Chapter 12: Familiar Face

Una first saw Raymond West at a dinner dance over-harbour, but she did
not mark that moment as the time of their first meeting because she did
not really notice him. The place was much too lively for anyone to stand in
one place for too long—Una included. She whirled to and fro on Shirley's
arm, having so much fun that she hardly knew there was such as person
as Raymond West in all the world.

But her ears pricked up when she heard his name mentioned around the
manse dinner table several days later. Little Bruce was home from
Queens for the half-term break, and the place was crowded with Blythes,
who had come up to greet him. There was laughter and chatter coming
from all sides, but Una still pricked her ears when she heard the
unfamiliar name uttered. Raymond West—why, it was a thrilling name. So
dashing and romantic, like the hero in a Gothic novel!

"Raymond West?" Una wondered, running over the list of copious Wests
she knew in her mind. "Why, I've never heard of him. Why, who on earth
is he?"

"My cousin," Rosemary laughed, "But a very distant one. He is come for a
flying visit to the Island, and is staying with his father's people over-harbor
now. But he will stay with us next month. You must have seen him at the
dance last week-end, Una."

Una thought back but could remember only the brief flash of lamplight on
black hair.

"His mother and I were good friends in our youth," Mrs. Rev. Meredith
continued. "Ray must be—oh, about your age, now, Una, or a little older. I
haven't seen him since he was a baby—he was born on the Island, but
raised in Montreal."

"Oh, a city boy," sniffed Rilla Ford with disdain—forgetting that she herself
had married one!

"Yes," Mrs. Meredith dimpled, "But I think you shall find him of the 'race
that knows Joseph' all the same. He is an artist—he takes such lovely
photographs. A few were exhibited in a gallery in Charlottetown several
months ago."

"A photographer!" A buzz went around the table. Photographs and

photographers were a relatively new thing in the Glen even yet—Una
herself had only been photographed once in her life. She and Shirley had
posed for a wedding portrait before their marriage and Una sometimes
stopped during housecleaning to study her own face looking out at her
from the frame. How flat-faced and expressionless she thought she
looked! She did not like that picture. But she felt curious about this man
who took photographs for a living. What an interesting occupation.

Young Gilbert Ford took that opportunity to upend his glass of milk into
his lap, and in the flummox that followed, Una forgot totally about the
small fact of Raymond West's existence.

Until church that next Sunday. Shirley had come down with a bad cold,
and so Una left him with a hot brick and a toddy, concocted from a Susan
Baker receipt. She dressed herself and stepped out into the wide,
morning world.

The morning was Una's favorite time of day—Sunday morning was her
favorite type of morning. The thaw had come and gone and there was the
hint of spring on the air. "Every Sunday morning is like that first Easter
day all over again," she thought, as she made for the Presbyterians,
marveling at the clear pink light hanging over the Shore Road. Una
delighted in that thought. It was—why, it was like something Walter might
have said.

She had not thought of Walter in so long, and as she did now a twinge of
remorse and regret washed over her. She felt for one moment completely
sure that Walter would not have forgotten about her so quickly if she had
died—in the next, she was miserable. Who knew if Walter had ever
thought about her at all? The idea that he had not niggled at the edges of
her consciousness during the long walk to the Glen; she arrived at the
church feeling breathless and out of sorts.

There was only time enough for her to slip into the pew next to Rilla and
her family.

"You're late," Rilla chastised in a whisper. "We've all met the famous
Raymond West. My, what a charmer he is. He's sitting over there, up
front, with the Timothy Wests, but you'll have to wait until after services to
meet him."

Una craned her neck, trying to see above the crowd of people. She could
only see Tim West's twin girls, their golden heads shining in the light that
came from the stained glass windows. She writhed a little—Rilla's new
motherly airs could be infuriating at times. "How nice," Una said
mechanically. She opened her hymn book and stared at the words while
everyone around her sang.

The elder Rev. Meredith took to the pulpit. Una usually loved to hear her
father preach, but today she heard not a word of his sermon. She was
lost in thought. She was thinking that it would soon be spring, and the
mayflowers would be out in Rainbow Valley. Her thoughts wandered to a
black-haired, black-browed, moon-pale boy who had loved those
mayflowers. How many springs, Una wondered, would come and go and
leave her thinking of Walter?

"I suppose I shall be remembering him all my life," she thought dismally.
She looked up at the inscription hanging over the Blythe pew. Sacred to
the memory of Walter Cuthbert Blythe.

Una wondered if her whole life would not be sacred to his memory, too.

The reverend gave his final blessing and they all stood up to sing again.
This time Una caught sight of a head of tousled black curls—a pair of
broad shoulders—in the Timothy West pew. A tall, black haired, slender
boy—who moved with such sudden and unthinking grace. He turned
suddenly, as though feeling her eyes upon him, and Una felt her breath
go from her.

Raymond West had a delicate, fine-drawn face. A clear-cut nose and a

rich, sensitive mouth. His deep, gray eyes found Una's and held steady
the gaze that stretched between them. For a moment she felt as though
she were falling—yet at the same time impossibly buoyed up. She felt like
she would sink into the ground—or be carried away by the wind. Una
pressed her hand to her heart, which fluttered beneath her palm like a
caged bird.

"What is it?" whispered Rilla, stricken by the look on her friend's face.

But Una could not speak just then. She could not move. She could not
stop looking into a pair of luminous gray eyes, in a milk-white face. A face
that was exactly like the one that had been burned onto Una's brain—and
her heart. This man! How could this man—a stranger—look so like
another she had known, when that other was gone? It was impossible.
And yet—they could have been twins. There was no denying it. Raymond
West was the spitting image of—of—

"Walter!" Una cried, pierced to the core by memory and shock. Her voice
was like a shot—her face was bloodless pale.

The organist faltered, the singers trailed off. All eyes swiveled toward her,
and for the second time in her life, Una fainted in church.

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Una was in Rainbow Valley. It was warm—summer. She could feel the
hot sun on her skin. Ghostly pictures appeared before her eyes and
faded. A red-haired boy with a jolly laugh came very close to her and was
gone. Two freckled faces, of sweet little girls, loomed large and then were
far away. In her half-conscious state, Una came face to face with her own
old self, thin and wan and solemn. There was a black-haired boy just out
of reach, standing just across the water. She could not go to him.

Someone slapped her face, and she came back to herself with a gasp.
Una opened her eyes with great difficulty. She was staring into his face.

"Stand back," he said to the crowd, and turned to Una. His arms were
supporting her shoulders and she leaned into his chest, dazed. Oh, he
smelled of sunshine and sweet woodruff. That was right—that was right—
wasn't it?

He was here! She felt like crying and laughing at once. He had come
back! But no—that would be impossible? Wouldn't it? Her eyes were very
large.

"Walter?" she asked piteously.

"You heard her," the man said. "Someone run and fetch her a glass of
water."

Oh! It was not him, after all. Una closed her eyes, willing the tears to stay
back. Her mind was playing tricks on her. How cruel—what a cruel thing
for a mind to do!

But when she opened her eyes again his face had not changed. This man
—this Raymond West—was Walter, to the life. Una's eyes sought the
familiar faces of her crowd. Why did they not call out, too? Why did they
not see it?

"Do you think you can stand?" Walter—no. Raymond West—asked her.

"I think so," Una whispered. She let herself be pulled to her feet—how
strong he was, this stranger! This stranger whom she felt she knew
intimately. She felt unsteady, and nearly swooned again.

"You may lean on me," whispered Raymond West into her ear. The touch
of his breath on her skin made her tremble. Una leaned gratefully on his
arm, hiding her face against his shoulder.

Rosemary pushed her way through the knot of people. "Una! Darling!"
she cried. "Dear, you are white as a sheet. We must get you home."

"I," Una faltered. "I don't know—if—I can walk."

Quick as a flash she was lifted—as though she were weightless, lighter
than a feather—and a strong pair of arms were cradling her gently. "Allow
me," said Raymond West, and he led the procession out of the church,
and down to the manse.

In the house, everyone buzzed around her, and Una was glad for the
hustle, the activity. Raymond's eyes would not leave hers. She did not
want to be alone with him, because she did not know what she would do
or say. Oh—she did want to be alone with him! How could she try to fool
herself?

She felt ashamed for a second, but then she did not care.

Everyone scattered. Rosemary and Mrs. Blythe went to the kitchen, to get
her some bread and tea. Rilla ran upstairs for a quilt and feather pillow.
The doctor went down to Ingleside for some nerve pills. "And I'll go get
Shirley!" cried Bruce, happy to be of assistance.

And then Una had her wish. She was alone with him. He crossed the
room to her and took her hand in his own. She was not shocked by his
forwardness. She lifted her face up so that he could see how pretty she
was—and for the first time in her life, Una thanked God that
she was pretty. How terrible if she should have disgraced him by being
ugly.

"You gave me a terrible fright, honey," said Raymond West, with a funny
half-smile. Una's hand trembled, and the sapphire on her ring finger
caught the sunlight and flung it in her face, as though mocking her.

Oh! That horrible ring—her wedding ring. It felt like a fetter, now, holding
her down. What a joke God had played on her! He had taken Walter, and
the very moment she had let go of Walter, had tried to make a new life for
herself, he had given Walter back to her, in another form. Una knew very
certainly then that she had never loved Shirley, and never would. The
man she was supposed to love for the rest of her life was standing here,
before her, now!

Raymond looked thoughtfully from her face to the ring, and back again.
"Una," he asked, his tone low and curious, "Who is Shirley?"

She looked miserably into his face. "He's my husband."

The words tasted like dust in her mouth.