The Soul of the Rose Read Free

know the truth? Do the right thing toward God and man?”
    “I grant you Emerson would think so.”
    “I’d term that monumental pride.”
    Mr. Chestley laughed. “You see, Lyons, what I’m up against?”
    Celia glanced again at the customer, who gave no indication of whether he agreed or not.
    “As I said—” Mr. Chestley cleared his throat, “—we had a most interesting discussion on the subject. Now, Mr. Lyons, you mentioned Plato. We have a new edition in our shop window.”
    “Yes, I’d like to look it over.”
    “Good. Miss Thatcher can assist you. I’m in the middle of examining my accounts. If you need any additional help, I’ll be in my office.”
    Mr. Chestley turned to leave, and Celia quickly stepped from behind the counter and walked to the front window.
    She leaned over the display and reached for the Plato. Turning around, she again noted the customer’s shaggy appearance. Yes, his resemblance to Tennyson was remarkable. She walked back and offered him the book.
    “Thank you.” Mr. Lyons reached for the Tennyson, and taking the two volumes, disappeared behind a bookcase. The aisle held one of several chairs placed around the shop so customers could peruse materials at their leisure. Celia concluded Mr. Lyons felt quite at home.
    After half an hour, he approached again. The Tennyson lay open in his large, finely shaped hand. That didn’t accord with the rest of his unkempt appearance. He laid the book on the scarred oak of the counter with the title “Oenone” printed at the top of the page.
    “Before you say anything,” Celia began quietly, “I repeat, I will order a new book. And pay for it myself. I am so sorry about the ripped page.”
    He looked at her pointedly. “No. You will not. And you will not tell your employer. We will let this go—as if it never happened.”
    “But it did. I was looking at the book when I startled and ripped it. I loved the red leather binding and have been reading it since its arrival.”
    “Have you read quite a bit of Tennyson?”
    “I particularly enjoyed ‘The Lady of Shalott’ and ‘Idylls of the King.’ Also, ‘In Memoriam A.H.H.,’ I found comfort.”
    His look was quizzical. He pointed to a particular line. “Perhaps you are aware this quote represents Tennyson’s philosophy of life.”
    Celia bent her gaze to note the place his finger indicated. She read aloud:
    Self-reverence, self-knowledge, self-control,
    These three alone lead life to sovereign power.
    She looked up. “I came across those exact phrases this afternoon when I unwrapped the volume.”
    “From what you said about Emerson, I take it you would not be in agreement with England’s poet laureate.”
    “Self-reverence, self-knowledge, and self-control are important. But whether they alone lead life to sovereign power is another question.” She hesitated, then gently added, “No, I don’t agree. But I think Tennyson had more of God in his life than the quote suggests.”
    Mr. Lyons stood in silence, yet when she glanced up at him, she caught a sharp, direct glint in his eyes. She decided not to press the discussion further.
    “I’d be obliged if you’d wrap the books well,” he said, his tone clipped. “My house is some distance and I came on foot.”
    “Of course.”
    She felt him watching her in a brooding sort of way, and her fingers fumbled with the paper.
    Without another word, the transaction was completed. When he opened the door to leave, a draft of cold air sent an involuntary shiver through her. The door shut with a thump. He was gone. After some moments, tears welled up in her eyes.

2
    T hat evening Celia arranged the last plate on the table and glanced at Mrs. Chestley bustling about the stove, preparing to take the celebratory roast out of the oven. The kitchen’s pale yellow walls breathed light, an airy background for the display of sundry plates in shades of blue and gray. On the wall above the table, an oil painting of fresh peaches whetted the