'You know, I dare say, that my daughter Amy was born here. A good girl,
sir, a dear girl, and long a comfort and support to me. Amy, my dear,
put this dish on; Mr Clennam will excuse the primitive customs to which
we are reduced here. Is it a compliment to ask you if you would do me
the honour, sir, to--' 'Thank you,' returned Arthur. 'Not a morsel.'
He felt himself quite lost in wonder at the manner of the man, and that
the probability of his daughter's having had a reserve as to her family
history, should be so far out of his mind.
She filled his glass, put all the little matters on the table ready to
his hand, and then sat beside him while he ate his supper. Evidently in
observance of their nightly custom, she put some bread before herself,
and touched his glass with her lips; but Arthur saw she was troubled
and took nothing. Her look at her father, half admiring him and proud
of him, half ashamed for him, all devoted and loving, went to his inmost
heart. The Father of the Marshalsea condescended towards his brother as an
amiable, well-meaning man; a private character, who had not arrived at
distinction. 'Frederick,' said he, 'you and Fanny sup at your lodgings
to-night, I know. What have you done with Fanny, Frederick?' 'She is
walking with Tip.' 'Tip--as you may know--is my son, Mr Clennam. He has been a little
wild, and difficult to settle, but his introduction to the world was
rather'--he shrugged his shoulders with a faint sigh, and looked round
the room--'a little adverse. Your first visit here, sir?' 'My first.'
'You could hardly have been here since your boyhood without my
knowledge. It very seldom happens that anybody--of any pretensions-any
pretensions--comes here without being presented to me.'
'As many as forty or fifty in a day have been introduced to my brother,'
said Frederick, faintly lighting up with a ray of pride.
'Yes!' the Father of the Marshalsea assented. 'We have even exceeded
that number. On a fine Sunday in term time, it is quite a Levee--quite
a Levee. Amy, my dear, I have been trying half the day to remember the
name of the gentleman from Camberwell who was introduced to me last
Christmas week by that agreeable coal-merchant who was remanded for six
months.' 'I don't remember his name, father.'
'Frederick, do you remember his name?' Frederick doubted if he had ever
heard it. No one could doubt that Frederick was the last person upon
earth to put such a question to, with any hope of information.