Well, then, as far as he could he would take
no account of it, would shut it out, and rail at the men and the
forces that made it. He barely looked at the newspapers; he never
touched a book dealing with the war. It seemed to him a triumph of
mind and intelligence when he succeeded in shutting out the
hurly-burly altogether. Only, when in the name of the war his
private freedom and property were interfered with, he had flamed out
into hysterical revolt. Old aristocratic instincts came to the aid
of passionate will, and, perhaps, of an uneasy conscience.
And now in the man's vain but not ignoble soul there stirred a first
passing terror of what the war might do with him, if he were
_forced_ to feel it--to let it in. He saw it as a veiled Presence at
the Door--and struggled with it blindly.
He was just turning back to the house, when he saw a figure
approaching in the distance which he recognized. It was that of a
man, once a farmer of his, and a decent fellow--oh, that he
confessed!--with whom he had had a long quarrel over a miserable sum
of money, claimed by the tenant when he left his farm, and disputed
by the landlord.
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