The words of this letter were perfectly clear, and written in Blanche's neatest hand, upon her scented paper; and yet the meaning of the composition not a little puzzled Pen. Did Blanche mean to accept or to refuse his polite offer? Her phrases either meant that Pen did not love her, and she declined him, or that she took him, and sacrificed herself to him, cold as he was. He laughed sardonically over the letter, and over the transaction which occasioned it. He laughed to think how Fortune had jilted him, and how he deserved his slippery fortune. He turned over and over the musky, gilt-edged riddle. It amused his humor: he enjoyed it as if it had been a funny story.
He was thus seated, twiddling the queer manuscript in his hand, joking grimly to himself, when his servant came in with a card from a gentleman, who wished to speak to him very particularly. And if Pen had gone out into the passage, he would have seen sucking his stick, rolling his eyes, and showing great marks of anxiety, his old acquaintance, Mr. Samuel Huxter.
"Mr. Huxter on particular business! Pray, beg Mr. Huxter to come in," said Pen, amused rather; and not the less so when poor Sam appeared before him.
"Pray take a chair, Mr. Huxter," said Pen, in his most superb manner.
"In what way can I be of service to you?"
"I had rather not speak before the flunk—before the man, Mr.
Pendennis;" on which Mr. Arthur's attendant quitted the room.
"I'm in a fix," said Mr. Huxter, gloomily.
"Indeed."
"She sent me to you," continued the young surgeon.
"What, Fanny? Is she well? I was coming to see her, but I have had a great deal of business since my return to London."
"I heard of you through my governor and Jack Hobnell," broke in Huxter. "I wish you joy, Mr. Pendennis, both of the borough and the lady, sir. Fanny wishes you joy, too," he added, with something of a blush.