“And when did this event happen?” asked Pen, not over well pleased, most likely, that a person who had once attracted some portion of his royal good graces should have transferred her allegiance, and consoled herself for his loss.
“Last Thursday was five weeks—it was two days after Miss Amory came to Shepherd’s Inn,” Huxter answered.
Pen remembered that Blanche had written and mentioned her visit. “I was called in,” Huxter said. “I was in the Inn looking after old Cos’s leg; and about something else too, very likely: and I met Strong, who told me there was a woman taken ill in Chambers, and went up to give her my professional services. It was the old lady who attends Miss Amory—her housekeeper, or some such thing. She was taken with strong hysterics: I found her kicking and screaming like a good one—in Strong’s chamber, along with him and Colonel Altamont, and Miss Amory crying and as pale as a sheet; and Altamont fuming about—a regular kick-up. They were two hours in the Chambers; and the old woman went whooping off in a cab. She was much worse than the young one. I called in Grosvenor Place next day to see if I could be of any service, but they were gone without so much as thanking me: and the day after I had business of my own to attend to—a bad business too,” said Mr. Huxter, gloomily. “But it’s done, and can’t be undone; and we must make the best of it”
She has known the story for a month, thought Pen, with a sharp pang of grief, and a gloomy sympathy—this accounts for her letter of to-day. She will not implicate her father, or divulge his secret; she wishes to let me off from the marriage—and finds a pretext—the generous girl!
“Do you know who Altamont is, sir?” asked Huxter, after the pause during which Pen had been thinking of his own affairs. “Fanny and I have talked him over, and we can’t help fancying that it’s Mrs. Lightfoot’s first husband come to life again, and she who has just married a second. Perhaps Lightfoot won’t be very sorry for it,” sighed Huxter, looking savagely at Arthur, for the demon of jealousy was still in possession of his soul; and now, and more than ever since his marriage, the poor fellow fancied that Fanny’s heart belonged to his rival.
“Let us talk about your affairs,” said Pen. “Show me how I can be of any service to you, Huxter. Let me congratulate you on your marriage. I am thankful that Fanny, who is so good, so fascinating, so kind a creature, has found an honest man, and a gentleman who will make her happy. Show me what I can do to help you.”
“She thinks you can, sir,” said Huxter, accepting Pen’s proffered hand, “and I’m very much obliged to you, I’m sure; and that you might talk over my father, and break the business to him, and my mother, who always has her back up about being a clergyman’s daughter. Fanny ain’t of a good family, I know, and not up to us in breeding and that—but she’s a Huxter now.”
“The wife takes the husband’s rank, of course,” said Pen.
“And with a little practice in society,” continued Huxter, imbibing his stick, “she’ll be as good as any girl in Clavering. You should hear her sing and play on the piano. Did you ever? Old Bows taught her. And she’ll do on the stage, if the governor was to throw me over; but I’d rather not have her there. She can’t help being a coquette, Mr. Pendennis, she can’t help it. Dammy, sir! I’ll be bound to say, that two or three of the Bartholomew chaps, that I’ve brought into my place, are sitting with her now: even Jack Linton, that I took down as my best man, is as bad as the rest, and she will go on singing and making eyes at him. It’s what Bows says, if there were twenty men in a room, and one not taking notice of her, she wouldn’t be satisfied until the twentieth was at her elbow.”
“You should have her mother with her,” said Pen, laughing.