The Soul of the Rose

by Ruth Trippy

  He let her hands go, swept up the basket of flowers and led her to the door and out onto the grass. “I want you to take these home with you, as evidence of my honor.”

  He stopped a minute in the kitchen to recut the stems and place damp cloths around them before returning them to the basket. “Mr. Chestley can carry these for you.” As they walked down the hall to the drawing room, they heard a quiet snoring.

  “Bless his heart,” Celia said. “The poor dear was tired, but he was kind enough to walk me here.”

  “I am grateful he did.” Edward slowed their pace and said softly, “And I will sleep tonight, the first good sleep I’ve had since the flower show. Look,” he said, standing on the threshold to the room, nodding to Celia’s employer, “I could have kept you longer in the conservatory and he would have never noticed.” Reaching for her hand, he drew her hard to his side. They stood a few moments looking at each other, then she drew away and cleared her throat to warn her employer of their entry.

  Mr. Chestley startled and sat upright in his chair. “Oh! I didn’t hear you come in. Was I sleeping?” His countenance looked sheepish. He glanced at Mr. Lyons. “I must have dozed off a bit. Been a long day, you know.” He looked at the basket of flowers. “Well, did you accomplish your errand then?”

  “Yes,” Edward said. “I’m glad you came today.”

  “Yes, it’s been most enlightening.” Mr. Chestley stood up and held out his hand for the basket. “This will all smooth over in time, Lyons, we’ll see to that.”

  Edward escorted them out the front door, then on the landing took Celia’s elbow to escort her down the steps. “Goodbye then,” he said, pressing her arm.

  As she and Mr. Chestley turned the corner from Mr. Lyons’s street to their own, she saw a carriage approach his drive. Wasn’t that Mrs. Adams?

  Without further reflection, she reached into her pocket and deftly let the handkerchief drop on the road. She had forgiven Mrs. Adams for spreading the gossip about her. She truly had, but she couldn’t help wanting to know where she was going.

  After they had gone a few steps, hoping she judged it right, she said, “Oh, Mr. Chestley, I dropped my handkerchief at the corner. I’ll be just a few seconds retrieving it,” and she hurried back to the corner.

  She looked back down the road to Edward’s drive. Sure enough. Mrs. Adams’s carriage had turned and entered it. And she was alone. The hypocrite.

  Celia woke the next morning, at first dreamy, with the most amiable of thoughts. The wonderful feeling of Edward’s regard, the wondrous feeling of her response to him. Had it only been yesterday morning when she had lain on this same bed in shock, confusion, and despair? When she had discovered how much she had become attached to Edward and reeled with the pain of it all? But now such relief since last night’s revelations.

  She stretched luxuriously, reached for her pillow and wrapped her arms around it. Oh, how she would like to. . . . Yet, even as she gloried in these thoughts, on waking more, her mind suddenly cleared and two sharp, clear questions presented themselves.

  First, what was Mrs. Adams doing, going to his house alone?

  And second, what were Edward’s intentions regarding herself and their future? She sat up in bed. What about that most important of impediments—their difference in faith? Yesterday, she had put this question far back in her mind.

  But now, especially this last, a means must be devised to speak to Edward. As soon as possible.

  21

  Celia shook out the folds of her rose-colored dress. She had chosen it with care for Sunday afternoon’s walk. Edward was partial to the whole spectrum of red and rose. Even now, she could feel the warmth of his hands around hers. The thought of seeing him again was welcome. No, more than that, her very soul reached out to him. However, the thought of what she must confront him with made her heart heavy. Nevertheless, it must be done. Deliberately, she took her shawl from the hook and draped it around her shoulders.

  Sunday afternoons she always walked, often alone, so what she did now was normal. Mr. and Mrs. Chestley had been apprised she might be gone longer than usual, she didn’t want them to worry.

  She decided to walk past Mrs. Divers’s and Edward’s houses, not directly enter Edward’s drive. Instead, she would go past a ways and then come back. Was that subterfuge? In her heart, she didn’t want Mrs. Divers thinking, if she happened to be looking out the window, that she was heading straight for Mr. Lyons’s house. Instead, she would happen to drop by on the way back. Hopefully, his housekeeper would be about the house providing some chaperonage, but whether she was there or not, Celia had to see him.

  Twenty minutes later, she approached Edward’s house. She had meant to take an hour walk, but couldn’t delay the visit any longer. The trees in leaf obliterated Mrs. Divers’s home from view. That was good. She would not for anything give Mrs. Divers and Miss Waul something to gossip about. For who knew how this visit could be interpreted.

  She walked to the door, lifted the knocker, and rapped a firm but quiet knock. A wait ensued. She hoped Edward was in. The thought hadn’t occurred to her he might be out, maybe walking in his woods.

  Finally, the door opened. Mrs. Macon looked at Celia, then glanced beyond her to see who else was present. “Can I help you, Miss Thatcher?” Celia noted she didn’t invite her inside, but kept her standing at the door. Edward must be out.

  “I must talk with Mr. Lyons. It’s very important.”

  “Mr. Lyons is out at present,” Mrs. Macon announced formally, but then Celia saw her eyes soften. “He’s been gone a while, so might return shortly. Would you like to wait for him?”

  “I would appreciate that.”

  Mrs. Macon led her to the drawing room. “Please make yourself comfortable.”

  Celia chose a chair from which she could see the doorway to the hall. She wanted to glimpse Edward as soon as possible. She chastised herself for her foolishness, but there it was. She had seen him only yesterday, and yet it seemed an age.

  As she sat there, she steeled herself against what she must do, even while she longed to see him. This must be done, this clarification of views. A visit like this was not customary, a woman taking the initiative in a call. Edward would certainly wonder why she came.

  She squirmed in her seat. Maybe he would be upset she had gone beyond the bounds of propriety, and then she’d have to leave. If things became awkward between them, and if he never reached for her again—to hold her hands—she would have to accept that.

  Celia felt herself start to tremble. The longer she waited, the harder the trembling was to control. Oh, maybe she shouldn’t have come after all.

  At that moment, she sensed and thought she heard the sound of a door opening at the back of the house. Then quiet. Maybe he was taking off his boots and coat, Mrs. Macon indicating her arrival. Perhaps he would think this visit unseemly and suggest another time and place.

  Then she heard his footsteps hurry down the hall, beating a quick staccato. He was wasting no time.

  She rose precipitously from her chair. Edward paused for a moment at the drawing room entrance, his eyes searching hers. He was dressed in browns, casually, for walking, his shoulders nearly filling the doorway. “Celia!” Warmth exuded from his voice. He came forward. Then just as suddenly, a shadow crossed his features. “Is anything wrong?”

  Yes, a lady unaccompanied, calling on a man, was most unusual. “Nothing wrong, exactly. But I had to discuss something important with you.”

  “Important?” He looked around at the drawing room, then apparently decided it wasn’t quite the place, because he said, “Why don’t we go to the library?” He stood aside to let her precede him down the hall.

  Once they entered the room, he deliberately shut the door. Mrs. Macon would not be able to hear them. It relieved her, yet—alone together?

  “This is an unexpected pleasure, I am gratified you came. So you need to tell me something?” He scanned her face, then led her across the room to the fireplace.
As they approached the settee with chairs on either side, his hand reached out to guide her to the settee.

  “I think I should sit here,” she said, indicating the chair.

  He took his stand in front of the settee. “This would be more conducive to—conversation.” Warmth shone in his eyes.

  “Thank you, but I think this would be best.”

  How she wanted to be near him. He suffered the same, she guessed from his manner. But she must be wise. And strong. She had always been a woman of principle. A woman of integrity. She also admitted she’d never had this level of temptation before. Temptation? As soon as she viewed it in that light, her ardor checked and she settled herself into the chair. He took the side of the settee nearest her.

  She made herself look over his shoulder, avoiding eye contact. “I was thinking of when we first met, the cold, fall evening when you came into the store for your Tennyson and we talked about Emerson. You remember?” On his nod, she continued, “What impressed me was how differently we viewed the thoughts, the writing of the man. This has to do with what I need to talk with you today.” She felt on surer ground now. “Edward,” looking at him now, “I need to be direct. Tell me, do you believe God is interested in your life, to the point that He would desire to have dealings with you?”

  “Ah, we are serious this afternoon.” His dark eyes smiled at her, yet at the same time, they were cautious. “Can you tell me why?” He was deflecting her question.

  “Because it is important for me to know.”

  Edward cleared his throat. “All right, then. Is God interested in my life, in my affairs?” He leaned over, resting his elbows on his knees, pressing the tips of his fingers together. His face lowered for some moments, then he raised it to look at her. “I consider God a being which has a degree of influence in the affairs of the universe. I’m not quite sure how much. God seems rather too big and grand and inscrutable for mere man to know or understand. Of course, when man gets into trouble and prays, help often mysteriously comes. I can’t explain that. Some connection seems to exist . . . yes, a degree of connection . . . but I think the word interest in my affairs or the affairs of the world in general would be putting it too strongly.”

  She had feared this, expected it, but recently had pushed the real knowing of it far back in her consciousness. As on her first meeting him, she felt on the edge of a precipice. She looked at him cautiously. “I wonder,” she said, “how much your upbringing has influenced your beliefs. You were raised in the church.”

  “Yes, but a church that didn’t throw man’s intellect out the window.”

  “Well yes, that is important.” She looked down at her folded hands before continuing. “If I told you I not only believe God is interested in my life, not only believe it but have a knowing deep inside of me, what you would say?”

  He shifted his position, looked at her earnestly. “Celia, where does your knowing come from? I cannot imagine anyone, even a contemplative individual, able to know God in such a way. It seems wishful thinking.”

  Her eyes flicked away from his. How could she explain? But she had discovered what she needed to ascertain. He didn’t believe in God, didn’t know God the way she knew to be essential. So where did that put their growing care for each other, her growing attraction to him?

  Being alone with him worked on her sensibilities. Even this room kindled feelings for him, so evocative of their shared interests and passions: the books, the painting above his desk, the flowers—yes, the flowers! She suddenly realized what had been missing from the rooms when she and Mr. Chestley visited yesterday. Flowers had now returned in abundance. Pink roses spilled out of the silver bowl on the mantel. They told her that his soul had come out of its shock, its shame, its humiliation. He was back to his former self. She glanced at his eyes. Yes, she saw the hope there. He was watching her intently, his focus on her. Was she now going to wrench that hope from him?

  All this flashed before her in a matter of seconds. She arose suddenly from the chair, walked a little way, then turned back.

  He rose as well. “What is it, Celia?”

  She looked at him, her eyes widened at the monumental task in front of her. Silently, she sent up a prayer.

  “This knowing God,” she began, “is not wishful thinking. It only seems that way to people who have not discovered it for themselves.” She grasped the back of the chair. “Let me ask this. Do you believe in the historicity of Christ? In other words, do you believe Jesus existed?”

  “I know some who question it. But I believe the historical evidence is compelling, overwhelming, in fact. Ancients like Tacitus and Josephus and others all attest to Jesus’ existence. Yes, I do.”

  “I’m glad, because He is the kingpin in my case for knowing God. You see, if a person wants to know God, Jesus provides the way. Jesus was God’s Son. He claimed to be so. Do you have a Bible here, Edward?”

  “Yes, in that section of books to the right of the fireplace. Third shelf up, in the middle.” She turned, searched the shelves, then reached for it.

  He gestured her to sit with him on the settee. “We can look together,” he offered.

  She hesitated. But it seemed the obvious thing to do, so she settled herself next to him. She opened the Bible, thumbing carefully through the pages. “Consider this passage from the gospel of John.” Handing the Bible to him, their hands touched. The inner warning she felt in deciding whether to sit next to him was immediately confirmed, but she went on calmly. “Here, the ninth verse of the fourteenth chapter.” She leaned over and pointed to the spot. “Start reading in the middle of the verse. Jesus is speaking.”

  “He that hath seen Me hath seen the Father.”

  “See how closely the two are identified with each other? Look a few chapters back to John 10:30.”

  He turned a few pages and read, “I and my Father are one.”

  Celia’s eyes lifted from the Bible and looked directly at Edward. “Not the typical statement a great teacher or even a prophet would make. Don’t you agree?”

  “Christ was a great teacher. Or a prophet. We both know this,” he said evenly. “But God? No. In my view, that is where fanciful thinking takes over.”

  “Edward. Do you accuse me of being fanciful?” Her eyebrow arched playfully.

  He smiled for the first time in their conversation. His hand moved as if to reach for hers. Then he arrested it. “But can you prove Jesus is Deity?”

  She folded her hands demurely in her lap. “Think about His miracles. These proved He was more than mere man. He raised others from the dead. And more important, He himself rose from the dead. After His death on the cross, He came out from the grave three days later. These all testify He was God.”

  “If you want to believe those miracles were actually true—and His resurrection—”

  “Yes, what about His resurrection?” she interrupted. “When you read the accounts of the gospels, you discover that Christ was seen alive by many after his death. The disciples, Mary Magdalene, the two men on the road to Emmaus. Paul the apostle tells us that over five hundred saw him after His resurrection.”

  She shifted on the settee to turn toward him. “Edward, who would die for something they knew to be untrue? Remember when we considered this on the train? Think of the lives and deaths of the disciples. All except John died hard, cruel deaths for saying they had lived with Jesus and believed Him to be God. I ask again, who would die for something he knew to be a lie?”

  Edward looked at her. Was it admiration or amusement in his eye? “Miss Thatcher, you present a very good argument.”

  “I don’t want to only present a good argument, Edward. I want you to see the truth of it as I do. This issue of God, and especially whom you consider Jesus to be, is pivotal. Jesus said, ‘I am the way, the Truth, and the Life, no one comes to the Father except through Me.’ ”

  “Celia, you cannot convince me in a single sitting. Maybe I am too set in my ways, in my thinking.”

  “I don’t want to argue
you into anything, but listen to this. I am not speaking of something I merely believe, something my parents taught me, something that sounded logical so I espoused it. No. When I was young, I wanted to know God the way my father and mother did. However, I couldn’t break through the barrier between God and myself. In fact, my life, my inner life had turned bleak. I despaired of ever finding meaning to life the way I yearned for.

  “One evening, however, something extraordinary, almost mysterious took place. I had finally told my father how hopeless I felt. He said, ‘Why don’t you tell God what you just told me. In a simple prayer. Tell Him how much you want to know Him. Confess the fact you’re a sinner—like everyone else. That you know Jesus’ death on the cross was to take the punishment for your sin, to reconcile you to God. Remember that Jesus said He was the Way to God, the only Way.’

  “And, Edward, I did just that. I put my whole trust in what Christ had done, put my trust in Him alone. Confessed that nothing I had done or would be able to do, would find God’s favor. That night something birthed in me. When I raised my head after prayer, my whole way of viewing life changed. I looked about me. Everything was alive and fresh. Believe me, Edward, I would not tell you something that was untrue. This new life with God is something real. It is something I know. I know, Edward. Not something I merely believe.”

  Edward sat back on the settee. “I’ve never heard it put that way before. This was never part of my church’s teaching.”

  “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.”