by Ruth Trippy
“Your father loves you and is keen to talk about serious issues, but I have something I want to ask you.”
Celia sidled up to her mother and gave her a little hug. “A mother and daughter chat?” Her mother nodded. “How are you doing?” then looked at her closely. “You know, after Trudy?”
“Better. Much better. I’m so glad you sent me to live with the Chestleys. There’s been so much to learn and meeting new people . . .”
“So you’ve forgiven . . . yourself?”
“Yes, Mummy.” Celia held her mother close a moment longer.
“I’m glad.” Her mother’s face brightened. “Now, let’s sample the cider.” She dipped a ladle into the amber brew, then poured it into a cup. “Tell me what you think,” and handed it to Celia.
“Mmm. Just right, I’d say.”
“Good. You may finish that. Now, tell me something. I’m very curious about something you dropped in conversation yesterday. What’s this about a budding lawyer?”
“Oh! Just what I said at Grandmother’s. I’m not sure I’ll ever see him again. But he drove me home after the Harrods’ Christmas dinner and then again to the train station today. He’s also very nice looking.” Celia grinned. “Reminds me of Father.”
“Well!” Her mother laughed. “I like him already.”
“Me, too, but I’m not counting my chickens anytime soon,” Celia said in a teasing tone. “Besides, I love my life with the Chestleys; I’m not looking to get married just yet. I’ve so much to tell you.” All the news she hadn’t been able to convey in letters now came pouring out: the people she met, the special spots in the town she liked to walk, her job in the bookstore.
“What do you like best about your work?” Mother put down the big spoon she was using to stir the cider. “Here, let’s sit a few minutes.”
With her elbows on the table, Celia cupped her face in her hands. “Our book discussions. I love the fact that Mr. Chestley lets me choose the title for the month. Those times you and father talked books with me were wonderful preparation.”
“The Scarlet Letter was your first choice?”
“That’s right. I didn’t know the level of thought the community would bring to the book, but wanted to choose one that brought possibility for deeper discussion. I had no idea it would stir things up so much. It’s curious, Mother, but several counter-parts to the characters seem to live right there in town.”
“How is that?”
“One is a veritable Rev. Dimmesdale.”
“Oh?”
“Do you remember my mentioning a curious man who comes into the bookstore every fortnight? The one with the shaggy hair and beard?”
“Yes . . . but you might remind me of the details.”
“He’s something of a mystery. When I first saw him, he looked poor and unkempt, but is apparently independently wealthy and highly educated. After he married, something disturbing happened to his wife and she died. At first, when Mr. and Mrs. Chestley told me about it, and how Mr. Lyons became a hermit afterward, I thought he had a broken heart and felt sorry for him. But then I talked with his former mother-in-law, Mrs. Divers, and she thinks the worst things of him. It made me think I had interpreted the situation completely wrong.” Celia scrunched her brows together. “Then a few days ago he was invited to the Harrods’ Christmas dinner, and I saw he was well thought of, even sought after as a dinner guest. He seemed more refined with his hair trimmed and seeing him in their cultured surroundings.”
“Have you had much to do with him?”
“Not outside of his fortnightly trips to the bookstore and the monthly book discussion. But the few times we’ve spoken have been most interesting. Once I asked his favorite passage in Tennyson, and he quoted two lines from “Break, Break, Break”:
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 morali
ty.”
“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
Edward 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 townsf
olk 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.
