The Soul of the Rose (10 page)

But the tender grace of a day that is dead

Will never come back to me.

“Hmm . . .” Her mother sat for a few moments in thought, then rose to take the cider off the stove. “It sounds as if he has suffered. I wonder what his spiritual state is, if he goes to God for comfort.”

“I don’t know. Our initial discussion led me to believe he and I differ on important issues such as the spiritual. I don’t see him in church, although there are several in town. But I am under the impression he doesn’t go, at least at this point. Remember I said he was a veritable hermit?”

“He does seem strange, doesn’t he?”

“But then I can’t forget how quickly he forgave me. Remember that incident I wrote about, the torn page in the new book he ordered. Ironic, isn’t it, how differently I reacted to Trudy and my book? Just mentioning it makes me ashamed all over again.”

“Well, maybe we should drop the subject. But with this man, I would be careful. Knowing you, I suspect you’re interested in his philosophy of life, especially his spiritual state. But maybe you’re not the one to do anything for him. Unless God opens the door—”

When everyone left after doughnuts and cider, Celia made a point to visit her father’s study. She looked around the room as he settled himself in his desk chair. Books and papers stacked neatly everywhere. Not much in the way of decoration, but comfortable nonetheless. The wooden armchair she chose was cushioned with an old pillow. She positioned it better behind her back.

“Father, I’d like to know what you think about something.”

“Certainly, daughter.”

“At the Harrods’ Christmas dinner the
Popular Science Monthly
was discussed
.
In fact, one of the guests subscribes to it and felt it was important to stay abreast of all that’s happening in science. Are you familiar with the periodical?”

“Somewhat. My understanding is that the
Monthly
contains articles about natural science, and actively advocates the scientific method.” He shifted in his chair. “I don’t fault that. However, the most extreme advocates of this method claim that only through discovering facts can we come to any true knowledge of the universe and its origins. They propose the claims of science refute those of religion. In fact, they call religious ways of knowing the universe superstitious.”

“That doesn’t surprise me then. Charles Harrod, a law student at Harvard, said the editor of the
Monthly
belittles popular religious belief.”

“Attitudes like that only add fuel to the debate between science and religion.”

“Do you think there’s a conflict between the two?”

“There shouldn’t be,” said her father. “I think the conflict comes in how the facts, as they are discovered, are interpreted. Proponents of Darwinian theory interpret evidence differently than someone like myself who believes God created the universe, and upholds it by His power.”

“Darwin was mentioned at dinner, but wasn’t discussed at length.”

“Well, he has introduced a new way of seeing life-forms, of interpreting how they came into being. Some treat his theories as fact. Thomas Huxley has written a great deal about Darwin’s assumptions, popularizing them, but I believe he and others are taking Darwin’s theories beyond what he originally meant. I just finished reading Harriet Beecher Stowe’s
We and Our Neighbors
, and she accuses the Darwinians and other scientific men of saying the Bible is nothing but, and I quote, ‘an old curiosity-shop of by-gone literature.’ I believe she is talking about the extremists in the scientific and intellectual community. You know, none, to my knowledge, testify to having a personal religious experience. They need something to explain the emergence of all we have discovered on the earth. So they are jumping on the bandwagon of this new theory.”

Celia shrugged her shoulders. “Little wonder they put such stock in this theory, when they have so little knowledge of God.”

“Exactly, my dear. Men make pronouncements about God when they have no experiential knowledge of Him. During our time, truth is being stripped of its Divine aspect, not only by natural science theory, but by present Biblical criticism. In place of the Divine, individuals in this camp pronounce that the laws of society and nature give us a secure basis for morality.”

“But where do the laws of nature and society come from?” Celia leaned forward, gripping the desk with her hands. “I’ll answer my own question. From God and His laws, like the Ten Commandments.”

“Precisely. The question is, when one leaves out God, where is the ultimate authority to approve or punish a certain action? If morality is man-instituted, then ultimately man—and society—can, at will, change the code of morality.” Her father’s hand swept over his desk. “No, Celia, morality must be founded on something or Someone greater than mere man.”

Celia sat back in her chair. “How I appreciate talking this out with you.”

“You’ve always been interested in the bigger issues, daughter. I appreciate that.”

“Thank you. This came up at the Christmas dinner. I wanted to say something, but wasn’t sure of my ground. There seemed to be those at the dinner so much more knowledgeable than myself. Mr. Lyons, for instance. He’s the man who frequents the bookstore, and he seemed to espouse the new scientific thinking to a degree.”

Her father was silent before saying, “If Mr. Lyons goes along with that, his religious beliefs are on shaky ground, or at least, I’d question them.”

“Mother and I talked this morning about Mr. Lyons, about his possible lack of faith.”

“You said he is from Boston? If he is as educated and wealthy as you say, he is probably one of their elite society known as Boston Brahmins. Unitarianism has so taken over their churches it wouldn’t surprise me he would side with the new science. This view in religion supports a rationalistic, rather cold view of God. In it, Christ figures as a good man and teacher, but not the personal God who gave Himself for us unto death. Little wonder people like him have left the concept of God for the new science. And considering the fact Mr. Lyons is probably a Boston Brahmin, he will not easily change his thinking. Their heritage and way of thinking are a source of great pride.”

Her father placed his fingertips together, his lips resting on his index fingers. Finally he said, “So, forewarned is forearmed.” He gave her an affectionate smile. “This is just the sort of talk I’ve been missing.”

“Me as well, Father.”

His smile widened and he rose from his chair. “We’ll talk more about this tomorrow and during the remainder of your visit. But now let’s stretch our legs and invite your brothers and sister for a walk. Your mother could use a little peace and quiet.” He looked at her. “It’s so good to have you home.”

Edward Lyons pushed open the bookstore door with something akin to impatience. He had waited a suitable time after the dinner at the Harrods. True, it wasn’t quite time for his fortnightly visit to the store, but he had to come.

His eyes scanned the empty counter, the quiet bookcases. She didn’t seem to be around. But he’d wait. He might peruse the history section, choose a volume and sit awhile in his favorite chair.

Someone exited the office at the back with a shuffling gait. Mr. Chestley appeared around the corner of one of the bookcases. “Ah, Mr. Lyons. I didn’t expect to see you. But, of course, this is nice, very nice. I hope you’re having a good holiday. A cheery season of the year, isn’t it?”

“Yes, it is. I thought I’d browse your history section.”

“You’re more than welcome. If you need help of any kind, just call for me.”

“Thank you.”

An hour later Edward looked up from his book.
Where was she?
The door had opened and closed a number of times with different customers. His head jerked up at each jangle of the bell. Now, it had been quiet for some time. He rose from his chair and walked to the back of the store, his finger holding the place in his book. “Mr. Chestley, I was wondering about your assistant, Miss Thatcher. I want to show her something of interest in this book. Will she be here at some point in the afternoon?”

“Oh, Mr. Lyons, I’m sorry. Celia is gone for the holidays. She couldn’t very well miss seeing her family during Christmas, you know.”

Edward felt a distinct drop in the region of his stomach. She hadn’t said anything about it at the dinner. Of course, he hadn’t talked with her much—which is what he had counted on today, here and now. “That’s as it should be, of course. She’d want to spend the holiday with family.” He paused, at a loss how to continue. He had to know more. This confounded reticence of his. He began slowly, “I had wanted to talk with her. Will she be gone long?”

“She’ll return after the New Year. I might even close the store for a few days after Christmas. Take a holiday myself. I need to get those prints back up to Boston. You’re originally from there, aren’t you?”

“Yes. My mother lives on Beacon Hill.” How could he get the conversation back to Miss Thatcher?

“She does? Well, then, won’t you be going home for Christmas?”

“Well, I hadn’t thought—”

“You know if Miss Thatcher had lived a little closer to Boston, I would have asked her to return the prints. She’s right on the way, but I thought that would be too much to ask.”

“She is? Ah, well . . . what town is that?”

“Mansfield. A pretty little town.”

“I do recall that on the line. Of course, it’s been some time since I’ve seen Mother. Maybe I should return—for Christmas.” Edward hesitated once again. “If I do decide to go, would you like me to bring back the prints for you?”

Mr. Chestley’s eyes had a hopeful gleam. “Would that be too much to ask?”

“No, no. I’d be glad to. It would give me something to do in the city.”

Mr. Chestley rubbed his hands together in anticipation. “Why, Mr. Lyons, that would be nice, very nice of you—if you do decide to go.” His eye had an uncertain look.

“Why, I think I will. In fact, I’ll go to the train station now and telegraph my mother.”

“If that’s the case, I could wrap up the prints and you can pick them up whenever you’re ready.”

A plan began to form in Edward’s mind. “Just give me the address of the establishment and I’ll be glad to do the errand for you. By the way, which print did you decide on for the bookstore?”

“Let me show you. And Mr. Ellis at the jewelry store bought one, too. They’re both to be framed.”

Edward accompanied Mr. Chestley back to his office.

“You see, these two.” Mr. Chestley held up first one print, then the other. “Mr. Ellis will want his frame in gold leaf. I’ll have something less expensive. And look here, this is the unusual one Miss Thatcher liked so well.”

“Ah, yes, the one with the heavily pruned trees. That shows a decidedly sophisticated taste in art. She would enjoy a city like Boston, I dare say. But living right on the way, she’s probably already been there.”

“Possibly. But surely not often. Her family doesn’t travel much. Not for want of desiring to, but financial constraints, you know.”

“Ah. When did you say she’d be returning?” There, he had finally asked
.

“The Thursday after New Year’s. In the afternoon.”

“That’d be the 4:40.”

“That’s when the missus and I are scheduled to pick her up. We’ll be glad to see her.”

“I can imagine. I best be off to telegraph my message.” Edward exited the office to pick up his hat and gloves from the side table where he’d left them. He clamped his lips together to keep from smiling like the proverbial cat from Cheshire.

10

E
dward Lyons snapped his book shut. He was uncharacteristically—eager—wary, he wasn’t sure. The conductor had called Mansfield. The train would be arriving in the station within a minute or two.

He purposely put his mind back on his visit to Boston. It had been good, but uneventful. Mother was in good health, glad to see him, of course. Had commented on his improved appearance. She had come to visit him once after Marguerite’s death, but that one visit she’d cut short. He’d been hard-pressed to entertain her in a town so small, and in his frame of mind, with the suspicion of so many townsfolk at its height. He twisted on the seat.

The fact of the matter was that this visit with his mother was a vast improvement over the last one. Boston had provided much to do, and he was more like his old self, his mother said. He had to admit, he was feeling better.

The train’s brakes screeched. He braced himself from falling forward, gripping the wooden bench. Ordinarily, he would be sitting in first class, but he didn’t want to miss . . . the station came into view, neatly painted gray and green. Of course, he’d noticed it particularly on the way to Boston. A warm feeling had permeated him seeing the station and town, why he’d looked forward to his return trip, the reason he’d been so lighthearted with Mother.

There! He saw her cherry red scarf and hat wrapping her against the cold, her blond hair peeping from beneath. Suddenly, he felt shy like a schoolboy. Would she think him too forward saving this seat, inviting her to sit next to him? He would take care to keep things as natural as possible. But this was a little tricky. She had not the least idea he was on this train, could not know how carefully he’d planned his return from Boston to coincide with her leaving her hometown.

The train ground to a halt.

She was hugging and kissing her mother and father, bending over a young sister, then saying goodbye to her brothers. What a charming family picture. Suddenly, he wondered what it would be like to have younger brothers and sisters—he leaned over to see better—was it just one little sister in the group?

He wasn’t that old. His bushy hair and beard only made him look that way. But that was all changing. In Boston, he had gone to a good barber and asked for the latest cut. And been fitted by the family tailor with a new broadcloth suit. Mother said he looked dapper. His mouth twitched at that. Interesting word for her to use, and she so particular. The last evening she’d asked the maid to get her jewelry box, and from it had presented him his father’s signet ring. He looked down at his hand, at the ring’s raised gold L in its center. His chest expanded with confidence. He would act offhand about seeing Miss Thatcher, maybe even act surprised. And he would just
happen
to have a seat free next to his. Maybe that’s the way he should handle it.

He leaned nearer the window, wanting to make sure which door she entered. A young man had broken away from the group and was escorting her to the train steps. Beneath his hat, his hair showed dark auburn. Did any other family member have hair that dark? The young man gazed down at Miss Thatcher, but not like a brother. Edward’s pulse jumped. Confound it!

As the young man preceded Miss Thatcher up the steps of the railway car, and held out a hand to assist her, she looked at him laughing, then stepped up as well. She was so full of life. Edward’s breath arrested a moment.

The couple entered Edward’s car, Miss Thatcher starting down the aisle with the young man in her wake. He held her valise with a proprietary air. Edward rose and his eyes sought hers, curious to see her reaction on first seeing him. She scanned the car for a seat, then saw him. She startled. Was it a glad light in her eyes?

“Mr. Lyons!”

“Hello, Miss Thatcher.” He waited for her to approach then gestured toward the space next to him at the window.

“What a surprise to see you. Here of all places.” She stopped in front of him. “I—” She was obviously wondering if she should accept the seat. She turned to her companion. “Jack, this is Mr. Edward Lyons, who attends the book discussions at the bookstore where I work.” She turned again to him. “Mr. Lyons, Jack Milford, an old friend from my hometown.”

Jack held out his hand first. “Nice to meet you, sir.”

“Likewise.” Edward knew the “sir” was the required form of address, but somehow the way the young man said it made him feel old. The whippersnapper. “I can place Miss Thatcher’s valise overhead,” Edward offered.

She nodded her acquiescence.

“Thank you, but I can do that for Celia.”

He called her Celia
.
Edward stepped aside as Jack stretched up to stow the valise. “Nice of you to help, young man. We’re glad to have Miss Thatcher return; we certainly appreciate the book discussions she’s begun. I wouldn’t miss one.” Had he said that with enough of a proprietary air?

“Book discussions? When I come to visit—” Jack looked at Celia with a decided air, “—you can let me know when you’ll be having one.”

“Jack, that would be lovely. I didn’t know you’d be interested.”

“Well, you always had your father to discuss such things with, so the subject never came up.”

“True, but still—”

“Now, I’ll want to make that visit rather soon, so let me know by your next letter.” He touched her arm. Then reached for her hand and squeezed it.

“All aboard! Last call!”

“Thank you for seeing me onto the train, Jack.” Edward couldn’t tell if her hand returned the squeeze or not. As Jack left, sauntering down the aisle, she glanced after him, a smile on her face.

Edward was tempted to take Celia’s elbow and assist her to her place. But he refrained. He stepped back to let her pass.

“If you’ll excuse me,” she said, “I’d like to see my family one last time,” and drew up to the window and waved. They all waved back enthusiastically.

The whistle blew. The train gave a warning jerk. Celia lurched and Mr. Lyons reached out to steady her. “Here, Miss Thatcher.” He encouraged her to seat herself.

“Thank you. And a seat by the window, too. Are you sure you wouldn’t like it?”

“I can see just fine. I plan to read so you can enjoy the view in peace.”

“You are too kind.”

“Not at all.” Satisfied arrangements were going as planned, he took out his book.

Celia looked around the mahogany-paneled dining car. Mr. Lyons had reserved a place—she could hardly refuse in light of that.

Their table, covered in white linen and adorned with a red rose, was situated at one end with fewer neighboring tables. It was all so lovely. The waiter had called him
Mr. Lyons
so particularly. Had bowed, then asked about her comfort, if she had any special wishes. She felt rather overwhelmed with the royal treatment. Was it always this way? Or was it because of Mr. Lyons? She looked across the table at her companion with new regard. And he was looking
so well.

“I was surprised to see you on the train. So you went to Boston after all?”

“To see my mother. Mr. Chestley decided me when he needed his prints returned to be framed. It worked out for us both.”

“I know which picture Mr. Chestley chose for the bookstore. Were there others to be framed?”

“The owner of the jewelry store picked the winter scene with the skaters on the river.”

“I liked that one.”

“There was one which particularly caught my attention, the French countryside with the pruned trees.”

She couldn’t resist asking, “What appealed to you?”

He laughed. “The gnarly old trees!”

She joined him in laughter. “They
were
rather strange looking. Now, tell me why.”

A few moments passed, the laughter in his eyes fading. “For years those trees marked the way down the lane—protective, stalwart hardwoods. . . .”

She leaned forward, encouraging him with her complete attention.

“In those old hardwoods, I saw the shoots of new growth sprouting from the old as if new hope had begun. . . .”

She didn’t want to pry, but the picture seemed to speak so personally to him. Did he see it as somehow representing himself? “That’s—that’s so interesting. You saw hope in what some would declare a somber picture.”

He laughed again. “You have an unusual way of putting it.”

“My father has made the same observation about me.” She smiled and looked up as the waiter set down their teacups, the teapot, then plates of delicious looking sandwiches and tiny pastries. “How delightful. And this hot tea is just what a doctor would order on a cold day.”

After the waiter left, Mr. Lyons said, “Your friend Jack alluded that you talk with your father about books. What else do you talk about?”

“Just about everything. This visit we talked a lot about science and religion, the subject touched on at the Harrod Christmas dinner.” She stopped a moment. This seemed a natural entrée into discovering what Mr. Lyons thought about science and religion, where he stood on matters of faith. “I know you read
Popular Science Monthly.
Tell me more about it.”

“As I said at the Harrods’ dinner, it’s a publication that advocates the scientific method, the study of facts. Today, scientists want the most accurate knowledge available about the order of the universe.”

“I’ve heard Thomas Huxley also elevates the scientific method.”

Mr. Lyons’s eyebrows raised. “You’ve heard of him?”

“My father and I discussed his ideas briefly.”

Her companion took up his fork and tapped its end on the white napery. “Then you might know his first article of belief is that man is obligated to pursue truth, no matter where it may lead—if necessary to the utter destruction of his most cherished doctrines and institutions.”

Celia took a bite of a diminutive chicken sandwich. She swallowed, then began slowly, “I don’t take issue with scientific discovery or people searching for facts. That sounds noble enough. But don’t you think it’s important how facts are interpreted? How application is made?” She paused. “Hasn’t Mr. Huxley excluded religious belief from his interpretations of the facts?”

“I believe he has.”

“If he has no knowledge of God,” Celia took a sip of tea before driving home her point, “then he has no religious experience with which to measure his facts.”

“You mean to color his thinking, his interpretation?”

“I mean with which to
interpret
the facts.” She looked Mr. Lyons directly in the eye. “As Job said so long ago, ‘I know in whom I have believed.’ ”

“So you propose blind faith?”

“If I were Mr. Huxley, I suppose it would be blind faith. But my faith is based on facts.”

“Facts?”

“The facts of Jesus’ life. His death. His resurrection.”

“But suppose all that is myth, that it never occurred? Modern criticism negates the Bible as being wholly factual, so therefore, how can it be totally trustworthy?”

“You think the disciples, the early believers, were willing to die for what they knew to be falsehoods?”

Mr. Lyons sat back from the table, motioning her to continue.

“Who are these people who have the temerity to throw God out of their assessment of the universe? Questioning His reality? Doubting His ability to answer prayer? Skeptical that Scripture can resonate with Truth?”

She took another sip of tea, then held the cup in her hands to warm them. “I venture to say it is because they have little or no experience of God. That they, in fact, spend more time trying to poke holes, find fault with Holy Writ than they do giving it an honest reading.”

Celia put down her cup and asked Mr. Lyons if he wanted more tea. He nodded his acceptance. “I am sure Mr. Huxley and those of his ilk are brilliant men. But a brilliant man can fall in love with his own brilliance. He can come to trust too much in himself and his own ability to reason things out.”

Mr. Lyons’s lips curved up. “I seem to remember your saying something similar in your assessment of Emerson’s writings on our first meeting.”

Celia felt relief seeing Mr. Lyons smile. She hadn’t meant to express her opinions quite so freely while his guest at this delightful tea. He would think her a bluestocking and next time choose a more demure female for company.

“You argue a convincing case, Miss Thatcher. You must be your father’s daughter. I would think you have interesting talks.”

“We do, but I didn’t mean to come at you quite so strong. You are a most gracious host.”

“What you propose is thought-provoking. I can’t say I agree with all you say, but you can certainly stir the nest.”

“I take that as a compliment. Thank you.” She said it softly. If only he would think about all this. Even so, she was now determined to talk of less volatile topics. She cast about for another subject. The red rose against the white napery of the linen tablecloth provided the inspiration. She mentioned its beauty and how she loved flowers, roses in particular. Mr. Lyons then began talking about his rose garden. She said she’d like to see it and asked if he would be entering some of his blooms in the community garden show in June. He’d been approached about it, but hadn’t seriously considered it. He might, however. The remainder of the tea passed very comfortably.