So pleased was I with my experience at the Lyceum Theatre that, fearing
to offset the effects upon my nerves of Sir Henry Irving's wonderful
cordiality, I made no more visits to the homes of celebrities for two
weeks, unless a short call on Li Hung-Chang can be considered such. Mr.
Chang was so dispirited over the loss of his yellow jacket and the
partition of the Chinese Empire that I could not get a word out of him
except that he was not feeling "welly well," and that is hardly
sufficient to base an interview on for a practically inexperienced lady
journalist like myself.
I therefore returned to English fields again for my next interview, and
having heard that the Rev. Ian Maclaren was engaged on a translation
into English of his Scottish stories, I took train to Liverpool, first
having wired the famous object of my visit of my intention. He replied
instantly by telegraph that he was too busy to receive me, but I started
along just the same. There is nothing in the world that so upsets me as
having one of my plans go awry, and I certainly do not intend to have my
equanimity disturbed for the insufficient reason that somebody else is
busy. So I wired back to Liverpool as follows:
"Very sorry, but did not receive your telegram until too late to
change my plans. My trunks were all packed and my Scotch lassie
costume finished. Expect me on the eleven sixty-seven. Will not
stay more than a week.
"(Signed)
"ANNE WARRINGTON WITHERUP."
Dr. Maclaren being a courteous man, and I being a lady, I felt confident
that this would fetch him; and it apparently did, for two hours later I
received this message:
"_Witherup, London:_
"Am not here. Have gone to Edinburgh. Do not know when I shall
return.
"(Signed)
"MACLAREN."
To this I immediately replied:
"_Maclaren, Liverpool:_
"All right. Will meet you at Edinburgh, as requested.
"(Signed)
"WITHERUP."
[Illustration: DRESSED FOR THE PART]
The reader will observe that it takes a smart British author to escape
from an American lady journalist once she has set her heart on
interviewing him. But I did not go to Edinburgh. I am young, and have
not celebrated my thirtieth birthday more than five times, but I am not
a gudgeon; so I refused to be caught by the Edinburgh subterfuge, and
stuck to my original proposition of going to Liverpool on the eleven
sixty-seven; and, what is more, I wore my Highland costume, and all the
way down studied a Scotch glossary, until I knew the difference between
such words as dour and hoots as well as if I had been born and bred at
Loch Macglasgie.
[Illustration: THE PURSUIT]
As I had expected, Dr. Maclaren was there, anxiously awaiting
developments, and as I stepped out of my carriage he jumped from behind
a huge trunk by which he thought he was concealed, and fled through the
Northwestern Hotel out into the street, and thence off in the direction
of the Alexandra Docks. I followed in hot pursuit, and, by the aid of a
handy hansom, was not long in overtaking the unwilling author. It may be
said by some that I was rather too persistent, and, knowing that the
good Doctor did not wish to be interviewed, should have relinquished my
quest. It was just that quality in Dr. Maclaren's make-up that made me
persist. There are so few successful authors who may be said to possess
the virtue of modesty in the presence of an interviewer that I
determined to catch one who was indeed the only one of that rare class I
had ever met.
"Dr. Maclaren?" I cried, as I leaped out of the hansom, and landed,
fortunately, on my feet--a lady journalist is a good deal of a feline in
certain respects--directly in his path.
"The same," he replied, pantingly. "And you are Miss Witherup?"
"The very same," I retorted, coldly.
"I am perfectly delighted to see you," he said, removing his hat and
mopping his brow, which the unwonted exercise he was taking had caused
to drip profusely. "Perfectly charmed, Miss Witherup."
I eyed him narrowly. "One wouldn't have thought so," I said, with a
suspicious emphasis, "from the way you were running away from me."
"Running away, my dear Miss Witherup?" he gasped, with an admirable
affectation of innocence. "Why, not at all."
"Then why, Dr. Maclaren," I asked, "were you running towards the docks
within ten seconds of the arrival of my train?"
To the gentleman's credit be it said that he never hesitated for a
moment.
"Why?" he cried, in the manner of one cut to the heart by an unjust
suspicion. "Why? Because, madam, when you got out of that railway
carriage I did not see you, and fearing that I had mistaken your
message, and that instead of coming from London by rail you were coming
from America by steamer, I hastened off down towards the docks in the
hope of welcoming you to England, and helping you through the
custom-house. You wrong me, madam, by thinking otherwise."
The gentleman's tact was so overwhelmingly fine that I forgave him his
fiction, which was not quite convincing, and took him by the hand.
"And now," said I, "may I see you at home?"
A gloomy cloud settled over the Doctor's fine features.
"That is my embarrassment," he said, with a deep sigh. "I haven't any."
"What?" I cried.
"I have been evicted," he said, sadly.
"You? For non-payment of rent?" I asked, astonished.
"Not at all," said the Doctor, taking a five-pound note from his pocket
and throwing it into the street. "I have more money than I know what to
do with. For _heresy_. My house belongs to a man who does not like the
doctrines of my books, and he put us out last Monday. That is why--"
"I understand," I said, pressing his hand sympathetically. "I am so
sorry! But cheer up, Doctor," I added. "I have been sent here by an
American newspaper that never does anything by halves. I have been told
to interview you at _home_. It must be done. My paper spares no expense.
Therefore, when I find you without a home to be interviewed in, I am
authorized to provide you with one. Come, let us go and purchase a
furnished house somewhere."
He looked at me, astonished.
"Well," he gasped out at length, "I've seen something of American
enterprise, but this beats everything."
"I suppose we can get a furnished house for $10,000?" I said.
"You can rent all Liverpool for that," he said. "Suppose, instead of
going to that expense, we run over to the Golf Links? I'm very much at
home there, though I don't play much of a game."
"Its atmosphere is very Scottish," said I.
"It is indeed," he replied. "Indeed, it's too Scotch for me. I can hold
my own with the great bulk of Scotch dialect with ease, but when it
comes to golf terms I'm a duffer from Dumfries. There are words like
'foozle' and 'tee-off' and 'schlaff' and 'baffy-iron' and 'Glenlivet.'
I've had 'em explained to me many a time and oft, but they go out of one
ear just as fast as they go in at the other. That's one reason why I've
never written a golf story. The game ought to appeal strongly to me for
two reasons--the self-restraint it imposes upon one's vocabulary of
profane terms, and the large body of clerical persons who have found it
adapted to their requirements. But the idiom of it floors me; and after
several ineffectual efforts to master the mysteries of its glossary, I
gave it up. I can drive like a professional, and my putting is a dream,
but I can't converse intelligently about it, and as I have discovered
that half the pleasure of the game lies in talking of it afterwards, I
have given it up."
By this time we had reached the railway station again, and a great light
as of an inspiration lit up the Doctor's features.
"Splendid idea!" he cried. "Let us go into the waiting-room of the
station, Miss Witherup. You can interview me there. I have just
remembered that when I was lecturing in America the greater part of my
time was passed waiting in railway stations for trains that varied in
lateness between two and eight hours, and I got to feel quite at home
in them. I doubt not that in a few moments I shall feel at home in this
one--and then, you know, you need not bother about your train back to
London, for it leaves from this very spot in twenty minutes."
He looked at me anxiously, but he need not have. When I discovered that
he could not master the art of golfing sufficiently to be able to talk
about it at least, he suddenly lost all interest to me. I have known so
many persons who were actually only half baked who could talk
intelligently about golf, whether they played well or not--the tea-table
golfers, we call them at my home near Weehawken--that it seemed to be
nothing short of sheer imbecility for a person to confess to an absolute
inability to brag about "driving like a professional" and "putting like
a dream."
"Very well, Doctor," said I. "This will do me quite as well. I'm tired,
and willing to go back, anyhow. Don't bother to wait for my departure."
[Illustration: AT HOME]
"Oh, indeed!" he cried, his face suffusing with pleasure. "I shall be
delighted to stay. Nothing would so charm me as to see you safely off."
I suppose it was well meant, but I couldn't compliment him on his
"putting."
"Are you coming to America again?" I asked.
"I hope to some day," he replied. "But not to read or to lecture. I am
coming to see something of your country. I wish to write some
recollections of it, and just now my recollections are confused. I know
of course that New York City is the heart of the orange district of
Florida, and that Albany is the capital of Saratoga. I am aware that
Niagara Falls is at the junction of the Hudson and the Missouri, and
that the Great Lakes are in the Adirondacks, and are well stocked with
shad, trout, and terrapin, but of your people I know nothing, save that
they gather in large audiences and pay large sums for the pleasure of
seeing how an author endures reading his own stuff. I know that you all
dine publicly always, and that your men live at clubs while the ladies
are off bicycling and voting, but what becomes of the babies I don't
know, and I don't wish to be told. I leave them to the consideration of
my friend Caine. When I write my book, _Scooting through Schoharis; or,
Long Pulls on a Pullman_, I wish it to be the result of personal
observation and not of hearsay."
"A very good idea," said I. "And will this be published over your own
name?"
"No, madam," he replied. "That is where we British authors who write
about America make a mistake. We ruin ourselves if we tell the truth. My
book will ostensibly be the work of 'Sandy Scootmon.'"
"Good name," said I. "And a good rhyme as well."
"To what?" he asked.
"Hoot mon!" said I, with a certain dryness of manner.
Just then the train-bell rang, and the London Express was ready.
"Here, Doctor," said I, handing him the usual check as I rose to depart.
"Here is a draft on London for $5000. Our thanks to go with it for your
courtesy."
He looked annoyed.
"I told you I didn't wish any money," said he, with some asperity. "I
have more American fifty-cent dollars now than I can get rid of. They
annoy me."
And he tore the check up. We then parted, and the train drew out of the
station. Opposite me in the carriage was a young woman who I thought
might be interested in knowing with whom I had been talking.
"Do you know who that was?" I asked.
"Very well indeed," she replied.
"Ian Maclaren," I said.
"Not a bit of it," said she. "That's one of our head detectives. We
know him well in Liverpool. Dr. Maclaren employs him to stave off
American interviewers."