The success of this beginning, which led to the dancing-master's
continuing his instruction after his release, emboldened the poor child
to try again. She watched and waited months for a seamstress. In the
fulness of time a milliner came in, and to her she repaired on her own
behalf. 'I beg your pardon, ma'am,' she said, looking timidly round the door of
the milliner, whom she found in tears and in bed: 'but I was born here.'
Everybody seemed to hear of her as soon as they arrived; for the
milliner sat up in bed, drying her eyes, and said, just as the
dancing-master had said: 'Oh! You are the child, are you?'
'Yes, ma'am.' 'I am sorry I haven't got anything for you,' said the milliner, shaking
her head. 'It's not that, ma'am. If you please I want to learn needle-work.'
'Why should you do that,' returned the milliner, 'with me before you? It
has not done me much good.'
'Nothing--whatever it is--seems to have done anybody much good who comes
here,' she returned in all simplicity; 'but I want to learn just the
same.' 'I am afraid you are so weak, you see,' the milliner objected. 'I don't think I am weak, ma'am.' 'And you are so very, very little, you see,' the milliner objected.
'Yes, I am afraid I am very little indeed,' returned the Child of the
Marshalsea; and so began to sob over that unfortunate defect of hers,
which came so often in her way. The milliner--who was not morose or
hard-hearted, only newly insolvent--was touched, took her in hand with
goodwill, found her the most patient and earnest of pupils, and made her
a cunning work-woman in course of time.
In course of time, and in the very self-same course of time, the Father
of the Marshalsea gradually developed a new flower of character. The
more Fatherly he grew as to the Marshalsea, and the more dependent he
became on the contributions of his changing family, the greater stand
he made by his forlorn gentility. With the same hand that he pocketed
a collegian's half-crown half an hour ago, he would wipe away the
tears that streamed over his cheeks if any reference were made to his
daughters' earning their bread. So, over and above other daily cares,
the Child of the Marshalsea had always upon her the care of preserving
the genteel fiction that they were all idle beggars together.
The sister became a dancer. There was a ruined uncle in the family
group--ruined by his brother, the Father of the Marshalsea, and knowing
no more how than his ruiner did, but accepting the fact as an inevitable
certainty--on whom her protection devolved. Naturally a retired and
simple man, he had shown no particular sense of being ruined at the time
when that calamity fell upon him, further than that he left off washing
himself when the shock was announced, and never took to that luxury any
more. He had been a very indifferent musical amateur in his better days;
and when he fell with his brother, resorted for support to playing a
clarionet as dirty as himself in a small Theatre Orchestra. It was the
theatre in which his niece became a dancer; he had been a fixture there
a long time when she took her poor station in it; and he accepted
the task of serving as her escort and guardian, just as he would have
accepted an illness, a legacy, a feast, starvation--anything but soap.