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cheerfully have dashed out his rambling brains to do them, or ’
his adored Captain, a service.
“ May I go, Charley ? or shall I stay with you, for you’re poorly, dear, this morning ? He’s got a headache, Mr. Finucane. He suffers from headaches, and I persuaded him to
‘stay in bed,” Mrs. Shandon said.
“ Go along with you, and Polly. Jack, take care of ’em. Hand me over the Burton’s ‘ Anatomy,’ and leave me to my abominable devices,” Shandon said, with perfect good humour. He was writing, and not uncommonly took his Greek and Latin quotations (of which he knew the use as a public writer) from that wonderful repertory of learning.
So Fin gave his arm to Mrs. Shandon, and Mary went skipping down the passages of the prison, and through the gate into the free air. From Fleet Street to Paternoster Row is not very far. As the three reached Mr. Bungay’s shop, Mrs. Bungay was also entering at the private door, holding in her hand a paper parcel and a manuscript volume bound in red, and, indeed, containing an account of her transactions with the butcher in the neighbouring market. Mrs. Bungay was in a gorgeous shot-silk dress, which flamed with red and purple; she wore a yellow shawl, and had red flowers inside her bonnet, and a brilliant light-blue parasol. Mrs. Shandon was in an old black watered silk; her bonnet had never seen very brilliant days of prosperity any more than its owner, but she could not help looking like a lady whatever her attire was. The two women curtsied to each other, each according to her fashion.
“ I hope you’re pretty well, Mum ? ” said Mrs. Bungay.
“ It’s a very fine day,” said Mrs. Shandon.
“Won’t you step in, Mum?” said Mrs. Bungay, looking so hard at the child as almost to frighten her.
“ I—I came about business with Mr. Bungay—I—I hope he’s pretty well?” said timid Mrs. Shandon.
“ If you go to see him in the counting-house, couldn’t you —couldn’t you leave your little gulrl 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.
VOL. I. r r 3
“ 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 biscuits, 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 glasses of brandyand-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 efiecting 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