The Soul of the Rose (26 page)

26

C
elia quickly closed the hall closet door. Dare she leave it slightly ajar? No, she didn’t think she’d better chance it. Moments before from the upstairs bedroom window, she had seen Edward come down the road with her father. In this closet near the front door, she could be as near him as possible without being discovered.

She held her breath, holding herself close against the solid wood, her ear near the crack. There! The front door opened. “Welcome to our home, Mr. Lyons,” her father said.

“I appreciate your letting me come.”

“Joe, please take Mr. Lyons’s bag. And tell Mother our guest has arrived, she’ll want to bring some refreshment. Won’t you come this way, Mr. Lyons? My study is down the hall.”

Celia held herself hard against the door, willing Edward to sense her presence, to feel the stir she felt within himself, being this close. She heard their footsteps on the wooden floor, fancied she could distinguish his footsteps from her father’s.

How pleasant his voice sounded. Now that she couldn’t see him, this quality was a welcome surprise. His stature, his bearing had so overawed her, she hadn’t particularly thought about his voice. Now she clung to this discovery with the intensity of a girl with a beloved doll.

When she heard the door shut to the study, she prayed, “Oh Father, by Thy Spirit open Edward’s heart to the truth about You and Your son, Jesus. Please!” Every fiber of her being pressed into the words. What did Scripture say about a fervent prayer?

As afternoon evolved into evening, she kept track of Edward’s movements, on occasion hovering near the room where he sat, trying to trust the Lord with all that went on.

A three-quarters moon shone in the darkened sky, its white light filtering through the gauzy curtains of Celia’s bedroom. Tonight he was at her grandmother’s. She knew exactly in which upstairs room he would sleep—the best guest room, its bed quilt the colors of a sunlit dappled forest with its many shades of green and occasional splash of yellow. With the walnut furniture, the room suggested a forest. She had slept in that room many times. A faint fragrance of violets permeated the air. Yes, it was like the woodlands in spring. Just such a place existed in Edward’s woods.

It was nearing eleven o’clock. Would he be sitting in the large armchair with a lamp lighted on its nearby table? Reading Pascal’s
Pensées?

Earlier today, her chores finished and no one around, she had quietly approached her father’s study. The two men had been talking all afternoon. She felt desperate to be near Edward again, to hear his voice. And to hear what was being discussed. Stealthily, she approached the closed door, avoiding the floorboard that creaked. She pressed her ear to the dark wooden door gently, so no unexpected sound would give her away. Even though she would not disobey her father and see Edward face to face, she felt shy letting her father discover this kind of stratagem. She honored him, but surely he had never been in such straits as hers.

She concentrated on the voices within. “Edward,” her father said, “consider Pascal’s passionate defense of Christian belief, one of the greatest apologies for religion written since the Middle Ages. Note this section entitled, ‘The Misery of Man Without God.’ Here, Pascal paints man as puny and weak. When man realizes his insufficiency, then he can discover his need of God.

“Pascal also describes man’s mind as simultaneously capable of intellectual power—and moral, spiritual, and intellectual imperfection. This last, the Bible refers to as sin.

“The Renaissance seemed to mark man’s liberation from the limits of medieval scholastic thinking; it represented a new spirit of inquiry. Its point of view was sensuous and rational, with man placed neatly in the center of nature. Yet for Pascal the liberation was largely illusion. He discovered the supernatural order of grace and salvation was primary. For him, the rational exploration of this world, exciting and valuable as it was, presented merely one more episode in man’s voyage home to God.

“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.”