The Soul of the Rose (4 page)

He looked at her sharply as if unwilling to say, then finally quoted,

But the tender grace of a day that is dead

Will never come back to me.

She hadn’t expected that selection. “Is that from—?”

“Break, Break, Break.”

“A rather sad thought.” She wondered if it had to do with his wife’s death. But plainly, this man and she both had experienced the death of someone dear. Her heart went out to him.

His eyebrow raised. “Nevertheless true. It is a boon how great poems, like great books, express one’s thinking so well.”

“A good book is like a friend in that regard.” She smiled at the pleasant association. “I have many such friends.”

“That is fortunate, although I imagine you have friends of flesh and blood as well.”

“Thank you.” A compliment from an unlikely source. For a moment, she scrutinized the bristly face across the counter and considered the scrap of poem he shared. Surely, there was more to this man than most people saw or understood.

He turned to leave.

Suddenly she felt moved to ask, “Did you see the flyer?”

He turned back. “The one on the door?”

“Yes, Mr. Chestley posted it last night. He’s wanted to start a book discussion for some time. I hope that we’ll attract a nice group for the evening. And some good insights from those who attend.”

“I don’t know if people here will provide much lively discussion. Most think alike.”

“I thought
one
person might challenge our thinking.”

He didn’t reply, but observed her with thoughtful eyes.

“At least, my impression when I first met you—that we were quite at odds on how we viewed things.”

“Did I say as much?”

“It was what you didn’t say.”

“Ah . . .” A glint of amusement shone from his eyes.

“You are coming?”

“I’m not sure.”

The bell jangled. A well-dressed woman paused inside, then headed straight for the counter.

With some alacrity, Mr. Lyons turned to leave.

The woman flashed him a look of approval. “Mr. Lyons!”

He gave her the barest of nods.

She watched him swing open the door and turned to Celia. “My, that man is always in a hurry.”

Celia had met Mrs. Adams only once, and now the widow’s eyes were alive with interest. The woman smiled confidentially. “I saw your flyer on the door. I hope you invited
him
. It’s about time he rejoined society.”

4

M
r. Chestley stepped outside the bookstore, looking first one way down the street, then the other. Shops stood closed, but a bright light shone from his own store as a welcome. Four people had already gathered for the literary meeting. A nice
select
group, he would term it, but he was hoping for a few more.

That afternoon he had rounded up twelve chairs. He tried first one arrangement then another, fussing like a mother hen he supposed. The space didn’t afford much room for variation, but he finally settled on two semi-circles of six with a small table and chair at the front for the discussion leader. He himself would begin the meeting then ask Celia to give a presentation of the author.

Ah! The widow Adams was approaching from the left. Undoubtedly, this was her destination. As he greeted her on the step, he noted she looked particularly well, the bloom of youth had returned to her cheeks. The Harrods rounded the corner from their fashionable street. The lawyer and his stylish wife would certainly add to the occasion. And there was Celia, coming up the road with that little old lady she befriended last week. What was her name? She walked with a cane and seemed a quiet, shy sort of person. Mrs. Smith. Yes, he remembered now. That would make eleven with his wife and himself. Just one chair remained for a latecomer.

Mr. Chestley rubbed his hands together. As he let his breath out in a satisfied sigh, a white puff accentuated the nip in the night air. The little gathering looked to be a solid success. He stood another minute welcoming each arrival, and when the Harrods neared the bookstore, stepped down to greet them.

After closing the door, he approached the semi-circles. Celia was seating the elderly woman beside Miss Waul, who said in a loud whisper, “I came tonight in place of Mrs. Divers. She’s a great reader, you know, and would have liked to come, but her arthritis is acting up. ‘I should stay home and take care of you,’ I told her. But no, she wanted to know how the meeting went and I am to report back.”

“I hope this evening lives up to your expectations,” Celia said.

“I’m sure it will, I’m sure it will.” Miss Waul’s ruddy cheeks accentuated her wide smile.

Mr. Chestley gazed over the group, his hands clasped behind him. “We’re about to begin. I hope everyone is comfortable.” He smiled. The store door opened once again. He could not see the door from where he stood, so waited patiently for the newcomer to appear. Then he nodded as the person slipped into the vacant chair in the back. A soft gasp sounded from Miss Waul.

“Welcome, everyone,” Mr. Chestley said. “We are pleased you came to discuss Hawthorne’s
The Scarlet Letter
. When I mentioned the possibility of a book discussion group to my new assistant, she seconded the idea. For those of you who haven’t met her, let me introduce Miss Celia Thatcher.” He nodded in her direction. “Her family comes from a long line of distinguished scholars. I’ve asked her to introduce the author and indicate how his life influenced his writing. Afterward, I’ll pose questions I hope elicit an interesting discussion. Now, Miss Celia Thatcher.”

Celia felt the deft little pat Mrs. Chestley leaned over to give her and glanced to see the proud look in the older woman’s eyes. Mrs. Chestley had helped her choose the dark skirt and cream-colored blouse for the evening, deemed the long, flowing bow down her front “just right.” Mrs. Chestley also insisted on fixing her hair into a knot of curls in the back where a braid usually coiled.

Celia approached the table, notes in hand. More nervous than expected, she kept her eyes fastened on the bookcase in back. “It is interesting—” she cleared her throat, “—how an author’s writing flows out of his thinking, his life experience.

“This is no less true of Nathanial Hawthorne. A striking aspect of his early years was his solitary life. He once said to his friend Longfellow, ‘I have seen so little of the world that I have nothing but thin air to concoct my stories of.’ ”

Celia smiled. “Surely, this is an exaggeration. Rather, I submit the reflective quality of his life helped him make the most of what he saw and experienced. He delved beneath the surface of people’s lives to show us the workings of the human will and heart. Why?” She paused to let the question sink in. “So that we might better see our own.”

She went on to describe Nathanial Hawthorne’s background.

Not having dared to look over the group, Celia had concentrated instead on what she was saying. Now, however, she stopped to examine those assembled in the two semi-circles. Her eyes were immediately drawn to the place where the latecomer had seated himself. The large frame of Mr. Lyons sat somewhat apart from the others; apparently, he had moved his chair. But he had come after all.

She turned back to her notes. “As it says in the gospel of Matthew: ‘For out of the abundance of the heart the mouth speaketh.’ I believe we can paraphrase this author’s life: ‘Out of the abundance of his inner experience, his pen speaks.’ ” She finished her comments and resumed her seat.

Mr. Chestley stood. “Thank you, Celia. That was most enlightening. Most of us don’t see so direct a connection between the author and his work. But even if a reader doesn’t know anything of Hawthorne’s life, the beauty and power of this novel is apparent to anyone giving it a careful reading. Let us now discuss key elements of the story and its characters.”

He lowered himself into the chair by the table. “Now, would anyone care to give us a brief summary of the story?”

A silence followed, one glancing covertly at another. Mrs. Chestley looked around, then said, “I will.” Sitting a little taller in her chair, her dark amethyst dress setting off her silver hair, she told of the young woman, Hester Prynne, giving birth out of wedlock in the old Puritan community of Boston. As punishment, Hester had to wear a large scarlet A on the breast of her dress.

Mr. Chestley said, “It’s interesting, isn’t it, that the author chooses to not say much about the adultery itself, but instead dwells on how this sin affected the four main characters in the story. Which character do you feel was most severely affected?”

Miss Waul raised her hand. “To me, it’s pretty obvious it would be Hester Prynne. After all, she had to live outside of the community and wear the scarlet letter the rest of her life.”

Mr. Chestley next acknowledged Mr. Harrod.

“That may be true,” the lawyer said, “but the woman in question had salved her conscience by an open admission of guilt. The one who really suffered was the Rev. Mr. Dimmesdale. Because of his revered place in the community, he couldn’t bring himself to confess being the child’s father. That transgression continually gnawed at him, especially when members of his congregation told him they thought him a saint.”

“But—” Miss Waul interjected— “I think he deserved to suffer. Think of the child who didn’t have a father and wanted one. The Rev. Dimmesdale was selfish to think more of his position in the community than the needs of his own child, not to speak of the shame Hester endured standing alone on the scaffold before the community.”

“Talking of selfishness,” added Mrs. Harrod, “one might think of Hester’s husband, Mr. Chillingworth. He was a lot older than she, ugly, and added to the minister’s grief by trying to unearth the child’s father and constantly referring to the sin. I think if we’re going to talk about selfishness, it began there.”

“I think now it all goes back to Mr. Chillingworth,” Miss Waul said. “He should have never persuaded the lovely Hester to marry him.” She turned to look at Mr. Lyons.

Celia felt an uncomfortable silence settle in the room. She searched for something to say, and finally asked, “Yet even with all this, don’t we find a symbol of hope in the story? In the form of a flower?” The room remained quiet, but Celia could see the group’s attention steered in a new direction. Mrs. Harrod was the first to speak.

“Might you be referring to the wild rose outside the prison?”

“Yes,” Celia said. “Do you all remember how the beauty of this flower struck a contrast with the gloomy prison and its surrounding weeds? That brings up the question, why do you think Hawthorne included the rose in his story?”

Several in the group started to speak at the same time. Relieved, Celia could see the discussion was off and running again.

After everyone left, Mr. Chestley said to his wife, “The discussion ended on a happy note. Leave it to Celia.”

“She is lovely, stood out so amongst us oldies. I overheard Mrs. Harrod say she thought Celia is like the wild rose of the story, bringing beauty into any gathering. Mrs. Harrod invited her over for lunch next week.” A little crease formed between her eyes. “You know, Celia was the only young person present.”

“Well now, I wouldn’t call Mr. Lyons old. He’s—what would you say, in his forties?”

“Oh, no!” His wife laughed. “That growth of beard makes him look older. That, and his serious demeanor. He’s middle to late thirties.”

“And there’s Mrs. Adams. I believe she’s about his age.”

“True,” agreed his wife. “In fact, I noticed them talking together after the discussion. The way she leaned toward him, I could tell she was very interested in what he was saying.” A little laugh exploded out of her. “I never thought of this before, but do you think they might make a couple?”

“Mrs. Chestley! You and your romantic notions.”

“Did you notice how beautifully she was dressed? She could help him with his appearance. I think he needs a wife.”

“Well, he didn’t stay long after that.”

“No. But still, I hope he appreciated the discussion.”

“I think so,” Mr. Chestley said. “A man gets hungry for stimulating talk.”

“I feel rather sorry for him. I hope he comes again.”

“But he won’t be forced. He has a stubborn streak, as strong as that imposing physique of his. You know how Boston Brahmins are. Maybe that was . . .”

“Was what?” Mrs. Chestley caught her husband’s arm.

“It just occurred to me—maybe that was Marguerite’s trouble, pressing him where she shouldn’t have—” He shook his head. “Well, let’s not gossip.”

Mrs. Chestley wrinkled up her nose. “But it’s so much fun talking about him. He’s such an interesting man.”

“There’s more to him than meets the eye. If only people in this town could see that. Most never gave him half a chance.”

“He hasn’t helped by holing up the way he does.”

“True. Maybe in some ways he’s not the wisest of men. Somewhat of a mystery as well. I hope Celia gave him something to think about tonight. If there’s anyone that could pierce that hard hide of his, I think it’s our little girl.”

“Don’t give her too big a job, Mr. Chestley. She’s young and such a dear. She needs to enjoy life.”

“And not get mixed up with the town hermit.” Mr. Chestley placed his forefinger on his wife’s lips. “Now, we won’t talk any more about him. Even if it’s the most interesting tidbit in our neck of the woods. And don’t scrunch up your nose at me again, Mrs. Chestley. It’s far too pretty.”