And So, Goodnight

"John, whatever is the matter?"

Una paused, her hand resting on her doorknob.

"It's not-" Rosemary began but could not finish.

"No, not ours. But..." the minster paused, not sure how to continue.

Una pressed her ear against the door. A sick feeling began to creep into her heart. The pause was too long. No no no no no...

The dreadful silence stole her breath. No no no, please don't let it be...

"It's Walter. He's dead."

A sudden intense pain stuck Una through the heart. She dropped like she'd been shot. Grasping the door knob, she tried to pull herself together. Walter, dead? No, surely not. It must be a nightmare. The pain came again. Harder and sharper.

"He was shot by a bullet during a charge at Courcelette over a week ago. They say he died instantly.

"Oh, God! Poor Anne! And Gilbert and..." but the minister's wife dissolved into a flood of tears.

Scrambling to her feet, Una felt her world crash down on top of her, into millions of tiny, irreparable pieces. She put her hand over her mouth. She felt sick. Sick with fear and shock. Sick to the core. The air was being slowly and painfully strangled out of her. She saw life slip away. No, no. He could not be so cruel as to...

The poor girl grabbed her heart. It felt as though someone was ripping it from her breast. Her body was racked with pain, like someone had slashed every bit of life and hope to pieces. The only tears that fell from her eyes were blood; his blood. Every last drop of life was being squeezed out, every last drop. Grief was still masked by the horrible shock that had descended upon her. The worst of the pain was still to come, and when it did, well, one would reconsider the joys of living, if there were any. It hung on the horizon, a black storm cloud, ready to strike.

***

She was trapped, trapped in a cage she had made for herself. Love, so far, had brought nothing but pain. Una looked blankly out across the sea. The water was black and stretched unbroken, until it touched the land where her love had been buried. The Piper had piped and he had followed. Walter had known, always known, that once he left the place he loved, he would see it no more. And, deep down inside, she had known it too. Meanwhile, she was drowning, drowning in her sorrow and her own terrible secret. Had he received her last letter? She would never know. Only death would release her from this cage, and only when she died would she be able to rest in peace.

The letter was written to his sister, not her. And selfishly, she had let Rilla give it to her. Somehow, Rilla knew of her pain. But she would never tell of it, or speak of it to anyone, not even to her, Una. Death had snatched him away, and had left her in a whirl of confusion. Surely, surely he would have written to her? But no, he hadn't. All she had left were memories of him, a few of his letters, and a photograph of him. Life was a road, a road covered in rocks and shadowed by mist. It was uncertain and painful, long and filled with hardship and suffering. Where there is light, there is hope. Where there is no life, there is no hope, and the end of Una's path was blotted out by darkness. Her light had been snuffed out by a single German bullet. Only God looked out for her now. She slipped the letter into the space between her dress and her breast, and placed her thin hand over it. There it would remain, until there was no more strength or breath left in her: until death came to lead her away. There was only one reason for living now, and that was the promise of new life. A life that would carry part of Walter with it, until it too was condemned to the grave. It was the only thing she had, and she must put her faith in it, and God. She would keep faith, for as long as fate would allow.

Rilla meant to keep Walter's letter as a sacred treasure. But, seeing the look on Una Meredith's face when Una had read it and held it back to her, she thought of something. Could she do it? Oh, no, she could not give up Walter's letter-his last letter. Surely it was not selfishness to keep it. A copy would be such a soulless thing. But Una-Una had so little-and her eyes were the eyes of a woman stricken to the heart, who yet must not cry out or ask for sympathy.

"Una, would like to have this letter-to keep?" she asked slowly.

"Yes- if you can give it to me," Una said dully.

"Then-you may have it," said Rilla hurriedly.

"Thank you," said Una. It was all she said, but there was something in her voice which repaid Rilla for her bit of sacrifice.

Una took the letter and when Rilla had gone she pressed it against her lonely lips. Una knew that love would never come into her life now-it was buried forever under the blood-stained soil "Somewhere in France". No one but herself-and perhaps Rilla-knew it-would ever know it. She had no right in the eyes of her world to grieve. She must hide and bear her long pain as best she could-alone. But she, too, would keep faith.

A/N: That last part made me cry all over again. It's so sad. I hope my part was sad too. But it could never be as good as the original.

Even though I am writing a story where Walter survives, I actually do not believe it. In my heart of heart and soul of souls, I know he died. And Una suffered. I also have a rather unfavourable thought that Walter only realised he loved Una the night he died. So he died and Una never knew whether he loved her or not. And he only discovered, only too late, that she loved him as well. Perhaps I shall write a tragedy on that. It is not happy, but it is true. Life is sad. It brings sorrow and pain. It is not meant to be happy, and for the most part it is not. Thank you to all my wonderful reviewers, I appreciate your continuing reading and reviewing very much.

Always keep faith 