said timid Mrs. Shandon.
"If you go to see him in the counting-house, couldn"t you, couldn"t you leave your little gurl with me?" said Mrs. Bungay, in a deep voice, and with a tragic look, as she held out one finger towards the child.
"I want to stay with mamma," cried little Mary, burying her face in her mother"s dress.
"Go with this lady, Mary, my dear," said the mother.
"I"ll show you some pretty pictures," said Mrs. Bungay, with the voice of an ogress, "and some nice things besides; look here,"--and opening her brown-paper parcel, Mrs. Bungay displayed some choice sweet buscuits, such as her Bungay loved after his wine. Little Mary followed after this attraction, the whole party entering at the private entrance, from which a side door led into Mr. Bungay"s commercial apartments.
Here, however, as the child was about to part from her mother, her courage again failed her, and again she ran to the maternal petticoat; upon which the kind and gentle Mrs. Shandon, seeing the look of disappointment in Mrs. Bungay"s face, good-naturedly said, "If you will let me, I will come up too, and sit for a few minutes," and so the three females ascended the stairs together. A second biscuit charmed little Mary into perfect confidence, and in a minute or two she prattled away without the least restraint.
Faithful Finucane meanwhile found Mr. Bungay in a severer mood than he had been on the night previous, when two-thirds of a bottle of port, and two large gla.s.ses of brandy-and-water, had warmed his soul into enthusiasm, and made him generous in his promises towards Captain Shandon. His impetuous wife had rebuked him on his return home. She had ordered that he should give no relief to the Captain; he was a good-for-nothing fellow, whom no money would help; she disapproved of the plan of the Pall Mall Gazette, and expected that Bungay would only lose his money in it as they were losing over the way (she always called her brother"s establishment "over the way") by the Whitehall Journal.
Let Shandon stop in prison and do his work; it was the best place for him. In vain Finucane pleaded and promised and implored, for his friend Bungay had had an hour"s lecture in the morning and was inexorable.
But what honest Jack failed to do below-stairs in the counting-house, the pretty faces and manners of the mother and child were effecting in the drawing-room, where they were melting the fierce but really soft Mrs. Bungay. There was an artless sweetness in Mrs. Shandon"s voice, and a winning frankness of manner, which made most people fond of her, and pity her: and taking courage by the rugged kindness with which her hostess received her, the Captain"s lady told her story, and described her husband"s goodness and virtues, and her child"s failing health (she was obliged to part with two of them, she said, and send them to school, for she could not have them in that horrid place)--that Mrs. Bungay, though as grim as Lady Macbeth, melted under the influence of the simple tale, and said she would go down and speak to Bungay. Now in this household to speak was to command, with Mrs. Bungay; and with Bungay, to hear was to obey.
It was just when poor Finucane was in despair about his negotiation, that the majestic Mrs. Bungay descended upon her spouse, politely requested Mr. Finucane to step up to his friends in her drawing-room, while she held a few minutes" conversation with Mr. B., and when the pair were alone the publisher"s better half informed him of her intentions towards the Captain"s lady.
"What"s in the wind now, my dear?" Maecenas asked, surprised at his wife"s altered tone. "You wouldn"t hear of my doing anything for the Captain this morning: I wonder what has been a changing of you.
"The Capting is an Irishman," Mrs. Bungay replied; "and those Irish I have always said I couldn"t abide. But his wife is a lady, as any one can see; and a good woman, and a clergyman"s daughter, and a West of England woman, B., which I am myself, by my mother"s side--and, O Marmaduke! didn"t you remark the little gurl?"
"Yes, Mrs. B., I saw the little girl."
"And didn"t you see how like she was to our angel, Bessy, Mr. B.?"--and Mrs. Bungay"s thoughts flew back to a period eighteen years back, when Bacon and Bungay had just set up in business as small booksellers in a country town, and when she had had a child, named Bessy, something like the little Mary who had moved her compa.s.sion.
"Well, well, my dear," Mr. Bungay said, seeing the little eyes of his wife begin to twinkle and grow red; "the Captain ain"t in for much.
There"s only a hundred and thirty pound against him. Half the money will take him out of the Fleet, Finucane says, and we"ll pay him half salaries till he has made the account square. When the little "un said, "Why don"t you take Par out of prizn?" I did feel it, Flora, upon my honour I did, now." And the upshot of this conversation was, that Mr.
and Mrs. Bungay both ascended to the drawing-room, and Mr. Bungay made a heavy and clumsy speech, in which he announced to Mrs. Shandon, that, hearing sixty-five pounds would set her husband free, he was ready to advance that sum of money, deducting it from the Captain"s salary, and that he would give it to her on condition that she would personally settle with the creditors regarding her husband"s liberation.
I think this was the happiest day that Mrs. Shandon and Mr. Finucane had had for a long time. "Bedad, Bungay, you"re a trump!" roared out Fin, in an overpowering brogue and emotion. "Give us your fist, old boy: and won"t we send the Pall Mall Gazette up to ten thousand a week, that"s all!" and he jumped about the room, and tossed up little Mary, with a hundred frantic antics.
"If I could drive you anywhere in my carriage, Mrs. Shandon--I"m sure it"s quite at your service," Mrs. Bungay said, looking out at a one-horsed vehicle which had just driven up, and in which this lady took the air considerably--and the two ladies, with little Mary between them (whose tiny hand Maecenas"s wife kept fixed in her great grasp), with the delighted Mr. Finucane on the back seat, drove away from Paternoster Row, as the owner of the vehicle threw triumphant glances at the opposite windows at Bacon"s.
"It won"t do the Captain any good," thought Bungay, going back to his desk and accounts, "but Mrs. B. becomes reglar upset when she thinks about her misfortune. The child would have been of age yesterday, if she"d lived. Flora told me so:" and he wondered how women did remember things.
We are happy to say that Mrs. Shandon sped with very good success upon her errand. She who had had to mollify creditors when she had no money at all, and only tears and entreaties wherewith to soothe them, found no difficulty in making them relent by means of a bribe of ten shillings in the pound; and the next Sunday was the last, for some time at least, which the Captain spent in prison.
CHAPTER x.x.xV. Dinner in the Row
Upon the appointed day our two friends made their appearance at Mr.
Bungay"s door in Paternoster Row; not the public entrance through which booksellers" boys issued with their sacks full of Bungay"s volumes, and around which timid aspirants lingered with their virgin ma.n.u.scripts ready for sale to Sultan Bungay, but at the private door of the house, whence the splendid Mrs. Bungay would come forth to step into her chaise and take her drive, settling herself on the cushions, and casting looks of defiance at Mrs. Bacon"s opposite windows--at Mrs. Bacon, who was as yet a chaiseless woman.
On such occasions, when very much wroth at her sister-in-law"s splendour Mrs. Bacon would fling up the sash of her drawing-room window, and look out with her four children at the chaise, as much as to say, "Look at these four darlings. Flora Bungay! this is why I can"t drive in my carriage; you would give a coach-and-four to have the same reason." And it was with these arrows out of her quiver that Emma Bacon shot Flora Bungay as she sate in her chariot envious and childless.
As Pen and Warrington came to Bungay"s door, a carriage and a cab drove up to Bacon"s. Old Dr. Sloc.u.m descended heavily from the first; the Doctor"s equipage was as ponderous as his style, but both had a fine sonorous effect upon the publishers in the Row. A couple of dazzling white waistcoats stepped out of the cab.
Warrington laughed. "You see Bacon has his dinner-party too. That is Dr. Sloc.u.m, author of "Memoirs of the Poisoners." You would hardly have recognised our friend Hoolan in that gallant white waistcoat. Doolan is one of Bungay"s men, and faith, here he comes." Indeed, Messrs. Hoolan and Doolan had come from the Strand in the same cab, tossing up by the way which should pay the shilling; and Mr. D. stepped from the other side of the way, arrayed in black, with a large pair of white gloves which were spread out on his hands, and which the owner could not help regarding with pleasure.
The house porter in an evening coat, and gentlemen with gloves as large as Doolan"s, but of the famous Berlin web, were on the pa.s.sage of Mr.
Bungay"s house to receive the guests" hats and coats, and bawl their names up the stair. Some of the latter had arrived when the three new visitors made their appearance; but there was only Mrs. Bungay in red satin and a turban to represent her own charming s.e.x. She made curtsies to each new-comer as he entered the drawing-room, but her mind was evidently pre-occupied by extraneous thoughts. The fact is, Mrs. Bacon"s dinner-party was disturbing her, and as soon as she had received each individual of her own company, Flora Bungay flew back to the embrasure of the window, whence she could rake the carriages of Emma Bacon"s friends as they came rattling up the Row. The sight of Dr. Sloc.u.m"s large carriage, with the gaunt job-horses, crushed Flora: none but hack cabs had driven up to her own door on that day.
They were all literary gentlemen, though unknown as yet to Pen. There was Mr. Bole, the real editor of the magazine, of which Mr. Wagg was the nominal chief; Mr. Trotter, who, from having broken out on the world as a poet of a tragic and suicidial cast, had now subsided into one of Mr.
Bungay"s back shops as reader for that gentleman; and Captain Sumph, an ex-beau reader about town, and related in some indistinct manner to Literature and the Peerage. He was said to have written a book once, to have been a friend of Lord Byron, to be related to Lord Sumphington; in fact, anecdotes of Byron formed his staple, and he seldom spoke but with the name of that poet or some of his contemporaries in his mouth, as thus: "I remember poor Sh.e.l.ley, at school being sent up for good for a copy of verses, every line of which I wrote, by Jove;" or, "I recollect, when I was at Missolonghi with Byron, offering to bet gamba," and so forth. This gentleman, Pen remarked, was listened to with great attention by Mrs. Bungay; his anecdotes of the aristocracy, of which he was a middle-aged member, delighted the publisher"s lady; and he was almost a greater man than the great Mr. Wagg himself in her eyes. Had he but come in his own carriage, Mrs. Bungay would have made her Bungay purchase any given volume from his pen.
Mr. Bungay went about to his guests as they arrived, and did the honours of his house with much cordiality. "How are you, sir? Fine day, sir.
Glad to see you year, sir. Flora, my love, let me ave the honour of introducing Mr. Warrington to you. Mr. Warrington, Mrs. Bungay; Mr.
Pendennis, Mrs. Bungay. Hope you"ve brought good appet.i.tes with you, gentlemen. You, Doolan, I know ave, for you"ve always ad a deuce of a twist."
"Lor, Bungay!" said Mrs. Bungay.
"Faith, a man must be hard to please, Bungay, who can"t eat a good dinner in this house," Doolan said, and he winked and stroked his lean chops with his large gloves; and made appeals of friendship to Mrs.
Bungay, which that honest woman refused with scorn from the timid man.
"She couldn"t abide that Doolan," she said in confidence to her friends.
Indeed, all his flatteries failed to win her.
As they talked, Mrs. Bungay surveying mankind from her window, a magnificent vision of an enormous grey cab-horse appeared, and neared rapidly. A pair of white reins, held by small white gloves, were visible behind it; a face pale, but richly decorated with a chin-tuft, the head of an exiguous groom bobbing over the cab-head--these bright things were revealed to the delighted Mrs. Bungay. "The Honourable Percy Popjoy"s quite punctual, I declare," she said, and sailed to the door to be in waiting at the n.o.bleman"s arrival.
"It"s Percy Popjoy," said Pen, looking out of window, and seeing an individual, in extremely lacquered boots, descend from the swinging cab: and, in fact, it was that young n.o.bleman Lord Falconet"s eldest son, as we all very well know, who was come to dine with the publisher--his publisher of the Row.
"He was my f.a.g at Eton," Warrington said. "I ought to have licked him a little more." He and Pen had had some bouts at the Oxbridge Union debates, in which Pen had had very much the better of Percy: who presently appeared, with his hat under his arm, and a look of indescribable good-humour and fatuity in his round dimpled face: upon which Nature had burst out with a chin-tuft, but, exhausted with the effort, had left the rest of the countenance bare of hair.
The temporary groom of the chambers bawled out, "The Honourable Percy Popjoy," much to that gentleman"s discomposure at hearing his t.i.tles announced.
"What did the man want to take away my hat for, Bungay?" he asked of the publisher. "Can"t do without my hat--want it to make my bow to Mrs. Bungay. How well you look. Mrs. Bungay, to-day. Haven"t seen your carriage in the Park: why haven"t you been there? I missed you; indeed, I did."
"I"m afraid you"re a sad quiz," said Mrs. Bungay.
"Quiz! Never made a joke in my--hullo! who"s here? How d"ye do, Pendennis? How d"ye do, Warrington? These are old friends of mine, Mrs.
Bungay. I say, how the doose did you come here?" he asked of the two young men, turnip his lacquered heels upon Mrs. Bungay, who respected her husband"s two young guests, now that she found they were intimate with a lord"s son.
"What! do they know him?" she asked rapidly of Mr. B.
"High fellers, I tell you--the young one related to all the n.o.bility,"
said the publisher; and both ran forward, smiling and bowing, to greet almost as great personages as the young lord--no less characters, indeed, than the great Mr. Wenham and the great Mr. Wagg, who were now announced.
Mr. Wenham entered, wearing the usual demure look and stealthy smile with which he commonly surveyed the tips of his neat little shining boots, and which he but seldom brought to bear upon the person who addressed him. Wagg"s white waistcoat spread out, on the contrary, with profuse brilliancy; his burly, red face shone resplendent over it, lighted up with the thoughts of good jokes and a good dinner. He liked to make his entree into a drawing-room with a laugh, and, when he went away at night, to leave a joke exploding behind him. No personal calamities or distresses (of which that humourist had his share in common with the unjocular part of mankind) could altogether keep his humour down. Whatever his griefs might be, the thought of a dinner rallied his great soul; and when he saw a lord, he saluted him with a pun.
Wenham went up, then, with a smug smile and whisper, to Mrs. Bungay, and looked at her from under his eyes, and showed her the tips of his shoes.
Wagg said she looked charming, and pushed on straight at the young n.o.bleman, whom he called Pop, and to whom he instantly related a funny story, seasoned with what the French call gros sel. He was delighted to see Pen, too, and shook hands with him, and slapped him on the back cordially; for he was full of spirits and good-humour. And he talked in a loud voice about their last place and occasion of meeting at Baymouth; and asked how their friends of Clavering Park were, and whether Sir Francis was not coming to London for the season; and whether Pen had been to see Lady Rockminster, who had arrived--fine old lady, Lady Rockminster! These remarks Wagg made not for Pen"s ear so much as for the edification of the company, whom he was glad to inform that he paid visits to gentlemen"s country seats, and was on intimate terms with the n.o.bility.
Wenham also shook hands with our young friend--all of which scenes Mrs.
Bungay remarked with respectful pleasure, and communicated her ideas to Bungay, afterwards, regarding the importance of Mr. Pendennis--ideas by which Pen profited much more than he was aware.
Pen, who had read, and rather admired some of her works (and expected to find in Miss Bunion a person somewhat resembling her own description of herself in the "Pa.s.sion-Flower," in which she stated that her youth resembled--