Like some monstrous hand, the grip of
the war had finally closed upon the Squire's volatile, recalcitrant
soul. It was now crushing the moral and intellectual energy in
himself, as it had crushed the physical life of his son. For it was
as though he were crouching on some bare space, naked and alone,
like a wounded man left behind in a shell-hole by his comrades'
advance. He was aware, indeed, of a mysterious current of spiritual
force--patriotism, or religion, or both in one--which seemed to be
the support of other men. He had seen incredible, superhuman proofs
of it in those few hospital days. But it was of no use to him.
There was only one dim glimmer in his mind--towards which at
intervals he seemed to be reaching out. A woman's face--a woman's
voice--in which there seemed to be some offer of help or comfort. He
had seen her--she was somewhere in the house. But there seemed to be
insuperable barriers--closed doors, impassable spaces--between
himself and her. It was a nightmare, partly the result of fatigue
and want of sleep.
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