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CHAPTER III.

“WON’T you take her out for a drive, Walter?” asked Mrs Macgregor, after lunch. “She must be curious to see something of London.”

Hamlin looked at Anne, as much as to say, “Do you really wish to go?”

“I am sure Miss Brown is too tired from her journey, aunt,” he said; “and what is there to take her to see in this beastly city?”

“I thought we might have a brougham and take her to see a few of your friends, Walter,” suggested Mrs Macgregor.

Poor Anne felt a sort of horror go all down her.

“Oh, please don’t!” she cried—“not to‐day; don’t take me to see any one, please.”

“It’s much wiser to let her rest,” said Hamlin, in a tone of annoyance.

“Won’t you just take the poor girl to Mrs Argiropoulo’s, Watty?” insisted his aunt. “It’s a sin to keep her mewed up at Hammersmith all day; and you know Mrs Argiropoulo was so anxious to see her at once.”

“Confound Mrs Argiropoulo!” exclaimed Hamlin. “I beg your pardon, Miss Brown, but do you feel inclined, after your long journey, to go and see a fat, fashionable lion‐huntress, with a snob of a husband who sells currants?”

“Not at all,” answered Anne, laughing. “I would much rather stay at home, really.”

“Very well; then I will show you the garden and my studio, if you don’t mind; and a great friend of mine, Cosmo Chough,—I think I sent you some of his poems about music. . . .”

“Oh yes,” cried Anne; “they are lovely—”

“I think little Chough’s poems perfectly indecent,” interrupted Mrs Macgregor. “I would much sooner let a girl read ‘Don Juan,’ or even ‘Candide,’ any day.”

Hamlin reddened, but laughed.

“Opinions differ; at any rate, Miss Brown knows only Chough’s best things; and when he is at his best, Chough is really very good and pure and elevated.”

“Ah, well,” merely remarked Mrs Macgregor.

“Cosmo Chough said he would look in about four,” went on Hamlin. “He is a strange creature, and sometimes says odd things.”

“Very odd things,” put in his aunt.

“But he is as pure‐minded a man as I know, and a real poet,” went on Hamlin—“indeed quite one of the best; and he is a great musician, and a most entertaining fellow—his only weakness is that he is a great republican and democrat, but would like to be thought the son of a duke.”

“The son of a duke? ” asked Anne, in surprise.

“Oh, the natural son, of course—forgive me, my dear,” said Mrs Macgregor. “People nowadays like anything illegitimate—it’s a page: 279 distinction. It wasn’t in my day, but things have changed; and Mr Cosmo Chough would dearly like to be thought a bastard, especially a duke’s.”

Hamlin smiled.

“Poor Chough! Some one told him he was like Richard Savage one day, and that’s his pose. Would you like to come into the garden, Miss Brown?”

They went together into the strip of garden which lay behind the house. There were not many flowers out as yet, only a few peonies and lilacs, and a belated tulip or hyacinth, but there was green, daisied grass, and big grey‐mossed apple‐trees still in blossom; and across the low walls, covered with creepers, you saw big waving tree‐branches, and old brick houses covered with ivy: the birds were singing, and some hens clucking next door. It was very quiet and old‐world. Hamlin showed her all the rose‐buds which might soon come out, and the place where the lilies would be, and the espaliers for the sweet‐peas. Then page: 280 they went into the two ground‐floor rooms which he was arranging for his studio: there were quantities of beautiful rare books and volumes of prints, and Persian and Japanese and old Italian metal‐work,and pottery all about, and easels with unfinished pictures evcrywhere—a great and beautiful confusion.

When he had showed her his properties, and she had reverently handled the things which had once belonged to Shelley and Keats, and the bundles of unpublished manuscripts, entrusted to Hamlin by living poets, they sat down in the studio and began to discuss various matters: Anne’s school life, her readings and lessons, Hamlin’s work, art, poetry, life, all sorts of things,—a long and drowsy afternoon’s talk, such as is possible only after a long correspondence between people become familiar without much personal intercourse, who, knowing each other’s mind, are now beginning to know each other’s face and ways and heart; and which has a charm quite peculiar to itself, like that of hearing page: 281 for the first time, with full symphony of voices and instruments, some piece of music which we have learned to know and love merely from the dry score.

Anne had never felt so happy in all her life, and Hamlin not often happier in his, as they sat in the studio, talking over abstract questions, which seemed to acquire such a quite personal interest from those who were discussing them.

They were thus engaged when the servant announced Mr Cosmo Chough.

Anne’s heart sank at the thought of confronting one of Hamlin’s most intimate friends, and one of the poets who constituted the stars of his solar system. To Anne’s surprise Mr Chough did not at all resemble either Shelley or Keats, as she imagined; he was a little wiry man, with fiercely brushed coal‐black hair and whiskers, dressed within an inch of his life, but in a style of fashionableness, booted and cravated, which was quite peculiar to himself.

“Miss Brown,” said Hamlin, “let me introduce my old friend, Cosmo Chough.”

Mr Chough made a most fascinating bow, and swooped gracefully to the other end of the studio to fetch himself a chair near Anne’s. He was quite touchingly concerned in Anne’s journey and her sensations after it; and asked her whether she liked London, with a sort of expansive chivalry of manner, as of Sir Walter Raleigh spreading embroidered cloaks across puddles for Queen Elizabeth, which struck her as rather ridiculous, but very agreeable, as she had rather anticipated being scorned by Hamlin’s poetical friends. Anne thought Mr. Chough decidedly nice, with his oriental style of politeness, and magnificent volubility, constantly quoting poetry in various languages in a shrill and chirpy voice; moreover, he seemed to adore Hamlin, and this was enough to put him in her good graces. Mr Chough rapidly informed her what the principal poets in London and Paris (for he spoke of French things with an affectation page: 283 of throaty accent and allusions to his “real country” which greatly puzzled Anne) were writing; and Anne felt so completely taken into confidence that she ventured to ask him whether he was himself writing anything at present, as she had greatly admired some short pieces of his which Hamlin had sent her.

Mr Chough was as modest as he was polite. His eyes shone, and he clasped his small hands in ecstasy at the idea of anything of his having pleased Miss Brown. He then proceeded to tell her that he had an idea for a long poem—a sort of masque or mystery‐play—to be called the Triumph of Womanhood.

“We were trying over some of Jomelli’s music a night or two ago, at Isaac the great composer’s,” he explained; “magnificent music, which no one can sing nowadays, and we feebly crowed, when in the midst of the great burst of the “Gloria” I seemed to have revealed to me a vision of a mystic procession of women going in triumph; I understood, page: 284 in a sort of flash, the mysterious and real regalness of Womanhood.”

“It must have been very beautiful,” said Anne, naively.

Mr Chough had opened the piano, and began playing, in a masterly way, a fragment of very intricate fugue.

“Do you notice that?” he asked: “that sudden modulation there—ta ta ti, la la la—from A minor to E major,—that somehow mysteriously brought home to me one of the figures of that triumphal procession, and her I have tried to describe. If you like, I can repeat you the first few lines; it is called ‘Imperia of Rome.’”

“How good of you,” cried Anne.

“I think we had better put off hearing it till you have composed rather more of the poem,” interrupted Hamlin.

Cosmo Chough looked mortified, and Anne wondered why Hamlin should silence his old friend.

“Tell me all about Imperia of Rome,” she page: 285 asked. “Who was she?—had she anything to do with the Scipios, or Cato, or Tarquin?”

“Imperia was not an ancient Roman,” explained Chough; “she lived at the beginning of the sixteenth century, and it is said that all the cardinals and poets and artists of Rome, nay, the Pope himself, accompanied her coffin when she died.”

“Why, what had she done?—was she a saint?”

“The inscription on her tomb is, I think, the most truly noble and Roman ever composed on any woman,” proceeded Chough; “Imperia . . .”

“Miss Brown doesn’t understand Latin, Cosmo,” interrupted Hamlin, roughly, “and I am sure she would take no interest in Imperia or her epitaph. Supposing you let Miss Brown hear some of that beautiful Jomelli Mass you were speaking about. Chough is one of the finest musicians I know,” he explained to Anne, “and he is quite famous page: 286 for singing all sorts of forgotten old Italian masters.”

Chough sat down and began to sing, in a warbling falsetto, but with the most marvellous old‐world grace and finish.

Anne did not attend. She was wondering about Imperia of Rome. Why had Hamlin cut short Chough? What had Imperia done? The remarks of Mrs Macgregor came to her mind; and she felt indignant, and her indignation was all the greater, perhaps, because Chough’s offence was vague and unknown—how nobly and simply Hamlin had silenced him! She wondered whether he was very angry with Chough, and whether Chough’s feelings had been much hurt. She felt rather sorry for the sharp way in which he had been treated, and terrified lest she should be a source of misunderstanding between Hamlin and his friends. She greatly praised Chough’s singing.

“Will you sing?” cried the little poet, supplicatingly; “you must have a beauti‐ page: 287 ful beautiful voice. I know it from your way of speaking.”

Anne refused in terror.

“Do sing, Miss Brown,” urged Hamlin. So she took her courage with both hands, as she expressed it, and sang an air by Scarlatti, Chough accompanying. She made several false starts, and sang the wrong words almost throughout, for she felt a lump in her chest. Anne had a deep, powerful, rather guttural voice, not improved by singing modern German songs at Coblenz; but the voice was fine, and she had caught something of the manner of her former protectress, Miss Curzon, who had been a great singer in her day.

Chough burst out into applause.

“A splendid voice!” he cried; “you must sing, Miss Brown—you must study—I will come and practise your accompaniments for you, if you will permit me.”

Anne looked at Hamlin; such an offer, on so slight an acquaintance, surprised her.

“You will let Chough teach you, won’t you, page: 288 Miss Brown?” asked Hamlin, approvingly. He afterwards told her that Chough spent whatever leisure remained from an inferior Government offce, in which, together with a whole band of other poets, he was employed, in playing accompaniments for various young ladies whom he considered, each singly, the most divine types of womanhood whom he had ever met.

Chough was in high spirits, and proceeded to display to Anne two or three relics which he carried on his person. A fervent though not very orthodox Catholic, he was prone to religious mysticism: on his watch‐chain hung a gold cross, containing a bit of wood from St Theresa’s house, which a friend had brought him from Spain; by its side dangled a large locket, enclosing a wisp of yellow hair.

“It is a lock of Lucretia Borgia’s,” he said, displaying it with as much unction as he had manifested for St Theresa—“a bit of the one which Byron possessed,—the most precious thing I have in all the world.”

“She was rather an insignificant character though, on the whole, wasn’t she?” remarked Anne, not knowing what to say,—“a sort of characterless villain, the Germans say.”

Cosmo Chough was indignant.

“Insignificant!” he cried—“ a Borgia insignificant! Why, her blood ran with evil as the Pactolus does with gold. All women that have ever been, except Sappho and Vittoria Accoramboni, and perhaps Faustina, were lifeless shadows by her side . . .”

“I don’t believe in those sort of women having been very remarkable,” said Anne, in her frank, stolid way, “except for disreputableness.”

“But that is just it,—that which you call disreputableness, my dear Miss Brown,” cried Chough, “therein is their greatness, in that fiery . . .”

Anne shook her head contemptuously.

“I daresay great women have often committed great crimes,” she said; “but then they have had great plans and ambitions; they page: 290 have not been mere wretched slaves of passion;” and she relapsed into silence.

She had had what Hamlin used to call her Amazon or Valkyr expression as she spoke; and he felt, as he had felt in Florence, the persuasion that this proud and sombre woman must have in her future some great decision, some great sacrifice of others or of herself.

While they were talking, the servant entered to tell Miss Brown that Mrs Argiropoulo was in the drawing‐room with Mrs Macgregor.

“Confound Mrs Argiropoulo!” exclaimed Hamlin between his teeth, “to come intruding so soon.”

“Is that the lion‐hunting lady?” asked Anne.

“Yes; I suppose you must receive her, as she has called on you.”

“Called on me?” repeated Anne in amazement; “you mean on Mrs Macgregor. Why, how should she have heard of me?”

“All London has heard of you, Miss Brown,” exclaimed Chough enthusiastically, as he opened the door for her; “at least all that deserves page: 291 to be called London. And Mrs Argiropoulo said last night at Wendell the R.A.’s, that she was determined to see you before any other creature in town. You see I have gained a march upon her.”

Anne did not answer, but she grew purple. So every one was curious to see this nursery‐maid whom the great Hamlin had cast his eyes on, and whom he had generously educated; for the first time her heart burst with indignation and ruffled pride. But after a moment, as she sat in the drawing‐room, after frigidly returning the fat and fashionable lion‐huntress’s affectionate greeting, her conscience smote her: who was she, that she should feel thus? if she did depend entirely on Hamlin’s generosity, ought she not to be grateful merely, and proud? and if his friends felt curious to see her, was it not natural, he being what he was; and had she a right to feel annoyed at their curiosity, at their knowing all about her? It had been mean and unworthy. Yet she could not help feeling a sort of vague anger page: 292 at she knew not what, as the lady chattered away, in glib Greek‐English, about poets, and studios, and dinner‐parties; and she answered Mrs Argiropoulo only in monosyllables.

“You must let me take your ward into society a little, dear Mrs Macgregor,” lisped the Greek lady, “for I know you hate going out of an evening. Miss Brown must meet some of the principal persons of our set.”

She was very fat, very good‐natured, and extremely vulgar‐looking, her huge body encased in a medieval dress of flaming gold brocade. “What in the world can she have to do among artists and poets?” thought Anne.

“Her husband is in the currant‐trade,” whispered Chough—“an awful old noodle, but he buys more pictures of our school than any one else. Their house is a perfect wonder.”

“My aunt is going to ask a few friends to meet Miss Brown first here,” answered Hamlin; “perhaps you will join them, Mrs Argiropoulo. There’s plenty of time to think of party‐going.”

“Very good, very good,” answered Mrs Argiropoulo; “meanwhile perhaps I may have the pleasure of taking Miss Brown out for a drive once or twice.”

“I am sure she will be delighted,” said Hamlin.

“I hate that woman!” exclaimed Hamlin, as he returned from escorting the wife of the currant‐dealer to the door; “an odious, inquisitive, vulgar brute.”

“She looks good‐natured, I think,” insinuated Anne.

“Oh, every one’s good‐natured!”

“In your set, Watty?” asked Mrs Macgregor, bitterly.

“Every one’s good‐natured!” continued Hamlin, throwing himself back in his chair; “and so’s Mrs Argiropoulo. But a kind of grain that sets my nerves off. That’s the misfortune of London, that a lot of vulgar creatures, merely because they buy our pictures and give dinners, have come and invaded our set, showing us, like so many wild beasts, to page: 294 the fashionable world. Positively, I shall have to give up London. But you will find,” he added, turning to Anne, “one or two houses still remaining where one meets only superior people—the houses where artistic life really goes on.”

“Upon whipped cream and Swiss champagne,” said Mrs Macgregor—“what one might call the real, genuine, four hundred a‐year intellectual world. Ah, well, Walter! you needn’t look reproachful; but it is droll what sort of people you have come to associate with—clerks and penny‐a‐liners, each of them a great poet.”

Hamlin merely smiled. “One must make a world for one’s self,” he said, and looked at Anne.

When Mr Cosmo Chough had taken his seat next to Mrs Argiropoulo, the portly lady deluged him with questions and replies as her landau rolled away.

“On the whole, I’m quite as well pleased not to take her out at once,” she said. “I’m page: 295 not at all so sure about her. She seems to me too big and lumpish and healthy‐looking. I should like to have one or two opinions first—one or two artists’, and young Posthlethwaite’s, and little O’Reilly’s—of course, they’ll see her at old Smith’s, or Mrs Saunders’s, or some such house—and all depends on their verdict.”

“I know what mine is,” cried little Chough, enthusiastically—“that she is the divinest woman, in the cold, imperial style, with a latent and strange smouldering passion, that I ever set eyes on. And as to that flabby elephant Posthlethwaite, and that little hop, skip, and jump of an impudent jackanapes O’Reilly, I wonder how you can think their opinion worth having, or, indeed, their presence supportable.”

At this grand winding up Mrs Argiropoulo laughed loudly.

“I know you don’t like those young men,” she said. “Posthlethwaite’s your rival, they say; he writes even more improper things page: 296 than you do; and you can’t forgive Thaddy O’Reilly calling your poems the loves of the cannibals. Oh, I know you poets! Now, shall I drive you home? What’s your address?”

This was an old joke, for Mr Cosmo Chough always surrounded his dwelling‐place with mystery, and had his letters addressed to his office.

“Pray don’t inconvenience yourself,” he said in a stately way; “set me down at the corner of Park Lane. I shall walk home in less than a minute from there.”

“To the corner of Park Lane,” ordered Mrs Argiropoulo of her footman, who knew, as well as his mistress and every other creature in what they called London, that Mr Cosmo Chough lived in a secluded terrace in Canonbury.