room and Alice's two rooms opened. At the end of the corridor there was a door, _always locked at night_, then two steps leading down to a small hall, on which Mrs. Kirkpatrick's room, and another room opened.
Into which of these rooms was He going? I listened awestruck and breathless. Past my door, my study, and the guest room He went; past the open door leading into Alice's rooms, and then I heard the same fateful tread going down the two steps into the outer hall, after which there was dead silence. In a few minutes I was able to move, and I sat up and considered. I was certain that I had locked the door between the corridor and the small hall. Yet there had been no delay at the door, nor any sound of a lock turning. I struck a light and went to the door. _It was locked._ It had been no impediment unto Him who passed through it, shut and locked. Alice was in a deep sleep; Mrs. Kirkpatrick, also. I went back to my room and sat down. And that night I slept no more.
In the morning Mrs. Kirkpatrick told me she was sick. "I will go home," she said, "and send my daughter to do my work. I shall be well in a day or two." I held her hand as she spoke, and looked into her kind face, where I saw written what no mortal could either write, or blot out. As she passed through the gate, I called Alice, to "come and take a last look at Mrs. Kirkpatrick;" and we both watched her hurrying up the hill, until she was out of sight. Seven days after she died of pneumonia.
That night as I sat quite alone by the parlor fire, praying for the passing soul, Lilly came to me. And I cried with joy, while together we sought "Him that ... turneth the shadow of death into the morning"
(Amos, 5:8). She spent two days in packing and preparing the house for the winter, and on the third day, I went with Alice to the Fifth Avenue Hotel in New York, leaving Thomas Kirkpatrick, the sorrowful husband, in charge of the house.
I do not like to write much about 1899. The first three months my doctor forbid me to write, and I amused myself by reading everything I could find on the new cults and "isms" then clamoring for recognition.
Theosophy for a few weeks fascinated me, but Christian Science, never for one hour made any impression. I thought it, only a huge misunderstanding of the Bible. Spiritualism I had examined many years previously, and discarded its pretensions at once. Truly God speaks to men, but when he so favors any soul, He asks no dollar fee, and needs no darkened room, veiled cabinet, nor yet any hired medium to interpret His message. He can make Himself heard in the stir and traffic of Broadway, and in the sunshine of midday, as well as in the darkness of midnight. And when I had satisfied my foolish curiosity, I was sorry and ashamed, and with deep contrition asked only to be permitted to say once more "_Our Father!_" Going back to my Bible, was like going back home, after being lost in a land of darkness and despair.
This three months' reading, often by electric light, made havoc with my sight, and I was obliged to spend six weeks in a darkened room after it. Lilly spent them with me, and I was greatly consoled by this proof of her affection for me. I was very anxious about money matters, for though I could not write, the expenses of the house went on. But God did not forget His Promise to me. Towards the end of March Mr.
Stone of Chicago wrote to me for a novel, and I sold him "Was It Right to Forgive?" for twelve hundred dollars; soon after Mr. Jewett came up to Cherry Croft, told me he had gone into the publishing business with his friend Taylor, and bought the book rights of "Trinity Bells,"
for two thousand dollars. These two events, both most unexpected, made my mind easy; and I improved so rapidly, that in May I began to write a little. Then Dr. Klopsch ordered twenty short articles, and these gave me just the work I could do, because I could leave it, and take it up, whenever it was prudent to do so.
I spent the winter of 1900 at Atlantic City, and on the sixth of February, the novelist, Robert Barr of London, came to visit me. He was delighted with Atlantic City, and stayed more than a week. At this time I had a remarkable dream. I thought I stood on the piazza at Cherry Croft, and was looking upward at an immense black African bull, that rose and fell between the sky and the earth. Sometimes he was very high, sometimes he came near to the ground, but as I watched he fell to the earth, and his head came off, and rolled out of sight. And the grass was high, and I called Kirkpatrick and said, "The grass is ready, you will cut it to-morrow."
After that dream I read all the newspapers I wanted to read. I knew the Boers would fail, and fall, and the English flag float over their conquered states. On the twenty-eighth of February I read of Cronjes'
defeat, and on the fifteenth of March, a few days after my return home, Mr. Henry Hunter of Cornwall, sent his son through a great storm, late at night, up to Cherry Croft to tell me that the English had possession of the capital of the Orange Free State. The next morning I walked to the end of the piazza, and noticing the grass high, I called to Kirkpatrick and said, "Kirk, the grass is too high, cut it down tomorrow." Then my dream flashed across my mind, and I thanked God and was happy.
The eleventh of July was the fiftieth anniversary of my wedding day.
Alice was with Lilly in Brooklyn, and I was quite alone, neither had I any letters referring to it. All my world had forgotten it, so I made it memorable to myself, by commencing my Cromwell novel, which I that day named "The Lion's Whelp." In the afternoon I sat in the sunshine, and thought over the incidents of my fifty wedding days. It was a little story for my own pleasure and I shall never write it down. On that day also, I resolved to give up all social visiting, and devote myself entirely to my work.
I worked steadily afterwards on "The Lion's Whelp" but did not finish it until April second, 1901. Then I note in my diary, "I finished my dear Cromwell novel today, five hundred fifty pages. I leave it now with God and Mr. Dodd." It was hard to leave it. For some days I could not bring myself to finish the last few sentences, and my eyes were full of tears when I wrote "_Vale Cromwell!_" I had the same reluctance to close "Remember the Alamo." In both cases, I was bidding farewell to characters with whom I had spent some of the happiest hours of my life.
After finishing "The Lion's Whelp," I collected a volume of my short stories for Dr. Klopsch, and on July fourth I began a novel for Mr. Jewett called "Thyra Varrick." The scene was laid in the Orkney Isles, and the wind of the great North Sea blew all through it, while it had the brilliant blundering of Prince Charles Stuart for a background. It was a great favorite, for it was the initial story of the _Delineator_, and I received the following letter from Charles Dwyer, the editor, after it was published:
DEAR MRS. BARR:
I take leave of "Thyra Varrick" in the May number, with the greatest regret. It seems like parting with an old friend, and one who has conferred many favors on you. It is the first serial that has appeared in the magazine, and I consider myself very fortunate in being able to present such a story. A copy of the book has come in from the publishers, and is now in the hands of the reviewer.
When it comes back to me, I shall take the liberty of sending it to you for an autograph.
With every good wish for a pleasant summer, and that we may be again in association, I am
Very faithfully yours,
CHARLES DWYER.
On May the third, my sister Alethia died of apoplexy, and I am now the last of a family that had been more than a century _at home_ when Edward the Confessor reigned. A very ancient prophecy regarding the family said, "It will go out with a lass." So it will. I stand at the end of a long, long roll of priests and heroes, but though I am only a woman, I have fought a good fight, my hands are clean, my honor unstained, and I have never written a line that I would wish to blot, if I was dying. I am not afraid to meet any of my ancestors, and I shall be glad to look my dear father in the face. He was a great scholar, but he was too busy preaching to write a book. And when I tell him I have written over sixty books, I shall add, "But that is because I am your daughter."
On June the sixteenth, I had the following letter, and among the hundreds I have received, not one has given me more soul pleasure:
WAR DEPARTMENT.
UNITED STATES ENGINEER'S OFFICE.
MOBILE, ALA.
MRS. AMELIA E. BARR.
DEAR MADAM:
Allow me to thank you for Chapter Seven, "Souls Of Passage." I am on a higher plane since reading it, and thoughts, heretofore merely in solution in my mind, have flashed into beautiful and permanent crystallization. I do not apologize for addressing you, for I feel that it must please you to know, that your soul in its passage, has helped another.
Very respectfully,
WILLIAM STODDARD MCNEILL.
From the middle of August unto the end of the year, Alice was very ill, and I could not leave her night or day, unless Lilly was with her. So I went early to the city this year. I finished "Thyra Varrick"
on December nineteenth, and then rested until the New Year.
On the second of January, 1902, I was in the Historical Library, then on Second Avenue, where I worked all day, and then bought from the library a large and very valuable book on the Loyalists of New York City during its captivity to the English. It is written by one of the De Lancey family, and is a monumental book that ought to be better known. Alice was in a most unhappy condition all month, and I write sorrowfully on February first: "I am heartbroken about Alice. I can get no hopeful response spiritually from her. She is always conscious of some inimical Presence, whom she cannot pray against, and she is miserably depressed, and will not go out."
On the fifteenth I had a letter from a small town in Turkey-in-Asia, asking permission to translate my articles in _Success_ into Greek, and thus I discovered that _Success_ had been using my work without my knowledge, or permission, for I never wrote for the paper except one article for the opening number. The success founded on such methods had in it no lasting elements, and the paper has disappeared.
On the twenty-eighth Alice begged me to take her home, and on the third of March I did so. Kirkpatrick had the house beautifully warm, and Lilly went up to Cherry Croft with us, and put all in order.
On March twenty-ninth, my seventy-second birthday, I had had a night of prayer and watching, but I fell asleep at dawn, and woke up wonderfully refreshed; and to my happy amazement, Alice gave me a kiss and a blessing, when I went to her room. "Dear God!" I prayed, "add Thy Blessing to it." The mail brought me a present of violet pins from Lilly, and all my soiled lace done up with her own hands, and looking like new. Her husband sent me a very handsome scrap-book for my newspaper clippings. I had one hundred seventy-five dollars from Rutger, royalty money, and Mary had made and sent me a pretty kimono.
I was very happy indeed; for, thank God, I still keep my child heart, and "little things" make me happy.
On April second I began "The Song of a Single Note." It carried on the story of "The Bow of Orange Ribbon," and a month later I wrote, "Alice is well and happy; our days go on calm and sweetly, and I am enjoying my work."
On May the twenty-first, Mrs. Harry Lee called to see me for the first time. I liked her at once. She is now one of the two women I really love. There is no set time for _her_ calls, she can come morning, noon or night, and be welcome. She is loving and intellectual, and never gets bored or has a train to meet, if our conversation slips into grave, or even religious subjects. From a good tree, we expect good fruit, and she is the eldest daughter of the late well-beloved E. P.
Roe. Her love for me also runs into physical and material grooves, which are very enjoyable; many a time she has walked over the fields to my house, with a basket of fine fruit, or a dish of whipped cream, or some other delicacy. And as she is a fashionable woman in the social world, I think such little attentions show a sweet and homely affection, that I value highly.
On May thirty-first I made a note that causes me to smile as I read it--"a kind of dictatorial letter, from a firm who want me to write a novel for them--_they are both young!_" I also, rejoice, because I have got the grip of the story I am writing, and now it will be easy work.
On June the twelfth, I had a remarkable experience, one I shall never forget. I heard the clock strike three, and thought I had a letter in my hand from my mother. It was written on the old-fashioned large, square letter paper, and contained two sheets, the last one not quite full; folded as we folded letters before envelopes had been thought of, and closed with a seal which I carefully broke. In this letter she told me of all that she had suffered, and how she had prayed to God, and I buried my face in the letter and wept bitterly. Yes, I felt the tears, and I said, "O dear, dear Mother, you had to die, and I had to grow old, to know how much I love you!" A strange thing was, I saw plainly her address, and she had signed herself "Mary Singleton," _her maiden name_, "Kingdom of Heaven." There were two other lines in the address, which I have forgotten, but I knew they were the names of city and street. I was wonderfully comforted by this letter, and its enthralling, heavenly perfume lingered about me for many days.[8]
[Illustration: MISS ALICE BARR]
On June thirtieth Charles Francis Adams sent me a copy of his oration about Cromwell's having a statue in the New England Colonies.