The Soul of the Rose (22 page)

“Maybe that’s why you have so little to do with God. Religion itself can be cold and lifeless.” She leaned toward him. “And you would never be party to that. You are full of life; your mind thinks, tries to get to the heart of an issue. You pursue a question to its answer. Edward, could you believe? Believe as I do?”

He crossed his arms over his chest. “But a person can
believe
anything. That doesn’t make it true.”

“I agree. One has to believe what is true. For example, in the time of Christopher Columbus many believed the world was flat, that if a person sailed long enough, his ship would drop off the earth. But when explorers began to believe the earth was round, something that was true, it freed them to explore and find America. My belief is the same. It is a belief in something that exists, in a God who cares for me, and because it is true, it frees me to explore a whole new realm of the spiritual. What is this realm?” She looked at him even more earnestly. “It is this: that it is possible for humble man to know the God of the universe.”

He uncrossed his arms from his chest. “Something is missing here, Celia.” He leaned toward her. “Give me your hand, please.” He took it gently, held it up and looked at it. “Here, you are flesh and blood.” He pressed it. “You see, I can feel you. Now, here is the question. How can a flesh and blood person know something, or shall we say Someone, who is a Spirit? It doesn’t seem possible.” He lowered her hand and held it securely in both of his.

She smiled to herself to see her hand rest in his. How artfully he had accomplished that. She had to admit she wanted it there. Here they were, touching physically, their feelings growing toward each other, and they were having this important theological discussion. Is this how it would be with them? It seemed natural enough. Yet, she knew there could be no future with Edward unless something changed. She would let her hand rest in his for the moment, but she would not be deterred from her purpose in coming.

She took up the thread of their discussion. “Well, one instance is that the invisible God has left His mark on the visible world around us. Look at the beauty of the hills, trees, and flowers all around us. Look at the complexity of nature, how it all works together. Think of the intricacy of a single leaf, its veins bringing life to each little part, distributing sap that has come up from the trunk. Somehow, water from the ground and nutrients from the soil have formed sap to nourish that leaf.

“Here, I’d like to show you another verse in the Bible.” She extracted her hand from his. “Turn to Romans.” She nodded to the book. “Read verse twenty of the first chapter.”

“Ah, that would be in the New Testament, would it not?”

“Edward, you’re teasing me. You very well know it is. If you know that Tacitus spoke of Christ. . . .”

The glance in his eye showed mischief, but he turned to the book and after finding the verse, read
, For the invisible things of Him from the creation of the world are clearly seen, being
understood by the things that are made, even His eternal power and Godhead; so that they are
without excuse
.

“See, Edward, if we take a long and thoughtful look at what God has created, we will see evidence of His power. Of His divine being in nature. The basic reality of God is plain enough.”

She paused to let that sink in, then decided to drive home her point. “That’s where faith comes in, but it’s not the kind of faith that’s a leap in the dark. It’s faith based on evidence: evidence in nature, evidence in a document like the Bible, particularly the Bible. And if a person wants corroboration of the
b
iblical account, he can read other writings of antiquity such as Josephus—and others you’ve read. Beyond that, there’s the evidence of people like myself who say they know God, my parents, many people in the town where I was raised, the Chestleys.”

She leaned forward. “Do you believe
me
, Edward?” Her eyes held his. “You have all these evidences. Now comes the leap of faith. But, remember, it is not into complete darkness. You have evidence.”

“It sounds as if you want me to make a decision now, but—” He reached for her hands again. “This is what I can see. And touch. This is what I want.” His dark eyes caught hers and held them. “
Whom
I want.” She felt his hands enclose hers, warm and entreating. “You are my light, my hope for a better life.”

How was she to deal with him? She searched his eyes. “Edward, what I’ve been talking about is important. I can’t tell you how important this is, of eternal importance.” She glanced down at their hands. “I feel I must not be sidetracked like this.”

“Celia, we’ve talked enough about religion for the time being.” He said it gently, but firmly. “Now, I want to talk about us.”

“But, Edward, there’s no ‘us’ unless this issue of ‘religion,’ as you call it, is resolved. We
must
talk about it. As I said before, you pursue a question to its answer. And that’s what you need to do here. This faith affects every aspect of our lives, every relationship.”

“What do you mean?”

“Our relationship and relationships with others. Especially difficult ones. For example—” Here she paused. “Marguerite. Her mother.”

“Enough!”

Her eyes fell, her hands clenched within his. It was as if he’d given her a verbal slap. Had she pressed him too far?

He sat silently for some moments then let his breath out slowly. “Celia, I’m sorry I spoke so. Forgive me for being abrupt. Even if we disagree, I should speak gently, to you of all people, my d—” He began to rub his thumbs over the backs of her hands, then turned them over, opened them and rubbed her palms. She felt the entreaty in his fingers. “It’s just that I felt threatened. Threatened you would use our spiritual differences to separate us. I don’t want that to happen.”

She looked up. “I’m sorry, Edward, for speaking of Mrs. Divers and her daughter. But that is important, too. You see, I learned—before I came here—how important it is to forgive, and to forgive quickly. The whole reason I came to work at the Chestleys was because I had not done so quickly and was suffering the effects of remorse.”

She took her hands from his. “Do you remember early on in our acquaintance—when you calmed a frightened horse?”

“I remember it well.”

“That incident affected me more deeply than you probably realize—because of the horse. Just a few months prior to coming here, I was given a treasured book for my birthday, the novel
St. Elmo,
which I had looked forward to for a long time. My best friend asked to borrow it, and to tell the truth, I was loath to part with it, but she
was
my closest friend. Then she carelessly let it drop in a mud puddle as we walked together after a heavy rain. I remember looking down in horror at the book, half submerged in the muddy water. I quickly bent down, grabbed it and wiped it on my skirt. I was furious, more than I can say. I cast her an angry look and ran home—fast. I cleaned the book as best I could, but the cover still showed the effects of the muddy water, and the edges of the pages were crinkly and stained brown. My beautiful book!

“I wouldn’t speak to my friend for days. And then the unthinkable happened. She had an accident while riding horseback. He was frightened and threw her. When she fell her neck broke, the doctor thinks killing her instantly. That is my only comfort, because the last time she saw me, anger was written across my face. I forgave her too late.”

Celia looked at Edward, tears starting to gather. “And afterward, I couldn’t help but think of eternity, where my friend is now.”

Edward’s eyes were dark, unreadable. They were both silent long moments, then Celia said, “What we believe about Christ affects where we will spend eternity.”

She shifted her position on the settee. “Our faith—is so important. Edward, you can investigate this further, you can pray to God to reveal Himself to you. And He will—through Christ.”

Celia would not let Edward’s eyes stray from hers. “My dear friend, He’s the only One who can make a dead religion come alive in your heart and soul. He and He alone. I am proof of that. I would not lie to you—
you
of all people.”

He lifted her hands and kissed them.

Her heart bounded up.

He kept them close to his face, almost as if he was inhaling the scent of her—like fine perfume. “I’m sorry you went through that with your friend. But
we
are friends, aren’t we? More than friends?”

She could see the appeal in his eyes.

He held her hands tighter, closer. She could feel the magnitude of their spiritual differences slipping away. She wanted to be touched, cared for.

In that moment, she saw the danger in remaining alone with him. “Edward, I should leave.”

He looked up. “Why?”

“You know why.” She tried to draw away. “I
must
go. Please, consider what we talked about.”

He stared at her a long moment, then let go of her hands. “Did you bring anything with you, something we should retrieve?”

She shook her head.

He assisted her off the settee and gestured toward the door. He opened it and led the way down the hall.

He is taking this all very calmly, she thought. She was relieved but also piqued. No, it was more than that. Hurt had started to well up in her. Could he let her go so easily?

They reached the front door. She stopped to allow him to open it for her. Instead of reaching for the door, he turned and asked, “No heartfelt good-bye, Celia? We are more than friends, you know.”

She held out her hand in farewell.

His eyes glittered. “No, we must not part thus.” He took her outstretched hand, grasped it and pulled her to him. His arms went around her. As he pressed her to him, she sensed his desire and felt hers rise in response. “I cannot bear to see you go without your saying a word of hope for us. Please, Celia.”

Moments before, she had felt hurt and withdrawn; now here she was in his arms, desperately wanting to stay. Could she be so weak, so changeable? She clung to him a moment longer, drinking in his nearness, his warmth, his tenderness. She glanced up. His arms tightened around her. “Edward, you know I cannot. I cannot without being untrue to God.” She extricated herself from his arms.

How she hated to be the cause of his hurt. No—the real cause was his own blindness, his own lack of belief.

She glanced at the door. She didn’t want to walk out it alone, dreaded the coming separation, but she must. She purposefully turned to it, waiting for him to open it.

A breath of a sigh escaped him, but he opened the door, standing sentinel as she stepped over the threshold.

She walked down the steps then out onto the drive, her heart heavy, pained. But she would not look back. That would be her undoing. She
would
keep walking.

Exiting the drive to enter the road, she wondered how she could ever weather something like this again: confront him with the truth, him not receive it, and then refuse the intimacy they both wanted. Even now, she hardly trusted her strength of resolve to remain away.

When she reached the Chestleys, she excused herself to her room. She had begun shaking. How could she trust herself to do the right thing if they were alone together again? She flung herself on the bed and buried her face into the pillow.

22

E
dward watched Celia walk down his drive. How he ached for her, how tempted he was to go after her. But he had sensed she needed to be by herself, and had forced himself to respect her unspoken wishes. However, he could still delight in watching her sweet self, noting every movement of her arms and figure. Her mind had the same agile, quick movements as her carriage, which he valued so highly.

But how adamant she had been about her beliefs! A doubt nagged him. This whole matter of her faith seemed prodigiously important.

He respected her for that. In fact, loved her for it. He had always appreciated her fondness for engaged discussion. There was nothing settled, predictable about her. Her mind was always questing. Ah, how they could quest together!

She had reached the road. The wonder of it was that she had come to see him at all. After what had transpired this last week, she had still come to him. He didn’t deserve it after the shadow cast on his name. His once-proud name. Why had he continued to live here years after Marguerite’s death? Why hadn’t he removed himself to Boston? Maybe the mysterious hand of Providence had stayed him—in order for him to meet Celia—that same Providence he was uncertain with whom he had personal dealings. The very question Celia had asked, a probing question indeed.

He waited until the trees hid the last of her delightful person. She would now be passing Mrs. Divers’s house. That—but no, he would not think about the old wretch, not when he had a much pleasanter subject on which to dwell.

He turned to enter his house. After shutting the door, he stood on the spot where Celia and he said good-bye. Closing his eyes, once more he felt her in his arms. She nestled just so against his chest, as if she were meant to be there.

She desired to be there. He could feel it.

It had been a long time since he desired a woman. He had blocked it off from his thinking, his consciousness. But now it was all he could do not to think of it. Celia had broken through the ice of his reserve. He trusted her. Trusted her to be good and worthy of love.

“Mr. Lyons, can I do anything for you?” Mrs. Macon was walking down the hall toward him. “You said you didn’t want to be disturbed, but I was thinking the young lady might like some refreshment.”

“No, you did exactly the right thing. She is gone now.” He saw the question in her eyes, wondering what they had been doing sequestered so long in the library. Well, he would give her a bone. “We had a most enlightening talk.” When his housekeeper kept looking at him, he added,

“About religion.”

“That is a most appropriate topic for Sunday.”

He could see she approved, but she wasn’t sure if that was all that transpired. The devil take her, he would reveal nothing further. He raised an eyebrow and waited.

“I guess if that’s all, sir, I will set out your supper and then I’ll be about done for the day.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Macon.” He watched her walk down the hall to the kitchen.

Where was he? Oh yes, she had interrupted his thoughts about Celia. Probably just as well. He could see he would have a difficult time not letting his thoughts stray into forbidden waters. At least, waters forbidden at this point. There was that snag of religion. The topic was obviously important to Celia. And, of course, that should make it important to him. But, he smiled, Celia herself was so much more interesting. He wanted to think about her. Only her.

How long before he saw her again? Would she want to see him as soon as tomorrow, if he dropped by the bookstore? What excuse could he make? Maybe he would make no excuse, just stop by to say hello. Possibly look through the religion section. He hadn’t done that in a long while. Maybe she could help him investigate it. Ah, there was a thought.

“Celia, will you help me dry dishes tonight?”

Celia looked up from the dinner table. “I’d be glad to.”

“Lately I’ve let them air dry, but we women need time together. Just the two of us. Mr. Chestley, you can take yourself off to the sitting room and sit a spell. You’ve worked hard this week and deserve a rest.” She winked at him. “Especially at your age.”

“Now you’re in trouble,” he said. “I’ve plenty of energy for what is needed. Or for what I want.” He got up from the table and hugged his wife from the back. “You remember that, Mrs. Chestley.”

She turned her head slightly to better see him. He took it as an invitation and pecked her on the cheek. She laughed and blushed. Mr. Chestley looked at Celia. “Sorry for such open affection.” He looked at his wife again. “But I think my assistant is accustomed to it by now.”

Celia smiled at them. She would never tire of seeing their tenderness toward each other. They reminded her of Mother and Father. And what she’d had so recently with Edward.

“There now, Celia,” Mrs. Chestley said some minutes later over the dishpan. “Tell me what’s on your mind. You were unusually quiet at supper.”

Celia put aside the dishtowel, wondering how much to say. “I would appreciate a godly woman’s viewpoint. This is about a certain friendship—well, the interest goes beyond mere friendship. And the trouble is, this individual has a form of religion, knows
about
God rather than
knowing
Him. As time goes on, it’s increasingly difficult to keep my perspective about him, if you know what I mean.”

Mrs. Chestley washed another dish before she spoke. “This person, is it Mr. Lyons?”

Celia nodded.

“That doesn’t surprise me, dear. I’ve noticed a growing interest on his part. And he is a man whose interest is not easily engaged. That is a compliment to you.”

Celia smiled wryly. “Thank you, but there is the problem of his faith, or lack of it.”

“Have you talked with him about it? I mean, really talked about it?”

“Yes. Or at least I’ve tried. He doesn’t seem overly interested.” Celia took up her towel again. “Oh, he’s interested like he would be in any subject, but though I’ve tried to express how important, how really important it is to me, he brushes it aside. He hasn’t grasped how vital it is to a—a deeper friendship with me.”

“Or doesn’t want to.”

Celia turned and looked at Mrs. Chestley. “Does it go as deeply as that?”

“From what you have told me, and I know Mr. Lyons to be an insightful man, he is either brushing aside the topic or is unconsciously letting himself be obtuse about the matter. And let’s remember Celia, if God is not real to him—and Mr. Lyons considers himself an intelligent man—he would wonder how God could be real to anyone else. It apparently hasn’t entered his mind he could be mistaken or wrong in the matter. I think he assumes the subject will blow over in time.”

“But you know it will not—not with me.”

“I know, my dear.” Mrs. Chestley leaned her head sympathetically toward Celia. “So, do you think you can be firm in your stance for the truth?”

Celia gripped the towel hard in her hands. “That’s what troubles me.” She dropped into the nearest chair and looked up at Mrs. Chestley.

“I think I can surmise what you want to say,” Mrs. Chestley said gently, “but could you be more specific with me? I don’t want to give you wrong counsel.”

“It’s just that when I’m with him, I find myself starting to make allowances for him, excusing his lack of belief. Especially when he—when he makes it increasingly clear how he is beginning to care for me.” Celia looked up at Mrs. Chestley, tears gathering in her eyes. “I don’t want to hurt him in any way. He’s been hurt so much.” Could she admit this next to Mrs. Chestley? She finally said, “And I’m afraid of myself, that I’ll not say no to further intimacy. That I’ll let the relationship go too far—without him coming to terms with God. I’m also afraid that after a while I won’t care anymore, that I’ll be willing to compromise my beliefs because of my feelings for him.”

“I see.” Mrs. Chestley turned back to her dishes. After washing another plate, she said, “Do you think you can remain here or should you leave? I mean go home. Maybe you need a respite. And maybe Mr. Lyons needs a little bit of a shock to wake him up to the reality of the situation.” Mrs. Chestley turned to Celia. “I know my husband would not like to hear of your leaving, but remember, he said at one of our first dinners any man coming to claim your hand would have to be approved by him first, and I know Mr. Chestley would not approve of Mr. Lyons at this point. Not that he doesn’t like Mr. Lyons. He most certainly does. But he would see the pitfalls of the situation.”

There was quiet for some moments. “I hadn’t considered
leaving
as an option. I don’t really want to do so.”

“This is
your
decision. It has to be yours.”

Celia sighed. After a few more moments of quiet, she murmured, “But you might be right.”

Mrs. Chestley held out a plate for drying.

Celia stood and took the plate. “You know, I think I
must
leave.”

Mrs. Chestley cleared her throat. “If that’s the case, when do you think you should go?”

“The sooner, the better?” Both women remained silent while Celia dried the plate.

Mrs. Chestley rinsed her hands and wiped them on a towel. “Why don’t we go and talk with my husband, see what can be worked out. I could probably fill in for a time until he gets another assistant.”

Celia heard voices outside the bookstore. Two familiar ones. She stepped behind the counter ready to help or for refuge—she wasn’t sure. When the door jangled, she made herself look casually in that direction. Edward and Charles entered, one following the other. Seeing them this close reminded her of the archery contest. Both men were tall, but there the similarity ended. Charles was lean, Edward’s physique brawny. Both men were agile, but one looked as if he could easily overpower the other. Charles immediately headed toward the counter where she stood. Edward made his way toward the stacks and in a moment, was out of sight.

“Just the person I want to see,” Charles said.

“I’m glad I’m available. What can I do for you?”

“My mother sent me to ask you to dinner. Before I leave for Boston.”

“When are you going?”

“A week from now. What say you to dinner the evening after next?”

Celia felt the dilemma. She hadn’t told anyone besides the Chestleys her plans. Not even the man on the other side of the stacks. Should she lower her voice to Charles and tell Edward later, privately? Or just let him overhear what she said to Charles? Edward appearing from behind the stacks answered her question. He walked purposely toward the counter.

“I’m afraid that wouldn’t be possible,” she answered Charles.

“I know you have a heavy social calendar,” Charles said laughing. “Now, why ever not?”

“Well, I’ll be leaving that same afternoon. For home.”

“For home? Ah, to visit your parents and siblings. Very commendable. Well then, can we make it tomorrow night? I’m sure that would be fine with Mother.”

“I was thinking I should have my last night with the Chestleys.”

“Your last night with the Chestleys? But surely you’re going for just a short visit and the Chestleys wouldn’t mind.”

She would not answer that in front of Edward. She glanced at him. He was looking at her with an intensity that was unsettling. “They’ve been so good to me. Would lunch tomorrow be too short notice to your mother?”

“I think that’d be fine with her, she is hospitality personified. You’ll be working tomorrow?” On her nod, he asked, “Why don’t we ask Mr. Chestley when it would be convenient to leave the store for an hour? Mr. Lyons, you don’t mind if she takes a minute to ask, do you?”

Edward said nothing, merely gestured his acquiescence.

Celia smiled her gratitude. Or at least tried to. She felt embarrassment down to her toes. For him to learn of her departure this way!

“Now you see how easy that was,” Charles said a couple minutes later as they walked back to the counter. “God didn’t make me a lawyer for nothing. Mr. Chestley couldn’t say no.” He looked at Mr. Lyons. “Thank you for waiting,” then touched Celia’s arm. “One o’clock, then? I’ll come and call for you in the buggy. That will give more time for our luncheon.” As he was turning to leave, he stopped and said, “I just remembered, you’ll need a way to the station, won’t you? Why don’t I bring the carriage around the next day?”