It was also his custom to visit Mrs. Crawford’s residence every Thursday morning, her “at home” day, and on the fatal day in question, he expected to be as warmly received as he had ever been. But, by merest chance—it was quite out of the ordinary—there were no other visitors in her elegant little parlour. Some had come, others had gone, but at this moment, Mr. Fenwick and Maria were alone together.
Maria made it her policy to never entertain gentleman in solitude, for, after the errors of her past, she was scrupulously careful in guarding her reputation. Her greeting, therefore, was immediately followed by a request that he take his leave.
“Oh, I shall obey your commands as ever, my dear Maria,” cried Mr. Fenwick, “But I should have thought Meriwether and his lady, at least, had been here with you. They always are. You can have no better chaperone than Mr. Meriwether.”
“Mr. Meriwether is at home today,” came the reply, “with his wife. The time of her confinement is approaching.”
Fenwick laughed. “Oh, indeed! Poor old Meriwether, the most uxorious of husbands. His devotion to that little feather-brain is a marvel of the age. There is no fool like an old fool, as the saying goes, and as the saying goes, so goes Meriwether.”
And Mr. Fenwick, intending only to give pleasure to Maria and to leave her smiling, continued with the most lively abuse of Margaret Meriwether—a sweet woman, to be sure, but such a silly creature! Generally overdressed and now, putting on flesh most alarmingly! Ladies of her insignificant stature had cause to be careful about their figures, did they not, least the breadth come to rival the height—and especially a lady so awkward and clumsy as Margaret Meriwether. What a striking contrast was there between Maria’s tall and regal form and her unfortunate little friend. The old saying, one cannot make a silk purse from a sow’s ear came to mind, did it not? Except one might as well omit the “ear,” and just say “sow,” couldn’t one?
Maria smiled—at first—and then as Mr. Fenwick went on, his eyes filling with tears as he contemplated the ridiculousness of little Mrs. Meriwether, she recollected how she and Julia used to laugh behind their fans when Margaret stumbled about the ballroom.
She said only, “I have every reason to love and respect Margaret Meriwether,” and her quiet tone ought to have put so clever a man as Mr. Fenwick on his guard.
“Oh, certainly, my dear,” her swain interrupted her eagerly. “Only the eye of friendship can make her tolerable.”
“I thought the Meriwethers were your friends as well.”
At last, Mr. Fenwick heard the warning, and he changed his course. “Goodness! My dear Maria, I am proud to count the Meriwethers as my friends. Excellent people, both of them. Pray take no notice of a little harmless raillery.”
All of a sudden Maria wondered, how did Mr. Fenwick amuse his acquaintance when she was not at his side? Was “Maria Crawford, the merry widow,” ever the butt of his jests?
Maria rose, and held out her hand with impenetrable gravity. “Good morning, Mr. Fenwick,” she said, and he had no choice but to take his leave.
Maria never hinted at any portion of this conversation to Margaret, but hearing her friend thus abused by Mr. Fenwick awakened her own conscience. She had never placed a high enough value on Margaret’s sweetness of temper, loyalty and friendship. She still prized wit very highly but from then on ceased to think it an essential quality in a husband.
* * * * * * *
In preparation for their book-finding excursion, John wrote out a grid map of London, showing the locations of the various booksellers, and with the help of Prudence, filled in a key with symbols denoting their specialities—foreign books, scientific treatises, classical works and et cetera. This, he explained, would bring a degree of order and rationality to their search for rare volumes.
Prudence, meanwhile, obtained the list of requested books from Mr. Gibson. She found only one of the volumes on the list in her father’s shop; the rest they must search for. Prudence and John agreed their first call should be at Lackington’s, the largest book shop in London. Prudence showed John Mr. Gibson’s list and as they walked, John ran his eye over the titles.
“Leviathan?” he asked. “I’m surprised he wants that.”
“Mr. Gibson,” replied Prudence with a knowing air, “told me one of the things he intended to do whilst in prison, was to read the books which everyone knows about, but hasn’t actually read.”
“True enough,” said John. “I would wager more people know of Leviathan, than have ever read it. Me, for example. Perhaps,” he added, with dawning interest, “I will take a quick look at it myself before you deliver it to Mr. Gibson.”
“I do not think that would be the properest thing to do,” Prudence objected.
“You speak as though you know Mr. Gibson better than I, when it was I who introduced you,” John answered. “He was for ever loaning me his books, when he lived in London.”
“I would like to show him with what dispatch I can fulfil his instructions. But perhaps he would not object if you keep the book only for a day or so, as he
