The Soul of the Rose

by Ruth Trippy

  “Well, yes. You know she was one to need lots of attention. ’Course she didn’t get much from us after she married, but before that she took a lot.”

  “What do you mean?” Mrs. Divers’s lips set firmly. “What would somebody expect with her so delicate? I didn’t spoil her, mind you!”

  “I didn’t mean to say you did.” Miss Waul’s shoulders heaved a sigh. “But I miss her.”

  “Yes, my heart aches, even yet.” Mrs. Divers plucked at her shawl, drawing it closer round her shoulders. “Our one and only. It hasn’t been two years. I can’t forgive that man!”

  “I know. Well, I did the new girl one favor. Warned her away from him.”

  “He was in the bookstore?”

  “Yes. Came in while I was trying to find your book. He slunk back in the shelving as soon as he saw me. Like the snake he is.”

  “Not a snake, Miss Waul.” Mrs. Divers felt her ire rise. “A grizzly is more like it.”

  “A grizzly?”

  “Yes, a big grizzly bear. They’re unpredictable, you know. Come at you without warning.” Her arthritic fingers gripped the chair arms. “He was cruel to our Marguerite, Miss Waul. We must never forget that. If I have anything to say about it, he’ll never be happy again.”

  “He seemed none too happy tonight, so comfort yourself in that. His hair’s grown out like a bush. A body can’t even see his face.”

  “Ashamed he is.”

  “I hear he goes around at night. Never notice him during the day.”

  “Good! The few times I do get out, I don’t want to see him. Just thinking of him makes me—”

  “Now, don’t upset yourself, Mrs. Divers. You’ve had enough of that man for a lifetime. Must put him out of your mind.”

  “How can I, when he lives so near? Whenever I leave our home, I don’t even look off to the left for fear of seeing his house through the trees.” Mrs. Divers shuddered. “If I’d ever suspected my dear girl would have such a hard time with him, I’d have taken her away—far away, even though I’ve lived here for years. Yes, I would have.” Tears started clouding her vision.

  “Calm yourself, Mrs. Divers. Please! Here, use my hanky. I shouldn’t have brought him up. The whole business is painful to us both.” Miss Waul hoisted herself up from the large chair. “I’m going to get some milk for you now. Good, warm, calming milk.”

  Mrs. Divers dabbed at her eyes. Drat! Her nose was runny. She dabbed at it, too.

  “Now, give your nose a good blow,” admonished Miss Waul.

  “Oh, I hate sounding like an old goose. I’ve got a terrible honk.”

  “I know that. But it makes no difference. If you can’t feel comfortable with me—after all we’ve been through together—” Miss Waul leaned over and gave Mrs. Divers an awkward little hug.

  Mrs. Divers realized, for maybe the hundredth time, how Miss Waul could comfort a soul. “Maybe you need some milk, too. You’ve been out in the cold this evening.”

  “Thank you, Mum. That would be nice.”

  Celia stepped outside the bookstore to better inspect the display window. She’d substituted a gold-colored cloth in place of the off-white fabric as a backdrop. This looked richer against the red and black covered books. Arranging items in an artistic manner satisfied something deep within her.

  She turned to enjoy the outdoors for a few moments. Though the sun had set, the air was still comfortable, the Indian summer keeping it balmy. Even in this dusky light, the maples in front of the shops across the street showed brilliant red, and beyond them glowed golden yellow sassafras. A slightly acrid, pungent scent wafted in with the slight breeze. How she loved autumn. With all the activity of summer gone, she would have more time to read.

  Farther down the street, lamps burned brightly in little houses, hinting at quiet activity within. Tied to a white picket fence, a chestnut horse stood quietly. Celia watched as two boys scuffled up the street, stopped near the horse, and crouched. She wondered why they weren’t already home. Their mothers would be fixing supper.

  Mrs. Chestley was sure to be doing so. Celia anticipated gathering around the evening table. The meal might be simple, sometimes only johnnycakes and warm milk with sugar sprinkled on top, and a piece of cheese with tea. But the company would be delightful.

  Afterward the Chestleys and she might go for a walk. The three of them made an agreeable little group. Once, she’d gone by herself. They had smiled their approval, but told her to keep to nearby streets.

  Celia enjoyed walking by herself. Though she loved being with family and friends, she could think more clearly and notice things better without the distraction of conversation shuttling back and forth.

  Bang!

  Celia startled. The loud report had come from the direction of the horse. His hooves pawed up the dust as he tried to back off from the fence where he was tethered.

  Bang! Bang! Bang! A series of loud explosions pierced the air. The boys rose and started to run.

  Snorting, the terrified horse tried to rear up. The fence shook. He backed off, kicking up dust.

  Out of nowhere, a large man crossed the boys’ path and rushed to the frightened animal. Just as he reached the struggling horse, the wood of the fence cracked and the reins snapped from their moorings. As the leather straps whirled through the air, the big man caught them.

  The animal lunged, trying to bolt, but the man braced himself, holding the bridle fast, compelling the horse to quiet. The horse reared again, but the moment the hooves descended, the man grabbed its mane.

  Celia watched, hardly realizing she held her breath.

  The horse circled its backside around to better swing its head away from the man trying to master it. But the man hung close, forcing the horse to calm, gentling the animal with his voice.

  Two men ran out of the house, but stopped short at the gate as the man jerked his head, cautioning them to stay away while he soothed the horse. Celia couldn’t hear distinct words, but she could see they had a wonderfully calming effect.

  Reaching up to give the horse a final caress, the man finally held out the reins to the horse’s owner.

  Celia watched the men step out the gate and shake hands. The big man pointed to the spot where the boys had crouched. What had they been about?

  Finally, her breath began returning to normal. How fortunate the terrified horse had been calmed—but only thanks to the gentleman who acted decisively, so quickly. And with such strength.

  At that moment, he separated from the other men and started walking in the direction of the bookstore. Celia slipped inside, hoping she hadn’t been noticed. Thankfully, the incident had happened quite a ways down the street.

  But how unexpected. She had thought to enjoy the tranquil night air, but the incident had frightened her, reminded her of—she shook her head as if to dismiss the picture that came to mind.

  Bending over to pick up the pile of books she’d removed from the window, she decided to go to the back of the store. She would calm her emotions by returning to everyday chores.

  She clasped the books close as she walked. Later, she would display the books at advantageous spots around the store, giving the public another opportunity to see the newest offerings. But for the moment she’d spread them on a small table in the rear of the store, near an easy chair.

  The bell on the door jangled. Slowly, but purposefully,she walked back through the stacks to see who entered. As she rounded the end of a large bookcase near the front door,she saw Mr. Lyons.

  Mr. Lyons! Her stomach did a turn. Now she recognized his large figure in the light of the store. So he was the big man who quieted the frightened horse. She debated what to say, then said, “Outside—I saw what happened. You came in the nick of time.”

  He acknowledged her comment with a nod.

  What were those boys doing? She had to ask. “Those loud bangs—”

  “Firecrackers. Probably left over from the Centennial celebration. Pure mischief, especially around a horse.”

  �
�Certainly!” She swallowed, calmness still eluding her. “Firecrackers—the Fourth a short time ago—yes. How fortunate you were nearby. I had visions of a runaway horse bolting past me, with me unable to do anything, and I was absolutely rooted to the spot. But you seemed to know just what to do.”

  “My grandparents kept horses at their summer place. I grew up riding as a boy.” A ghost of a smile turned up the corners of his mouth.

  That seemed a happy memory. Celia felt her equilibrium returning. A moment of comfortable silence passed between them. “So, may I help you?” she offered.

  He glanced in the direction of the window display. “Earlier, I noticed a book in the window. It’s not there anymore.”

  “I placed the books on the back table. What was its title?”

  “That’s all right. I’ll browse through the lot of them.” He turned and strode into the nearest stacks.

  Celia looked in surprise at the disappearing figure, puzzled by his sudden departure. She had felt a sympathy between them those few moments. The mention of his grandparents’ summer home, and she had to admit, the incident with the horse seemed to have eased any feelings of constraint caused by the damaged Tennyson. But now she wasn’t so sure. Her ears strained to hear what he was doing. Mrs. Chestley had been right: he was assuredly a curious sort.

  She heard a rustling of pages and wondered which book had caught his fancy.

  Sometime later, he approached the counter and set down a volume.

  Celia’s eyes flicked to it. Washington Irving’s Tales of a Traveller.

  Before she could comment, he reached into his pocket for the money. “The Plato I bought last time had good print. Very readable.”

  “I’m glad it suited.”

  “I think that’s the correct change.” His long fingers put an additional nickel on the counter.

  “Thank you.” She deposited the money into the metal box under the counter, then looked up at the bushy visage. “I’m sorry again, about the Tennyson.”

  “No need to say anything more. I’ve put it behind me.”

  How quickly he’d forgiven. Not like herself with Trudy. She felt ashamed, then quickly rallied. He was obviously a man to know better, and undoubtedly had a fine mind. She wondered if she dared ask his opinion, then plunged ahead. “Do you have a favorite passage or poem from Tennyson? One especially meaningful?”

  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

  Mr. 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. Chest
ley 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.”