Ellen Douglas former Ellen West, as she had been, felt tired. All that nerve-wrecking tension had finally loosened.

Douglas House was in tip-top shape, all around her, there were stacks of her books and Normans in piles and even if her pantry was not quite in the standards of most matrons of Glen, or Rosemarys, it suited her, well-enough.

Norman had long a go resined to the fact that certain issues were not worth arguing about, as Ellen did things in her way. There were purring of her cat, Felicity, as the slight sounds of Normans red-furred dogs slight footsteps echoed in the hall.

Finally, after almost four years, the horror that had started in Sarajevo, in 1914, the domino reaction had spread like a tidal wave, had ended, bloody sacrifices had been made, for honor and fatherland, and ideals, as Piper had piped, amid jagged trenches of Western Front.

There were rememberance services to attend, quite a lot of them, as Glen had lost so many of its finest sons.

New era had begun.


Keenly Ellen had watched the congregation, and her eyes had caught Una Meredith's pale pallor, at the memorial service of Walter Cuthbert Blythe, a solemn occasion that it had been, where the plaque in his honor was unveiled, but Una Meredith had always been pale and wan, as the women of Glen noted. The new cut of Unas dress occasioned quite many glances as did her hairdo, no longer in its plait, no Una had embraced fashions, and her shingled style, echoed many, as did Faith Blythes too. The former Manse lasses were still causing talk, one way or the other, even in newly won era of peace time.

Rosemary Meredith glanced inquisitively towards Ellen, because for some strange reason this particular date, 15 of May, had always been difficult for Ellen, she had often retreated in her rooms, for the whole day, in those days when they had been living in the West House. There was a haggard look in Ellens mien, as ever under her usual unruffled ways.

Across church isle, near Ellen, Norman Douglas blustered as was his way, as he gestulated fiercly and Rosemary thanked her stars for Norman, as he had saved Ellen in a way, as with him by her side, she was less likely to succumb to her old ways, that had kept Rosemary in her toes, that insidious westian-strain, that was always lurking, the shadow of it. Ellens moods had ever been so temperamental, with fierce gladness and gloomy, inertia and despondency, her sarcasm was sharply cutting during those times.

Rosemary remembered with burning precision that when Ellen had had that dangerous turn, so soon after Mamas passing, as she had lain in her bed, a letter had been delivered to her, it had had black borders. Ellen had fallen, she had been demented with fever, moaning restlessly.

Fever had burned Ellens skin she had demanded a promise from Rosemary, dramatically, " Sister of mine, there is no one in my life, everything, everything is shattered now. I only have you. Promise you won't leave me, ever."

And her hand on their late Mamas Bible, Rosemary had promised.

Despite the promise, happiness, and even love had found both West sisters years later. With a fondly loving glance, Rosemary looked at Bruce, growing so fast, like a sapling. His eyes were so like Ellens, but his temperament was not.


The Doulgas House was silent and still. There were secrets, secret sorrows that were not talked about. Not in public, nor not in scandalous whispers, they were nestled sacrosant, in the hearts of those that were keeping them alive.

A throbbing headache lingered in Ellens temples, as she opened one locked box that had been closed since, since, that one particular day. With grim determination, Ellen now opened the box, with a key that was decorative.

The box opened with difficulty, as if it didn't want to give away its secrets. The contents of the box were faded, a packet of letters, a bottle of scent, which still smelled faintly of violets, and a thin silver tiepin, with an inserted reddish garnet, and a notebook with a black cover.

There was a metallic smell of blood, it was mixed with the smell of old paper and Norman's pipe tobacco.

With a slight start, Ellen raised her eyes, softened by memories, to find that she had hit a still sharp tiepin on her finger.

The crimson blood looked almost black in the shadowy evening, just as the crimson roses had looked, in the twilight of the summer evening, when she had walked with cousin Leslie, towards the Glen, across the fields.

Leslie's beauty had dazzled, Ellen, looking at the sun, directly was not wise, so carefully Ellen had averted her eyes, as unnamed, conflicting feelings had struggled in her heart as they had ever done.

Calmly, Ellen wiped her finger, and stuck the pin in the collar of her dress, high up. Its old-fashioned straightforward elegance was an effective detail, as the pin had been before, when it had first caught her attention, or not the pin, but the person the pin was on.

It had been evening service at Episcopal Church, almost filled with summery visitors from outside.

Sidonie had been one of them. She had been vivid, in her red dress, it had been more subtle kind of vividness, with a high collar, that pin glinted She had been leaning against the church pew, her red skirts had looked like drops of Christ's blood against the pale wood, as the light had brought out streaks in her dark hair, as she had been humming something that Ellen had barely recognized as Mozarts captivating, fierce Deh, se piacer mi vuoi, as music had always been Rosemarys domain not hers.

Ellen had taken a step forward, the bench had creaked.

And silently, they had walked out of the church into summery splendor.

Ellen had noticed that there were stains on other girl's fingers. And with unusual impulsiveness Ellen had said, "Miss, if you are an artist, there are many beautiful landscapes in this area, I can show them to you if you like?"

A shiver had run down Ellen's back, as her gaze had met the strange girl's. It had been clear, blue-grey gaze, there was an english rose quality in her. She had only nodded, silently, and a bright open smile had lit up her features.

With trembling hands Ellen opened a black notebook and looked at her diary, only diary, of that one summer season, that summer, which had been the happiest of her life, memories were here, and in her mind, for there had been no-one else.

It had been her heart, once, and that heart had been broken, it had been shattered, leaving Norman only a pale shell, an imitation, for conventions and respectability's sake.

Pages of a yellowed diary filled with slanted narrow italics, every page was full of memories, italics, skirted feelings, but Ellen's flesh still remembered, those faint echoes of her past, burning passion that had slowly shimmered under her utter respectability.

Sidonie, with her glinting blue-grey eyes and cleverness. How Sidonies dark brown hair had curled around Ellen's fingers, most silky way, how in the dusk of the evening the tone of her skin had resembled a glowing rose, when they had walked and talked, argued, debated, shared their hearts with each other, and more, so, so much more, in the shadowy glens and wildflower dotted fields, as they lingered on each other's arms, crumbling their petticoats with haste, amid eager stolen, sweet kisses.

Ellen still avoided certain places, at the area, of Four Winds, for it was too painful to stand there alone, for she could still at certain times, moments, hear Sidonie's light, clear voice whispering merrily in her memories, slender fingers darkened by coal dust, as she sketched the view before her, with eager, steely focus. " Ellen , Ellen, I suggest you start following situation in Germany as you have keen interest of politics and philosophy. You would look devastatingly lovely with shorter hair, beloved. Please do think of it." With a low rumbling laugh Ellen had promised.

Sighing lightly, Ellen got up as she fingered the cool tie pin. Rosemary was waiting for her. There was tea at the Manse, but first, perhaps it was time for one small errand first.


Norman Douglas felt irritated, and out-of-sorts.

Ellen was visiting Rosemary.

Lately, her moods had been a little lighter.

Norman had managed to draw Ellen into fascinating arguments about what the future would be like after Armistace. Ellen was never vain, she did not do jewelry, or brooches, but Norman had noticed that Ellen wore a tie pin, he had teased her about it, " El, it suits you."

The look in Ellen's pale blue eyes had been sharp, and searching, as always, as she had remarked in her mellow dark timbre, "Once again you're right, more than you might know, Norman. Would you like sausage casserole for dinner?"

Norman walked into the library-study, the shelves were literally sagging from the weight of the books. Ellen's cat was napping in a corner, where there was an armchair, a small table and a box on the table, with a key glinting in the lock.

Feeling bored, mischievous, the black notebook was on the tea-table, without thinking too much, Norman sat down in the armchair, casually put his feet on top of the box and opened the notebook. It seemed to be a journal.

How curious.

And after reading a few lines, Norman closed the diary, resolutely, for it seemed that it had been written years ago, perhaps even before Ellen had caught his interest.

Gently, Norman opened the box, and slipped the journal into the box, as he did so he noticed a handful of yellowed letters tied with silk ribbon, the envelopes of which read in clear rounded cursive, "Miss Ellen West."

The name of sender was smudged out.

Norman Douglas frowned as he recalled their conversation during their brief engagement, as Ellen had finally, finally agreed. Ellen's face had an atypical blush, she did not have the temperament of maidenly blushes. In her straightforward manner, as usual with Norman, Ellen had said briefly, "I demand separate bedrooms, and my own space."

Norman had glanced intently at Ellen, and then he had burst into a handsome ruddy laugh, "Damnation woman, I'm not interested in children, never have been. I know you're not interested in hats like my late wife was. We do what we like, here."

And so they did, as time went by, Bruce Meredith became Norman Douglas' favorite, apart from his Rose Red, that was his petname for Faith Meredith. Norman declared to everyone that "That boy, he has depth and my Ellen's eye-shape."


The matrons of the Glen were staggered as Ellen Douglas was looking singularly distinguished, walked down the high street towards the Manse. Her rich, black hair was cut into a shingle bob, and the inky-silvery-striped strands fell sharply across her handsome features, that had never been pretty. A small, new kind of smile seemed to sparkle in Mrs. Douglas' piercing gaze.