by Ruth Trippy
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.”
5
For a moment Edward Lyons sat back and gazed at his library. Books with their dark red and brown leathers and the occasional green or blue warmed the walls of the room. The heart of his home, he would say. Gazing at the rows of volumes brought the bookstore sharply to mind—with its discussion of The Scarlet Letter. Attending the affair last night had been out of the ordinary for him.
What had Miss Thatcher said about Hawthorne? Something about his delving beneath the surface of people’s lives to show their hearts, so that we might better see our own? Hang that Miss Waul, turning to look at him when she said Chillingworth should have never married the lovely Hester.
Why had he gone to the book discussion in the first place? That day he had gone about his habitual activities, dressing and dining as usual with no real intention of attending, but with the thought at the back of his mind, all the same. He knew what this new venture meant to Mr. Chestley who had been his quiet, staunch supporter these last hard years.
Considering this, he had decided to bestir himself. He would go for his old friend. And, he had to admit, a glimmer of curiosity existed for Miss Thatcher, how she would conduct herself and what she would bring to the discussion. When it came down to it, he was interested to hear someone’s thoughts besides his own. Miss Thatcher had shown a vigorous turn of mind at their first meeting.
But he would be the last to arrive. If no seat were available, he would stand unnoticed behind the gathering. However, a chair was open on the back row. Too late, he noticed Miss Waul a few seats over, and her startled look at him. He had moved the chair then turned slightly so as to keep her from his peripheral vision.
A soft, but peremptory knock sounded at the library door.
For some moments he sat in silence.
The knock repeated. This time slower and more deliberate.
Finally he said, “Yes?”
His housekeeper, Mrs. Macon, appeared. A thin, almost gaunt woman, but capable nonetheless. She remained in the doorway.
Perversely, now that she appeared, he felt impatience rise. This was a fine state of affairs, trying to talk across the length of the room.
He gestured to the spot directly in front of his desk.
She approached quietly, but it was clear from her demeanor she had business to discuss, business that could not wait.
“What is it?” He let his voice have just enough edge to communicate his displeasure at being interrupted.
She smoothed her apron. “Sorry to bother you, sir. But remember you told me to avail myself of any herbs from the greenhouse? Well, when I entered this morning I noticed one of the windowpanes broken. Like a ball had gone through it.” She looked at him expectantly. “At the back.”
“When did you discover this?”
“Just now, sir.”
“Do you have any idea who did this?”
“No. However, I do have my suspicions.” She pursed her thin lips. “You know that boy who used to come here occasionally—”
“What boy?”
“Dark brown hair. Ten or eleven. Goes by the name of Loydie. Our neighbor, Mrs. D—would occasionally send over things with him while your wife was alive. He’s a mischief maker.”
“I remember your saying something of the sort.” Edward frowned. “I’ll take a look at the greenhouse to see what can be done. Thank you.”
She turned to cross the room and soundlessly closed the door.
He settled back into his chair, looking around the room again, his sanctum where he escaped everyone—even his housekeeper, except today. Mrs. Macon had learned to do her cleaning when he went out for a walk. For a good many years, no one had set foot in his library except Mrs. Harrod’s father. Now, there was a man who appreciated a good library. That reminded him of the quote he wanted from the Plato.
He wheeled around in his study chair, and turned the key to his glassed-in bookcase, home to his most valued collection. The Plato rested there, right beside the Tennyson. He extracted the desired book and placed it on his desk.
Sitting up in his chair, he leafed through it. His finger located the passage he needed for his article, “And this, O men of Athens, is the truth and the whole truth; I have concealed nothing, I have dissembled nothing. And yet, I know that my plainness of speech makes them hate me . . .” He copied the last of the quote. He’d ask his friend at the Athenaeum in Boston if this article would suit Harper’s Monthly Magazine.
Hmm . . . he stroked his beard . . . some in this town would say Plato’s defense applied to himself. Maybe that was why he seldom spoke his mind nowadays. They didn’t want to hear an opposing opinion. Yes, he’d kept quiet, all because of—
Suddenly, he closed the Plato and rose. Strode out his study door, down the hall, and snatched an old coat at the kitchen door.
He circled the greenhouse. There it was—a large hole toward the back. He would place a blanket over it for the time being. He didn’t want his prize plants threatened with the cold nights they’d been having lately. His handyman could take care of the window.
Involuntarily he glanced at his neighbor’s property. What had his housekeeper said about his old mother-in-law sending things over with a boy? It’d be like her to send over a mischief-maker.
He turned on his heel. After his marriage, the woman had been trouble from the start. The old screech owl. He should have heeded the inner prompting when he first heard her shriek at the household help. She had been quick to recover, and he never heard her speak in such a way again—until after he married.
Why had he married Marguerite? She was beautiful. Snow-white complexion with dark, curly hair. He’d let her lovely features fool him into thinking her more than she was. And then how quickly he tired of her.
Just days after the wedding, the rude awakening erupted. Marguerite wanted her way, and let him know it in no uncertain terms. She was her own mistress and there was her mother to back her up. Next door, no less.
He jerked open the door to the greenhouse. After that, his marriage became one harsh jolt after another. He’d felt it to the depth of his soul.
The faint smell of earth and luxuriant plant growth met him as he stepped inside, fragrance to his earth loving soul. He made his way between the plants to the new tea rose bushes at the back. The offending ball had bent one of the canes. He stooped for the ball, then rested the wounded branch over a thicker, stronger one.
Ball in hand, he opened the kitchen door, but Mrs. Macon was nowhere in sight. Placing the ball on the counter, he was half a mind to march over to Mrs. Divers and demand an explanation, ask the identity of the boy. Do something.
The other half told him he was in no frame of mind to see to her at the moment. He would undoubtedly say things he’d regret.
He needed to regain his composure.
Sitting down again at his desk, he took up the Plato. The book still had the pleasing smell of new leather. He felt its fine grain. Handling the book reminded him of that first night he saw it in the bookstore window.
And the fair-haired woman inside.
Instinctively he’d withdrawn from her—despite her beauty—or maybe because of it. He remembered feeling—fear? Or was it anger at having a stranger enter his world at the bookstore?
But Miss Thatcher had proved herself different from the start. She hadn’t come seeking him in the store when he sat browsing through a few books. He remembered his relief at being left alone in peace. He sensed her respect for his maturity and learning.
That first night, when she had ripped the page in his Tennyson, his blood was up. He was going to demand she order a new book. But then he saw in her eyes a look that brought him up short, a look that she understood. Oh, yes, there was chagrin, more than a little. But she also felt for him, aware of how it felt to have a treasure damaged. He’d never seen that in his wife. He wondered if he’d ever seen it in his mother. That spark of understanding had turned his intention, so when Mr. Chestley arrived on the scene, he found he couldn’t make the girl’s way harder. He wanted to make it easier, so he’d made an about-face.
Still, her fingers had trembled wrapping his package. She had feared him a little, despite her brave words. But, after all, hadn’t he wanted to be feared—and left alone?
His mind darted back to the previous evening. He could not say, even now, why he had spoken during the book discussion, in fact, beforehand had decided not to, though he knew Miss Thatcher would expect it. Was it Miss Thatcher and her introduction of the author that had stirred him? He had felt his interest awaken in discovering how Hawthorne’s early life had influenced his writing.
So, late in the discussion he found himself speaking, impulsively entering the fray, if fray might describe so decorous a gathering. Only a few words. Yet for him, it had seemed a fray—so much had he kept to himself these last years. The town had all but ostracized him. But then, Mrs. Adams had caught him just as he was leaving and engaged him in conversation. That was kind of her. And she had given him her full attention. Yes, very kind of her.
He looked up and stared unseeing across his study. His present life had a dark tone—like the overriding darkness in The Scarlet Letter. If Miss Thatcher had been there alone, he might have brought up the point. Later she talked of the terrible isolation guilt imposed, and the resulting dark thoughts. Something had stirred in him, but he’d refused to examine it. Even now as words started resurfacing, he downed them. He would think of something more pleasant in the story.
The rose, for instance. He sat back, deep in his chair, tenting his fingers. Miss Thatcher had drawn a picture of the rose’s beauty and how it contrasted with the gloomy prison and its weeds. Her words had awakened in him a desire for beauty to come back into his life. Beauty in one form or another.
The other week in the bookstore, they had talked of friends. He had Plato, Tennyson, many others. Even Darby at the Athenaeum. But might there be something more?
Hadn’t Miss Thatcher said the rose lived, flowered, even flourished amid dark circumstances? He thought of his darkened life, ostracized from the town. Yet, the widow Mrs. Adams had showed him kindness. Was the tide about to turn?
Such a rose, could it be his? Could such beauty enter his life? The smallest of hopes began to stir
within him.
Celia knocked on Mrs. Divers’s door. Mr. Chestley had given her directions. This house sat off by itself, white with black shutters. It had to be the one.
The door opened and Miss Waul appeared. “Well, Miss Thatcher, what a pleasant surprise.”
“I found this scarf in the bookstore last night and wondered if it was yours.”
Miss Waul looked at it. “It’s certainly the same color, but I have mine here hanging on the coat tree. You are most kind to ask.”
“Who’s at the door?” a querulous voice asked from inside.
Miss Waul looked back inside the house. “Miss Thatcher from the bookstore.”
“Well, invite her in. Invite her in!”
“Of course. Do you have a few minutes, Miss Thatcher?”
“I don’t think Mr. Chestley would mind.”
“Please!” Miss Waul held the door open wide. “Let me take your coat.”
A minute later, Celia settled herself into an overstuffed chair. The adjective certainly applied to the parlor furniture with its amply upholstered chairs and sofa. Knickknacks sat on doilies, filling every available nook and cranny.
“Now set a pillow for her back, Miss Waul,” Mrs. Divers instructed. “Something firm. My, you seem such a mite in that chair, Miss Thatcher. I hadn’t realized you were so reed-like.”
“But a very graceful reed,” Miss Waul said.
“Of course, of course. You look every bit as lovely as my companion here described.”
“What a nice thing to say.”
“I’m sorry I didn’t get to your book discussion. My arthritis, you know. But Miss Waul told me all about it.”
Celia smiled at Miss Waul. “I hope you enjoyed the discussion. The Scarlet Letter, for its short length, provokes a lot of thought.”
“I certainly did. Mrs. Divers and I were discussing it a while ago. I told her that Chillingworth was my least favorite character.”