Zuzi: Full disclosure, in the original draft he did speak to his professor instead of Alice, but it didn't flow very well + I wanted to focus more on Walter's generation + I didn't want Alice to only show up once. Special bonus fact for you guys! :P I was never on board with Walter/Alice (my 9-year-old self was Very Upset about Anne of Ingleside, haha), but I also didn't want to demonize her to make way for Una, so I'm glad you found her likable :) Yeah, it's hard for Nan and Di to know how to respond - but then, just like how even though Whiskers-on-the-moon's pacifism makes sense to us today, I imagine it was very hard to hear when so many of their loved ones had enlisted. So! Some values dissonance to be sure, but I'm glad it still rings true for you. And haha don't worry about long reviews, I have trouble keeping my responses short! And I really enjoy hearing people's thoughts on the books and characters :)
Marz: I'm glad the Arthur Baker thing rang true to you; for all that Nan and Di aren't cruel, they really do believe in what they're fighting for, and of course they have a harsher view of "slackers" due to how involved their entire family is in the war effort. I get the impression - from the way Rilla writes about them in her diary, in the book - that Jem, Jerry, Carl, Shirley, etc. try to make the war sound less horrible in the letters in such for everyone back home. (I mean, you could argue that's LMM herself not fully realizing the impact of the war on the soldiers - after all the book was published in 1921 - but whatever.) So Nan and Di aren't as sensitive as they would be if they truly knew what it was like. As for Walter and Una...~*~you'll see~*~ ^_^
Tiny Teddy: Thank you for the review! Walter and Una are my favorites, too (sorry, Anne and Gilbert!) :P
Title from "Passion"/"Sanctuary" by Utada Hikaru. The phrase "More grown up, more lonely" is the title of an album by Milk at Coffee.
more affection than you know
Una is busy the day Walter returns. She has fallen headfirst into her new role of piano teacher, with six pupils now instead of two. The day of his return, Monday, is also the day of her four new students' first lessons, and she doesn't have a moment to go to the train station or up to Ingleside, though Rilla had invited her.
Oh, well, she thinks, absentmindedly tilting Beatrice Crawford's wrists so that she won't hurt them playing. It's just as well - a few days apart will perhaps quiet gossipy tongues. Of course, half the town already thinks that Walter has gone to Redmond to see Alice Parker, leaving Una jilted. There is no beneficial outcome - no possible victory. Una has learned quite a bit about strategy these past few years.
Oh, well.
She likes her new charges well enough. Susan Baker had warned her of all of them, naturally - "There's nothing wrong with Beatrice Crawford, but her skull's thick as - " (here she had paused for lack of a good analogy), "Catherine Drew's not a bad sort, but she's still a Drew", "Rose Lewison is sweet now, but she's a flighty thing and that will get her into plenty of trouble once she grows up", "I don't believe Vera Martin has a lick of sense in her - her mother certainly doesn't", and so on until Una had to excuse herself to keep from laughing. Nobody, she has discovered, can live up to Susan Baker's estimations.
Still, for all their faults, both Susan-anticipated and not, they are good enough girls, and behave themselves under her rule. The Clow girls even greet her in church now, twisting in their seats to wave from their pews. Una cannot help but feel a glow of pride.
So the days pass. The next few are busy as well, and soon it has been a week. Bruce is home now, too - he spends his days in Rainbow Valley or running through town with his friends (will the minister's children ever escape their rowdy reputation?), but other days Una must entertain him.
Letters from Jerry and Carl arrive one day - the Americans are training now and they expect to be fighting alongside them in a month or so. Una shivers. For so long, it has been the same countries fighting with each other, becoming so tired that she thought perhaps they would simply give up. But now - it feels like the early days of the war all over again, when new countries were joining by the minute, hundreds of thousands of men ready to fight to the last.
Maybe this will be the push, she tries to reassure herself. Maybe this will be what ends the war.
She wishes it were easier to believe.
She finally gets a day away - away from her mending, from lessons, from duties. 1917 is halfway over, she realizes as she hurries up to Ingleside. Rilla had called her and Una had said yes, yes this time she'll come. She'd nearly forgotten her hat and coat in her haste, stopping short on the path and spinning on her heel back to the manse like a character in one of Bruce's cartoon books.
Walter is on the porch when she arrives. She slows when she sees him - his eyes are closed, head tipped back against the house. For all that he has changed, he is so handsome, still, and Una feels the same falling sensation that she felt that first time she saw him, ten years ago.
Oh, well.
"Walter," she says, and his eyes open. They cloud for a moment and then clear, and then he sees her, lips tilting in a smile.
"Una." Is - is he saying her name differently?
He scrambles to his feet and they end up walking together through Rainbow Valley. Una can see why Jem and Faith had liked to tryst there - away from the road, away from all the prying eyes. Not that she and Walter are anything like Jem and Faith.
"You seem - well," she says, tentatively. He is not - not as he was before, certainly - Una suspects he never will be, just as she was never quite the same after her mother - and he has seen so much more. But he seems calmer, more at peace. His silence feels contemplative, not withdrawn.
"I am…at the moment," he says, slowly. He gives a rueful smile. "I don't wish to ruin it. I think perhaps it will carry me through the week, and then - well."
"Or perhaps it will remain," Una suggests. He does not protest. She peers at him. "How was your trip?"
"Good," he says. "I patched things up - a bit - with Di and Nan. It's strange," he sighs. "A new sort of understanding, I suppose. We're adults now, and we can't always be - as we were, when we were children."
"'More grown up, more lonely,'" Una quotes. At Walter's glance, she hastens to explain: "My father had a book that said that, once. Er - it's a translation."
"Do you think it's true?"
People rarely ask Una what she thinks, and she stumbles a little, trying to sort her thoughts. Walter's hand comes up to steady her, then he draws back.
"In a way," she says slowly, thinking of the way she and Jerry and Faith and Carl have all drifted apart. Oh, they will always love each other, but they are no longer bound together by their motherless childhood, standing together against the gossipy tongues of their neighbors. Their paths have split and - and it is all right. "I suppose I never thought we'd all end up so far from each other ."
"I didn't, either," Walter admits.
"I suppose you wouldn't," Una says, then flushes at how - bitter she had sounded. It is only - how jealous she had been of the Blythes, as a child - how badly she had wanted the loving completeness of their family for her own.
"No," Walter says softly, and Una knows that he has noticed. "We always seemed quite - untouchable." He casts a glance at her. "You knew better, I think."
"Perhaps," Una murmurs. "But - it couldn't be helped." The words come out awkwardly, as though she has a mouth full of marbles, her vindication warring with her desire to be gentle with him.
"It was - good, though. To talk to her. And Rilla, and my parents."
"You spoke to them?" Una says, startled.
"A bit," he says. He peers at her, something soft in his eyes. "They don't - quite understand. Not like you. But it's a start. It feels better, for now."
Not like you. The words send something fluttering deep within her, and she knots her fingers in her sleeves to keep them from shaking.
"I'm glad, then," she tells him. She thinks of his stories of Redmond, of white feathers and cruel notes, and decides not to ask of such things.
He brings it up on his own, though. "I saw Arthur Baker," he says.
Una blinks. "Is he related to Susan?"
Walter laughs, and looks at her so fondly and familiarly that Una finds herself blushing. "Not at all," he says. His face turns serious again. "I shouldn't be laughing. He was one of my fellow slackers, at school."
Una doesn't know what to say. What does she know of such things, of social politics outside the little Glen school? "Oh?" is all she can muster.
"He didn't go," Walter says. "It seems that he is braver than I."
"No," Una says quickly, so forcefully she surprises herself. "That - that isn't the case at all, Walter."
"He stood firm in his convictions," Walter says. "I can't say the same. I was afraid of being called a coward, so I went. Perhaps that was the true cowardice."
"You went because you wanted to protect us," Una says. "Because - because you decided that was more important than your fear. Walter, there's nothing cowardly about that."
"I wasn't brave enough to stand by what I believed."
"Do you think it's cowardice every time someone changes their mind, then?" Una says, and then stops short at the passion in her voice. She puts a hand to her face, sheepish. "Are we - are we arguing?"
Walter hangs his head, his cheeks turning pink. "I believe it could be called debating."
Una can't help but smile, but lets it fall away. "What really happened?"
Walter is silent for a moment, then he sighs. "I let people hurt him," he admits. "I didn't offer him help or comfort. I was - I resented him, I suppose. I was angry that he had the courage to be unswayed by letters and white feathers while I didn't. And I was angry that he's so safe, still. He will never know what so many of us live with. If we do live."
Una suddenly remembers Faith coming home after school, excitedly telling her of Walter's fight with Dan Reese - "Una, I never know Walter could look like that. I thought he was going to break one of Dan's bones, truly - but it was quite thrilling." Una can see that there is nothing thrilling about this for Walter. Perhaps he fears his quiet anger, fears that he is contributing to the world's ugliness instead of its beauty.
But she does not have the words to say that, and instead she moves to take his hand. "I'm sorry."
Walter only nods, but his eyes are gentle, and he squeezes her hand and lets her help him up the incline.
They have ended up on the path to the manse, she realizes. As though he's walking her home. It's a nice thought, even if it is - foolish. She is dangerously close, she thinks, to letting herself want this, to pinning her hopes on Walter Blythe.
Would it be so bad? she wonders, looking at him out of the corner of her eye. To her surprise, sometimes he is looking back, and she finds herself flushing and looking away. What if - what if he does care for her, beyond friendship? Is it such an impossible thing?
It frightens her, though. If she gives her whole life to the hope that he might - might love her - and he does not? Her world has crumbled around her twice. A third time would be unbearable.
"Rilla says people are talking," he says as they come to the gate of the manse. His voice is light - too light. Strained, almost. The sun is going down, shadows lengthening over the Methodist graveyard. Late night birds have settled in on the branches of Una's favorite tree.
"Yes," she mutters, feeling her face warm again. "It's - ridiculous."
Walter looks taken aback, as though he were expecting a different answer from her. "Yes. Well. I only meant to say that - I'm sorry if my visits have been making things awkward for you."
"No," Una says, quicker than she intends to. "People always talk. And - " she smiles a little at the memories " - I'm quite used to it, you know."
Walter smiles at that too, and they stand in silence for a while, watching the sky turn pink and red, the clouds becoming gold.
"I used to want to be buried here," Una murmurs, almost unconsciously. She doesn't realize that she has said it out loud until Walter speaks.
"Una."
She turns and Walter reaches out to touch her face. His skin is rough and callused - not the soft poet's hands he used to have, before - but his touch is still gentle, fingertips brushing against the shell of her ear. And he is looking at her, eyes traveling over her face, as though he's just discovering her.
She stands quite still, afraid to move. For a second she has the horrible - wonderful - thought that perhaps he might kiss her. But then she feels his fingers move, and he brushes a strand of hair behind her ear. Then he drops his hand and moves away, and she feels an odd lightheadedness.
"Goodnight, Una," he says.
She manages to wait until she is alone in her little white room before she presses a pillow to her face and lets out a strangled, muffled cry.
