'Now, ladies!' said the boy in the Scotch cap. 'Now, darlings!' said the
gentleman with the black hair. They were every one gone in a moment, and
the music and the dancing feet were heard again.
Little Dorrit sat down in a golden chair, made quite giddy by these
rapid interruptions. Her sister and the rest were a long time gone; and
during their absence a voice (it appeared to be that of the gentleman
with the black hair) was continually calling out through the music,
'One, two, three, four, five, six--go! One, two, three, four, five,
six--go! Steady, darlings! One, two, three, four, five, six--go!'
Ultimately the voice stopped, and they all came back again, more or less
out of breath, folding themselves in their shawls, and making ready
for the streets. 'Stop a moment, Amy, and let them get away before
us,' whispered Fanny. They were soon left alone; nothing more important
happening, in the meantime, than the boy looking round his old beam, and
saying,
'Everybody at eleven to-morrow, ladies!' and the gentleman with
the black hair looking round his old beam, and saying, 'Everybody at
eleven to-morrow, darlings!' each in his own accustomed manner.
When they were alone, something was rolled up or by other means got out
of the way, and there was a great empty well before them, looking down
into the depths of which Fanny said, 'Now, uncle!' Little Dorrit, as her
eyes became used to the darkness, faintly made him out at the bottom of
the well, in an obscure corner by himself, with his instrument in its
ragged case under his arm.
The old man looked as if the remote high gallery windows, with their
little strip of sky, might have been the point of his better fortunes,
from which he had descended, until he had gradually sunk down below
there to the bottom. He had been in that place six nights a week for
many years, but had never been observed to raise his eyes above his
music-book, and was confidently believed to have never seen a play.
There were legends in the place that he did not so much as know the
popular heroes and heroines by sight, and that the low comedian had
'mugged' at him in his richest manner fifty nights for a wager, and he
had shown no trace of consciousness. The carpenters had a joke to the
effect that he was dead without being aware of it; and the frequenters
of the pit supposed him to pass his whole life, night and day, and
Sunday and all, in the orchestra. They had tried him a few times with
pinches of snuff offered over the rails, and he had always responded to
this attention with a momentary waking up of manner that had the pale
phantom of a gentleman in it: beyond this he never, on any occasion, had
any other part in what was going on than the part written out for the
clarionet; in private life, where there was no part for the clarionet,
he had no part at all.