Disclaimer and Notes
I had known that I would die that day. The night before, when I took out a sheet of paper to write a letter to Rilla, somehow, I just KNEW that it would be the last thing I penned during this lifetime.
As I was writing her, telling her to keep faith, to live on, and that after the war had ended, she would have happiness again, I shut my eyes briefly, and suddenly, a new apparition make its way into my head. An apparition that both gave me its selfless strength and that uneasy feeling that comes with something left undone, that will never be finished. In my mind’s eye, as clearly as if they were right in front of me, I could see a pair of familiar, beautiful, dreamy blue eyes. The eyes of Una Meredith.
Una…sweet, serious Una…she was like the precious, moonshine-laden gossamer spun by fairies in the tales of yore…so delicate yet so resilient, so fine yet so strong. I remembered meeting her so many years ago, when she and her family had first moved to the glen. A small, shy girl in a faded dress, whose wistful sapphire eyes showed so much…betrayed her secret sorrows, that no one else seemed to understand…a gentle but fiercely loyal and deeply selfless love for her family and friends…a secret, dreamy inner nature that no one knew about, as poetic and fanciful as my own. They met my own eyes, and something inside those infinite cobalt pools seemed to start in recognition and then beam in welcome. The Merediths were all charming: Jerry was sensible, loyal, a true brother to all of us. Faith’s beauty was an inspiration, and her sparkling love of life was contagious. Carl was a few years younger, but a good companion, and his interest and knack with little animals was quite extraordinary. But Una…although no one else knew it, I did not want to frighten her or incite the teasing of the others…I think I fell in love with her the moment I saw my own soul gazing out at me in those crystal-pure eyes.
Oh, no one ever knew. I never told, and simply treated Una as the dear friend that she was. I knew that eventually, I would have told her, had things been different. But when the war had started, and I knew that eventually, I would sign up, I decided that I would not burden her with it until afterwards. Then, she would not mourn so much if I did not come back.
I did not regret that decision until the day I left for the front. My entire family, as well as hers, were all there to see me off. When it was her turn to bid me farewell, she stepped up and offered a white hand silently, head bowed. She glanced up a moment, and all of the sudden I saw in her eyes, not just its usual wistfulness, but a hidden pain, the look of someone who was being parted from the one thing that she valued above all others. Her eyes were dry, but the expression was that of someone whose heart was filled with choked-up tears. I kissed her soft cheek, and from the fleeting change of expression on her face, I KNEW that I should have told her. I remembered how Jem had kissed Faith on the lips in front of everyone the day he left, and I knew that I had no right to do the same with the woman I loved, because she and everyone else had no idea that I loved her. There was nothing to do but to convince myself that I had imagined that look of love in her eyes, and bid her farewell like a sister.
But I digress. On my last night, when I saw her eyes in my mind, I knew that, somehow, I had to let her know that I loved her. But my time had run out: I would never get a chance to write her a letter confessing everything. All I could do was to include her in my last letter to Rilla, and hope that she would understand.
I felt a strange peace at the battle of Courcellette, despite the bloodshed all around me. Somehow, the image of her eyes seemed to give me tranquility and strength. When I took that last bullet, I felt no pain.
For about a year, I drifted, looking for some way to return to her, to make her realize what I had never told her in life. And then, one day, in the middle of this war-torn land, I saw something most surprising: a tiny plot of land that was miraculously unsullied by violence. Instead of blood, the ground was crimson with fiery Flanders poppies waving about in the winds. I plucked one, and set off for my home.
On the way, I passed by a garden in the southern United States, where it was warm year-round, and saw something that made me come to an abrupt stop. A plot of beautiful, cream-colored tea roses, with a blush of pale pink at the tips, spilling its fragrance like love into the air. It reminded me of Una. I plucked a half-open bud to join my poppy.
When I reached the manse at last, I hurried to Una’s room, to see that she was still up, even though it was past midnight. She was writing feverishly, words flying from her pen onto a sheet of paper. I glanced at the paper; it was a love letter, a beautiful declaration of undying devotion. For one awful moment, I thought that it had all been for naught, and I felt a wave of envy for the man who had captured the most precious heart in the world. And then, to my unbelieving joy, I saw that it was addressed, not to anyone else, but to me! ME! I was exultant; I had NOT imagined the look of love on her face that day at the station. My heart went out to her; I would have given anything to be able to hold her then.
When she finally finished the letter, she extinguished the lights and went to bed. I gazed at her sleeping form by the weak light of the moon. She was not beautiful in a customary sense like her sister, but at that moment, in repose, she had an otherworldly loveliness. I kissed those delicate lips that I had never touched in life, and I could have sworn that I felt her smile faintly. Then, I left the poppy and rose on her desk, and took the letter that was written for me.
I watched her wake up the next morning. She stirred, and slowly sooty eyelashes parted to reveal pools of Prussian blue, that widened in surprise when she saw the flowers on her desk. After a few moments of shock, during which I stared at her, tense, her face broke out in a genuine smile. She understood! She got up, and tenderly fingered the blooms.
Oh, the others were confused. They had no comprehension of how Una had gotten the flowers, but Una simply smiled. Every few days, when the flowers had faded, as flowers do, I would bring her new ones, and each time, I would be rewarded with seeing that secret little smile, that smile for me alone, on her lips and in her eyes.
As the years passed by, I watched as Rilla and Kenneth Ford married, moved to the old House of Dreams, and welcomed two sons, Gilbert Kenneth and Walter Owen, and a daughter, Gertrude Hope, into their home and hearts. I watched as Jem and Faith, and Nan and Jerry, tie the knot as well, in a spectacular double wedding. I watched as Carl met and fell in love with a shy, dark-haired Irish maiden named Rose Callahan who amazingly shared his fascination with little creatures, and the two of them raise twin daughters Faith Cecilia and Una Rose. I watched Shirley, usually so reticent and business-like, become a changed man when he too fell in love with a girl in his class at Redmond, a spirited wisp of a girl with blonde hair and laughing hazel eyes named Avery Leigh, who even managed to win Susan over with her charm and earn her blessing for marrying the “little brown boy”, now all grown up. I watched Di, the last of my siblings to wed, marry one of the sons of Aunt Stella, who had been mother’s college chum.
I watched my nieces and nephews grow up, and saw, with a smile, “Auntie Una” taking each and every one of them under her wing, giving them cookies and love and lessons of bravery and kindness and selflessness. She would have been a wonderful mother, but she would never have any of her own children. She never married.
I watched Una, my sweet, dreamy Una. Those expressive eyes still held a hint of sadness in their sapphire depths, but were also filled with love for her family, and a secret smile every time she saw the flowers on her desk. She had kept faith beautifully, as I knew she would, healing as best as she could, and doing admirable work for the greater good. In both wartime and peacetime, I was struck again and again by her silent fortitude.
More than thirty years had passed since she had written me her final letter. I was still bringing her roses and poppies. To my great joy, Walter Owen Ford and Una Rose Meredith, wiser than their namesakes, fell in love and confessed their feelings for each other. One chilly day in late autumn, the two married in old Rainbow Valley. I watched by Una’s side as our namesakes spoke their vows, and I could see the teary smile she wore when the younger Una said, “I do.” My Una was older, her hair graying, but her eyes still the same eyes that I had drowned in when I met her when we were children, the same eyes that transferred to me her strength in that battle at Courcellette.
That night, when she returned home after the long and merry celebration, she opened the window, and threw the faded flowers on her desk to the winds. In her eyes, I saw another reflection of myself: this time, the same look I had the night before Courcellette. She left the window open, and went to sleep for the last time. Then, at long last, she came to me. I was finally reunited with my love after so long. After all those years, when I finally held her in my arms, I found, not an old woman, but a girl of 18, from the time of paradise before the war, starry sapphire eyes luminous with joy.
The others never quite understood the affair between the two of us, but that is of little consequence now. When I gaze into those tranquil blue eyes that shall shine for me for eternity, I can see all that matters to me.
~Fin~
