The Soul of the Rose

by Ruth Trippy

  “Note the quote at the beginning of the section on the Wager: ‘A Letter to incite to the search after God’ . . .”

  How well she knew what followed. Hadn’t she brought up these same thoughts in their last book discussion, the discussion Edward missed? She both wondered and smiled at the Almighty’s way of working out things. Who would have thought Edward would be here, sitting in her home, hearing Pascal from her father?

  And what was Edward thinking, how was he reacting to one of the greatest scientific geniuses of the seventeenth century—he who so valued the scientific mind—to consider such a one defending God and Christ?

  Just then, she heard the kitchen door slam shut and her mother’s particular step. Shame and a bit of pique welled up in her. She didn’t want to be caught eavesdropping. Quickly, she had turned from the door and glided down the hall.

  But tonight the moon’s gentle radiance glowed in her bedroom. As it would be doing in his. She scrunched up her pillow and turned over on her side. Yes, he would undoubtedly be reading the Pensées. A quotation popped into her head . . .

  Lastly, that death, which threatens us every moment, must infallibly place us within a few years under the dreadful necessity of being for ever either annihilated or unhappy.

  There is nothing more real than this, nothing more terrible. Be we as heroic as we like, that is the end which awaits the noblest life in the world. . . .

  Celia knew such thoughts would challenge Edward to think about his life and eternity. At least so she hoped. Her heart cried out, Oh, Heavenly Father, touch that fine mind of his. Move that true heart of his with the truth about You and the truth about Christ.

  Celia rose from the bed to stand before the window. In the moonlight, the path from the house gleamed. It beckoned her to leave the house and walk quietly to the street and then the quarter mile to her grandmother’s. She could picture his light on, shining from the window. How she longed—

  A floorboard creaked outside her door. Her breath caught. Was someone awake? Father? Abruptly she turned from the window and eased herself back into bed.

  What had she been thinking, to sneak up to her grandmother’s at night? Foolish and sinful! And what would she be dressed in, this nightgown? If Edward happened to see her, he would think her an absolute—his respect for her would plummet. Foolish thinking indeed, for she valued Edward’s respect almost as much as his love. He knew the stipulation her father had placed on his visit.

  Besides, how would this help his search for the truth? Would she compromise it by doing such an unseemly act? Would she put her own desire ahead of his eternal welfare? No! No! A thousand times no!

  She tucked the cover under her chin, rolled onto one side.

  But oh, how she wanted to be near him. She grasped the pillow, holding it hard to her chest, hoping for comfort. How much sleep would Edward get tonight? If her own condition was any indication, very little.

  Celia glanced at the clock: ten a.m. Edward was to leave this afternoon. Once more, he and her father were ensconced in the study. She had asked Mr. Jenkins if she could have a half day off. Her parents finally agreed that she could go into work after Edward left. From her heart, she thanked them.

  She rushed through her assigned chores in the hope she might spend a few moments outside her father’s study. She longed to hear what the men discussed, to hear Edward’s voice. Later, her mother sent the children outside and went outdoors herself, leaving Celia alone in the kitchen. Had her mother done this purposely? Whether or not she had, Celia blessed her. Was it wrong to think God had worked this out? She remembered Mother saying He worked out the details of everyone’s life, for everyone’s good.

  She put down the dishcloth, wiped her hands dry, and left the kitchen to tiptoe down the hall. Once more, she gently pressed her ear to the door, closing her eyes, waiting for Edward to speak. Then she heard him say, “I know you believe in the afterlife, heaven certainly. But what of hell? What does hell consist of—that is, if you believe it exists?”

  Celia stood very still. What a question for Edward to ask. She listened, hardly breathing. What would Father say?

  “Yes, I do believe in hell, but it really isn’t a matter of what I believe. As I’ve said before, my beliefs could be as erroneous as the next fellow’s. Rather, it’s what God has said in His record to mankind. We’ve discussed the proofs for the Bible’s veracity; there isn’t another book of antiquity so well substantiated. Let me show you a verse in Psalm 9. David spoke of hell. In verse seventeen he said, The wicked shall be turned into hell, and all the nations that forget God.” Silence ensued. “The question is, are you part of that host of people who have forgotten God?”

  Celia heard the pages of the book turn. “Here, read this from the prophet Isaiah.”

  Edward read out loud, Therefore hell hath enlarged herself, and opened her mouth without measure; and their glory, and their multitude, and their pomp, and he that rejoiceth, shall descend into it.

  “Note,” her father said, “those having an indulgent time here on earth, those that have glory and pomp, will descend into hell. One can be enjoying one’s life, and the very next hour find oneself in torment.” Her father paused. “For hell is a place of torment. Let’s turn to Mark 9:43, 44. Its description is contained in this verse:

  And if thy hand offend thee, cut it off: it is better for thee to enter into life maimed, than having two hands to go into hell, into the fire that never shall be quenched: Where their worm dieth not, and the fire is not quenched.

  “Edward, hell is a fearful place. Jesus, our Savior, went there. Remember what the Apostle’s Creed states. He descended into hell. He did that out of love for us.”

  Quiet reigned once again.

  “Let me say this as kindly as I can. Out of love for us—to save us—God poured out His wrath on Jesus on the cross, letting His son experience both death and hell. If you reject such a love, can you expect God to ultimately spare you His wrath—you who are a sinner and separated from Him? If you expect so, I believe you are sadly, severely mistaken.”

  After washing the lunch dishes, Celia stationed herself near the top of the stairs behind the railing. Her mother had served Edward and Father lunch in the study. They continued talking while they ate and the time was nearing when Edward would leave to make his train.

  She heard the study door open. “Can I walk you to the station?” her father asked.

  “No, that won’t be necessary. I’ll pick up my satchel near the front door and be on my way.” Edward’s voice—just ordinary words—yet how precious when that’s all she had of him. Suddenly there rose in her an overwhelming longing to see him, if only for a moment. Could she chance sticking her head around the banister? She dropped to the floor silently, her cheek on the hard wood. She could see the foyer and front door.

  Footsteps advanced down the hall. She hugged the floor. Her breathing stopped as Edward stepped into view below her. She raised herself slightly. He looked immaculate in a dark suit and white shirt, his broad shoulders squared back. He reached out to grasp her father’s hand. “Thank you, sir, for your time in answering my questions, and reacting with composure to any disconcerting opinion I might have expressed.”

  “My pleasure.”

  Edward stooped for his satchel and as he did so, he glanced up the stairwell. Celia drew back. She didn’t think he had seen her, but couldn’t be sure. Moments later, he exited their house.

  As soon as her father closed the door, Celia rose and raced to the front bedroom, darting to the window. Thrusting aside the curtain, she gazed hungrily at the tall, powerful figure walking with purposeful stride down the stone path. “Don’t walk so quickly,” she whispered. In another few seconds, the tree branches would hide him. Her lips parted to take in more air. She felt faint.

  Then without warning, he wheeled around and looked up at the house. For a brief moment, shock made her limbs immobile. Then she quickly drew out of sight. He must have seen her. What must he think? Her hands clasped
each other over her racing heart. But a little bit of her hunger for him had been assuaged. Even now, her mind’s eye etched the two pictures of him in her memory.

  Edward clenched his hand in triumph. He’d seen what he’d desired. When he’d glimpsed a moment that pale, lovely face surrounded by a flaxen braid at the top of the stairs, he’d hoped he would see her again. Outside, he turned instinctively, hoping against hope to glimpse her at a window. As soon as he wheeled around, he saw the same oval face, a slender frame dressed in the color of sky, standing at an upper window. Then disappeared. Ah, she hadn’t been fast enough for him!

  He was assured of what he most wanted to know—that she was his. And that she, hopefully, felt their separation as keenly. Somehow, it comforted him to think she suffered as he did.

  He stood for some moments, his hands clenched, sorely tempted to march back to the house, gain admittance, and demand—no, rush up the stairs and storm the bedroom she was in. His chest heaved.

  “No!” His breath exploded the word, then his chest tightened. He would not do it. Would not lose the respect he’d gained from her father. And what of herself? Would she still respect him if he did such a foolhardy act?

  The crux of the matter was he didn’t know how the gulf between them was to be spanned. She, a believer in the God of the Bible, a God he thought he knew. But what did he really know? Her father had given him much to think about. A worthy man. And she, a worthy woman. A woman he wanted with all his heart.

  Taking a deep breath, he turned onto the street. He would make that train.

  He grimaced, but at that same moment, a little loveliness settled around his heart. Two fleeting pictures he would keep secure in his memory: an oval face at the top of the stairs, and the blue figure and pale countenance at the upstairs window.

  27

  Mrs. Divers inched her way down the stairs, her legs trembling. She’d had a good rest after that noon meal, but oh,getting old was no picnic. These knees were getting worse. She had to get going though. Loydie would be coming for his list of errands. Besides, she wanted to have the cookies ready for him.

  She entered the kitchen and plodded her way to the stove. A cup of tea would hit the spot right about now. She had asked Miss Waul to stoke the fire before she left to visit a friend, told her to use better hardwood so the fire would last a good hour and a half. She slid the teakettle onto the burner.

  That scamp Loydie, she thought affectionately. Not every boy would have done the things she’d asked him to do; they saw eye to eye on things. Maybe that’s why they got along so well. It sort of bothered her, though, when he’d asked that man to help him with his archery. It all came from that contest. She didn’t like the boy getting friendly with the enemy. Loydie needed to keep his distance from Edward. She might need the boy to do a little spying again, especially after Mrs. Adams told her about Miss Thatcher coming from that man’s house—alone. With all those flowers to boot.

  And just the other day Miss Waul was sure Miss Thatcher had done it again. Edward had no business inviting her in. Just went to show the man’s morals wouldn’t bear much scrutiny. It grieved her to think Miss Thatcher was taking to him. And from all appearances, he to her. Just the thought caused a pain in her chest. Mrs. Divers clamped down her jaw hard. It wasn’t fittin,’ it just wasn’t fittin.’ He didn’t deserve happiness. And now she didn’t know what to think of Miss Thatcher. Hadn’t she better sense? She’d warned the girl!

  Now, what had she come here for? She stood staring at the pantry shelves. Oh yes, the cookie ingredients for that rascal. Flour, sugar, lard. Yes, that Loydie had a bit of mischief in him, but he’d turn out all right. She’d bet her last dollar on that.

  Gathering up the ingredients in her arms as best she could, she turned from the pantry. She would set these by the stove, then pour herself a cup of tea and go over her list. Then bake those cookies. All before Miss Waul came back later this afternoon. She’d amaze her companion and do something herself in the kitchen for once. She might be getting old, but she could still hand out a few surprises.

  She set down the ingredients on the little counter by the stove. Drat that Miss Waul! She’d left out the grease from this noon’s fried chicken. The woman was getting forgetful. She’d warned her before about grease by a stove, letting it sit so near those burners.

  Pray tell, where was her own head? She snorted. Why hadn’t she noticed the grease when she’d set on the teakettle? Aw, they were both getting old.

  She lifted the grease pan to move it over, but it was heavier than expected. Her wrists felt ready to break. Suddenly, the pan slipped. Grease shot across the stove and onto the wall in back. Faster than she could have thought possible, flames leapt up from the stove.

  She could hardly think. What to put out a fire? Baking soda? She jerked away from the stove heading for the pantry. Her foot slipped and she lost her balance, her shoulder hit the floor. Pain shot through her body. “Ow!”

  She could hardly get her breath, it seemed knocked out of her. Oh, her shoulder! She’d injured something. Then glancing up, dread overwhelmed her. Flames were spreading to the wall.

  Had to get that baking soda from the pantry! Tried to get up. “A-ow-w-w!” She couldn’t! Tried to push herself across the floor. Too much. She could hardly move.

  Smoke billowed from the stove, curling around the kitchen and down to the floor. She coughed. Everything was happening so fast. Was there no help? Had something else caught fire? The curtains! She had to get herself out.

  She tried to push up, but the pain in her shoulder was excruciating. Using her feet, she slowly pushed herself away from the stove, but managed only a yard or so.

  “Help! Help!” she yelled. Could no one hear?

  She felt so alone. And helpless. Smoke burned her eyes and throat. Starting to feel woozy, her head drooped. All she could do was lie down. Did she have a handkerchief in her pocket? She struggled to get it, fighting unconsciousness.

  Just then she thought she heard the door open. A figure rushed in.

  “Mrs. Divers! Mrs. Divers!” Loydie shook her shoulder.

  “Oh!” she wailed. Pain snapped her out of her grogginess. “Don’t grab my shoulder, I think it’s broken!”

  “Got to get you out of here!” He caught at her other arm. “Sit up!” he yelled. He coughed. “This smoke is terrible.”

  She tried to sit up and finally made it with his help. He put his arms around her as best he could and tried to drag her. She couldn’t budge.

  “I’ll go get help! Put your face down! To the floor!” He ran across the kitchen and rushed out the door. It slammed shut behind him.

  Was she trapped in here? She sank down, shoved her nose to the floor, trying to keep conscious.

  Edward was sitting at his desk when he heard shouts at the back of the house. “Fire! Help!” He shot up from his chair, bolted out the library door and ran into a boy racing down the hall. The boy grabbed him. “Mr. Lyons! Fire at Mrs. Divers’s —I can’t get her out!” Edward heard his housekeeper clamoring down the stairs.

  He turned to her. “Get the fire wagon over to Mrs. Divers’s! She’s trapped inside. I’m running there now.” He rushed down the hall with the boy. “Where’s the fire? How bad is it?”

  “In the kitchen. I don’t know where else. But there’s smoke! Lots of it!”

  “Stop!” In the kitchen, Edward grabbed dishtowels and doused them with water and handed one to the boy. “Lead the way.”

  They ran out the back door and across the lawn, into the woodland that separated the two houses. Edward saw smoke coming out one of the windows.

  As they rounded the corner of the house near the kitchen, the boy stumbled. Edward caught him. “Wait!” Edward yelled. “Put that over your nose and mouth. Here!” He looped the ends of a towel around the boy’s head and tightened it, then tied one around his own. They ran up the steps, then stopped. “Take deep breaths out here and when you go inside, hold your breath as long as you can!” He grabbed the
boy’s arm. “Keep low. Show me where she is.”

  Edward tried to see, but the kitchen was dark with smoke. Fire raged on one wall. Both he and the boy crouched close to the floor, the heat blasting them. On the far side of the darkened room, they stumbled into a figure slumped on the floor. Edward turned to the boy. “Run and get help!” He sucked in smoke-filled air and coughed. “Get Ned! I’ll get her out!” The boy hesitated and Edward pushed him hard. This time the boy went. Edward bent over the woman. “Mrs. Divers! Mrs. Divers!” She didn’t respond.

  Smoke burned his eyes and throat. And the heat! Like hell in here! He rolled the woman on her back, grabbed her under the armpits and started dragging. His eyes burned. He kept them closed as much as possible, then arched his head around to make sure he was heading for the door. A faint rectangle of light off to his left. Had he gotten disoriented? His lungs screamed for oxygen. He drew in the smoky air, started coughing again.

  He tensed his body, barreled toward the open door, dragging the heavy limp figure with him. Finally, he reached the threshold where air was less acrid. He lifted the dead weight of the woman over the doorstep onto the stoop.

  Half-lifting, half-dragging, he managed to get her body down the steps. All he could think was to get away from the house. His head was feeling fuzzy. With force of will, he hauled her across the lawn and collapsed beside her.

  Someone ran up. Several others arrived right behind. “See what can be done for Mrs. Divers,” someone yelled. “And help Mr. Lyons. The fire wagon is coming.”

  Dizzy, Edward felt like vomiting. He’d never fought flames and smoke like that. Except once when he was a boy.

  He shuddered violently.

  Edward sat on the edge of his bed and leaned to turn down the lamp, but as soon as it was nearly extinguished, he turned it back up. The dark—that dark, smoke-filled kitchen—he felt it to the core of his being even yet.