XVI
Dinner in the Hall of the Bloomsbury Market
As I spoke, I heard footsteps near the door; the latch yielded, and in came our two lovers, looking so handsome that one had no feeling of shame in looking on at their little-concealed lovemaking; for indeed it seemed as if all the world must be in love with them. As for old Hammond, he looked on them like an artist who has just painted a picture nearly as well as he thought he could when he began it, and was perfectly happy. He said—
“Sit down, sit down, young folk, and don’t make a noise. Our guest here has still some questions to ask me.”
“Well, I should suppose so,” said Dick; “you have only been three hours and a half together; and it isn’t to be hoped that the history of two centuries could be told in three hours and a half; let alone that, for all I know, you may have been wandering into the realms of geography and craftsmanship.”
“As to noise, my dear kinsman,” said Clara, “you will very soon be disturbed by the noise of the dinner-bell, which I should think will be very pleasant music to our guest, who breakfasted early, it seems, and probably had a tiring day yesterday.”
I said: “Well, since you have spoken the word, I begin to feel that it is so; but I have been feeding myself with wonder this long time past; really, it’s quite true,” quoth I, as I saw her smile—O so prettily!
But just then from some tower high up in the air came the sound of silvery chimes playing a sweet clear tune, that sounded to my unaccustomed ears like the song of the first blackbird in the spring, and called a rush of memories to my mind, some of bad times, some of good, but all sweetened now into mere pleasure.
“No more questions now before dinner,” said Clara; and she took my hand as an affectionate child would, and led me out of the room and downstairs into the forecourt of the Museum, leaving the two Hammonds to follow as they pleased.
We went into the marketplace which I had been in before, a thinnish stream of elegantly1 dressed people going in along with us. We turned into the cloister and came to a richly moulded and carved doorway, where a very pretty dark-haired young girl gave us each a beautiful bunch of summer flowers, and we entered a hall much bigger than that of the Hammersmith Guest House, more elaborate in its architecture and perhaps more beautiful. I found it difficult to keep my eyes off the wall-pictures (for I thought it bad manners to stare at Clara all the time, though she was quite worth it). I saw at a glance that their subjects were taken from queer old-world myths and imaginations which in yesterday’s world only about half a dozen people in the country knew anything about; and when the two Hammonds sat down opposite to us, I said to the old man, pointing to the frieze—
“How strange to see such subjects here!”
“Why?” said he. “I don’t see why you should be surprised; everybody knows the tales; and they are graceful and pleasant subjects, not too tragic for a place where people mostly eat and drink and amuse themselves, and yet full of incident.”
I smiled, and said: “Well, I scarcely expected to find record of the ‘Seven Swans’ and the ‘King of the Golden Mountain’ and ‘Faithful Henry,’ and such curious pleasant imaginations as Jacob Grimm got together from the childhood of the world, barely lingering even in his time; I should have thought you would have forgotten such childishness by this time.”
The old man smiled, and said nothing; but Dick turned rather red, and broke out—
“What do you mean, guest? I think them very beautiful—I mean not only the pictures, but the stories; and when we were children we used to imagine them going on in every wood-end, by the bight of every stream; every house in the fields was the Fairyland King’s House to us. Don’t you remember, Clara?”
“Yes,” she said; and it seemed to me as if a slight cloud came over her fair face. I was going to speak to her on the subject, when the pretty waitresses came to us smiling, and chattering sweetly like reed warblers by the river side, and fell to giving us our dinner. As to this, as at our breakfast, everything was cooked and served with a daintiness which showed that those who had prepared it were interested in it; but there was no excess either of quantity or of gourmandise; everything was simple, though so excellent of its kind; and it was made clear to us that this was no feast, only an ordinary meal. The glass, crockery, and plate were very beautiful to my eyes, used to the study of medieval art; but a nineteenth-century club-haunter would, I daresay, have found them rough and lacking in finish; the crockery being lead-glazed pot-ware, though beautifully ornamented; the only porcelain being here and there a piece of old oriental ware. The glass, again, though elegant and quaint, and very varied in form, was somewhat bubbled and hornier in texture than the commercial articles of the nineteenth century. The furniture and general fittings of the hall were much of a piece with the table-gear, beautiful in form and highly ornamented, but without the commercial “finish” of the joiners and cabinetmakers of our time. Withal, there was a total absence of what the nineteenth century calls “comfort”—that is, stuffy inconvenience; so that, even apart from the delightful excitement of the day, I had never eaten my dinner so pleasantly before.
When we had done eating, and were sitting a little while, with a bottle of very good
