No Thoroughfare | Page 5

the panelled walls
on which it strikes, are such windows and such walls as pervade
Hogarth's pictures. The girls' refectory (including that of the younger
children) is the principal attraction. Neat attendants silently glide about
the orderly and silent tables; the lookers-on move or stop as the fancy
takes them; comments in whispers on face such a number from such a
window are not unfrequent; many of the faces are of a character to fix
attention. Some of the visitors from the outside public are accustomed
visitors. They have established a speaking acquaintance with the
occupants of particular seats at the tables, and halt at those points to
bend down and say a word or two. It is no disparagement to their
kindness that those points are generally points where personal
attractions are. The monotony of the long spacious rooms and the
double lines of faces is agreeably relieved by these incidents, although
so slight.
A veiled lady, who has no companion, goes among the company. It
would seem that curiosity and opportunity have never brought her there
before. She has the air of being a little troubled by the sight, and, as she
goes the length of the tables, it is with a hesitating step and an uneasy
manner. At length she comes to the refectory of the boys. They are so
much less popular than the girls that it is bare of visitors when she
looks in at the doorway.
But just within the doorway, chances to stand, inspecting, an elderly

female attendant: some order of matron or housekeeper. To whom the
lady addresses natural questions: As, how many boys? At what age are
they usually put out in life? Do they often take a fancy to the sea? So,
lower and lower in tone until the lady puts the question: "Which is
Walter Wilding?"
Attendant's head shaken. Against the rules.
"You know which is Walter Wilding?"
So keenly does the attendant feel the closeness with which the lady's
eyes examine her face, that she keeps her own eyes fast upon the floor,
lest by wandering in the right direction they should betray her.
"I know which is Walter Wilding, but it is not my place, ma'am, to tell
names to visitors."
"But you can show me without telling me."
The lady's hand moves quietly to the attendant's hand. Pause and
silence.
"I am going to pass round the tables," says the lady's interlocutor,
without seeming to address her. "Follow me with your eyes. The boy
that I stop at and speak to, will not matter to you. But the boy that I
touch, will be Walter Wilding. Say nothing more to me, and move a
little away."
Quickly acting on the hint, the lady passes on into the room, and looks
about her. After a few moments, the attendant, in a staid official way,
walks down outside the line of tables commencing on her left hand.
She goes the whole length of the line, turns, and comes back on the
inside. Very slightly glancing in the lady's direction, she stops, bends
forward, and speaks. The boy whom she addresses, lifts his head and
replies. Good humouredly and easily, as she listens to what he says, she
lays her hand upon the shoulder of the next boy on his right. That the
action may be well noted, she keeps her hand on the shoulder while
speaking in return, and pats it twice or thrice before moving away. She

completes her tour of the tables, touching no one else, and passes out
by a door at the opposite end of the long room.
Dinner is done, and the lady, too, walks down outside the line of tables
commencing on her left hand, goes the whole length of the line, turns,
and comes back on the inside. Other people have strolled in, fortunately
for her, and stand sprinkled about. She lifts her veil, and, stopping at
the touched boy, asks how old he is?
"I am twelve, ma'am," he answers, with his bright eyes fixed on hers.
"Are you well and happy?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"May you take these sweetmeats from my hand?"
"If you please to give them to me."
In stooping low for the purpose, the lady touches the boy's face with
her forehead and with her hair. Then, lowering her veil again, she
passes on, and passes out without looking back.

ACT I--THE CURTAIN RISES

In a court-yard in the City of London, which was No Thoroughfare
either for vehicles or foot-passengers; a court-yard diverging from a
steep, a slippery, and a winding street connecting Tower Street with the
Middlesex shore of the Thames; stood the place of business of Wilding
& Co., Wine Merchants. Probably as a jocose acknowledgment of the
obstructive character of this main approach,