Chapter Twenty-three—"The Aftermath"
True to his word, Dean stopped by the following Saturday. Una had been helping Nan bake pies when a knock came at the door.
"There's some man here to see you, Aunt Una," Dianne said primly but curiously. Una hung up her apron and followed Dianne to the parlor, where Dean was smiling wryly.
"I told you I'd visit, didn't I?" he asked.
Dianne decided to forget her manners. "Who are you?"
"My name is Dean Priest. I met your aunt in Europe, but I grew up around here—over in Priest Pond, to be precise."
Dianne smiled appreciatively over his use of alliteration. "I think I might have heard of you. Blythe—my little sister—has a friend named Juliet. She just lives here in the summer. Aren't you her uncle or something?"
Dean looked visibly taken aback.
"And she has a little sister Elizabeth…do you know who I'm talking about?"
"I think I do. But they aren't my nieces. I just was a friend of their parents' a long time ago."
"Oh, I see," Dianne replied, trying her hardest to appear grownup. It wasn't often that visitors to the manse took the time to visit with her. "It was an exceedingly great pleasure to meet you, sir," she said gravely. Una rolled her eyes.
"And for me as well, ma'am." Dean bowed with equal gravity as Dianne left the room. Then he half-laughed, half-groaned. "Amazing, how easy it is for children, although completely oblivious to your past, to find the deepest hurts of your life."
Una thought privately that his description could apply to himself as well. "What do you mean?" she asked.
"When I first met you, I was about to travel back to the island to revisit the only woman I ever loved…and her husband and children. Those children were the ones that your charming niece was referring to."
"Oh," Una said flatly. She decided to venture a question. "How…how was your visit?"
"Well, I found out that I couldn't go back. I saw Star, which was one of the hardest things I've ever done—and the most profitable. It helped me realize that what I felt for her was gone, leaving room for a friendship. But I don't regret having loved her—only not having loved her enough to treat her with honesty. But that's another tale."
Una felt as if she should be embarrassed. Here she was, a spinster in her thirties, while an old bachelor almost twice her age was confiding in her about his love affairs. She hoped that Nan would refrain from entering the room while Dean spoke—how would she explain it?
Dean looked at her oddly. "Strange woman! Why am I telling you all of this? Do people often use you as a confidant?"
"Sometimes, I suppose."
"Well, I've shared enough of my soul for one day—and I don't see you returning any confidences. A more innocuous topic is needed—what do you think about Irving's The Alhambra?"
*************
(Extract from a letter written by Shirley Blythe, Asst. Professor of Mathematics at Redmond College, Kingsport to Una Meredith, Blair Water, P.E.I)
"Una, my dear—I've found a house for us! (I didn't mean to begin my letter so precipitately—I apologize. I was going to start out asking about how you were doing, and some dull comments about the weather we've had here, and what peccadilloes my students have been up to—but then I just couldn't wait to tell you that I've found a house.) It's—no, I won't describe it to you. I'll wait and show you at Christmas. Words aren't my gift, and you'd most likely get a completely wrong impression of it, which would be a shame—it's a quaint little house that needs to be lived in. Not an Ingleside sort of house—more of a House of Dreams sort. But that's what it will be, dear—our own House of Dreams… (Several paragraphs omitted, Shirley apparently overcoming his lack of eloquent words.)
"I look forward to your next letter—and I don't want to hear about all the canning Nan did, or what Jerry's parishioners have complained about—I want to hear about you. What you're doing, what you're thinking, what you're dreaming about. You've seemed so distant, ever since you've come back to Canada—funny, since you're infinitely closer."
***********
Dean continued to visit the Blair Water manse on a regular basis. Nan thought that he was one of the oddest friends Una had ever had, but opted not to tell her that; Jerry, when he noticed Dean, greeted him cordially; Dianne, Blythe, and John surveyed him with awe, since he treated them the same as he did adults.
Una hardly knew what to think of Dean. She had never had a friendship with a man who wasn't part of the Blythe-Meredith-Ford clan. Friendship with Dean was like drinking a glass of Mrs. Blythe's lemonade; it tasted good, but there was always a tang about it that she wasn't sure if she cared for or not. He was so bitter at times. She knew that Blair Water gossip speculated that Dean Priest had finally gotten past his jilting by Emily Starr all those years ago and was looking, at long last, to marry—Una found this highly amusing…and unlikely. Firstly, she was engaged. Secondly, Dean was almost thirty years older than she was. He was merely a safe confident for her—someone that she could ask questions (being deliberately vague about the situations involved) without having to worry that he would be able to put two and two together and get four.
"Can you make yourself love someone or not love someone?" Una asked one day. It seemed an odd question to ask, but the arrival of Shirley's letter the preceding evening—had brought it to the forefront of her mind.
If Dean wondered what had possessed her to ask, he didn't mention it. "I couldn't. Years ago, on one of my first trips to Europe, a girl asked me to marry her. She was a wonderful, talented creature—but I didn't love her. And I couldn't force myself to stop loving Star, either, once I met her. I had to grow past it. But sometimes I wonder what would have happened if I'd married the first girl. I would have been spared the sorrow—but would I ever have known the joy?" His voice drifted off.
Una felt rather shocked. The idea of a woman proposing to a man seemed somewhat forward and unseemly.
"I'm not expecting an answer," Dean said hurriedly. "There isn't one, as far as I know. It was purely a rhetorical question. But why did you ask?"
"It was purely a rhetorical question," Una answered, deliberately choosing to be untruthful.
"Ah. I see."
***********
(Extract from a letter written by Walter Blythe, Toronto, Ontario to Una Meredith, Blair Water, P.E.I.)
"…I wrote a poem today—a copy's enclosed for you, if you care to read it. I hadn't written anything in years—not since 'The Piper'. I'd almost forgotten how to write poetry. But a dream I had last night reminded me of an incident during the War. It's a bloody poem, I suppose, but war is bloody as well. I never bayoneted anyone, though—but I saw it happen many times."
Una put down the letter, gazing out unseeing at the wild November night. She was half afraid to read the poem. Her hands trembled as she picked up the last sheet of paper from the table and began to read.
"Yesterday we were young who now are old…
We fought hot-hearted under a sweet sky,
The lust of blood made even cowards bold,
And no one feared to die;
We were all drunken with a horrid joy,
We laughed as devils laugh from hell released,
And, when the moon rose redly in the east,
I killed a stripling boy!
"He might have been my brother slim and fair—
I killed him horribly and I was glad,
It pleased me much to see his dabbled hair,
The pale and pretty lad!
I waved my bayonet aloft in glee—
He writhed there like a worm, and all around
Dead men were scattered o'er the reeking ground.
Ours was the victory!
"Now we are old who yesterday were young
And cannot see the beauty of the skies,
For we have gazed the pits of hell among
And they have scorched our eyes.
The dead are happier than we who live,
For, dying, they have purged our memory thus
And won forgetfulness; but what to us
Can such oblivion give?
"We must remember always; evermore
Must spring be hateful and the dawn a shame.
We shall not sleep as we have slept before
That withering blast of flame.
The wind has voices that may not be stilled.
The wind that yester morning was so blithe—
And everywhere I look I see him writhe,
That pretty boy I killed!"
Una shuddered. "The wind has voices that may not be stilled…" She could hear those voices from where she was sitting, voices that spoke of horrors beyond her imaginings—war and all its blood and terror. The poem was stark and ugly—but Walter had been able to write poetry for the first time in years. Healing was beginning. And he had sent the poem to her. Why?
"There's a sort of bond between us," she whispered. "I don't know what it is—but there is something. Do I love him? Dare I love him, with no hope of him ever returning that love?"
But the wind gave no answers.
Author's Note: The poem that Walter sends to Una is entitled "The Aftermath" and was written by L. M. Montgomery.