Her inheritance under her aunt’s will, the legal details, the inventory of scattered acreage and real estate, plans for their proper administration, consultations with an attorney, conferences with Mr. Pawling, president of the local bank––such things had occupied and involved her almost from the moment of her arrival home.
At first the endless petty details exasperated her––a girl fresh from the tremendous tragedy of things where, one after another, empires were crashing amid the conflagration of a continent. And she could not now keep her mind on such wretched little personal matters while her heart battered passionately at her breast, sounding the exciting summons to active service.
To concentrate her thoughts on mortgages and deeds when she was burning to be on her way to France––to confer power of attorney, audit bills for taxes, for up-keep of line fences, when she was mad to go to New York and find out how quickly she could be sent to France––such things seemed more than a girl could endure.
In Shadow Hill there was scarcely anything to remind her that the fate of the world was being settled for all time.
Only for red service flags here and there, here and there a burly figure in olive-drab swaggering along Main Street, nothing except war-bread, the shortage of coal and sugar, and outrageous prices reminded her that the terrific drama was still being played beyond 45 the ocean to the diapason of an orchestra thundering from England to Asia and from Africa to the Arctic.
But already the eternal signs were pointing to the end. She read the Republican in the morning, the Star at night. Gradually it became apparent to the girl that the great conflagration was slowly dying down beyond the seas; that there was to be no chance of her returning; that there was to be no need of her services even if she were already equipped to render any, and now, certainly, no time for her to learn anything which might once have admitted her to comradeship in the gigantic conflict between man and Satan. She was too late. The world’s tragedy was almost over.
With the signing of the armistice, all dreams of service ended definitely for her.
False news of the suspension of hostilities should have, in a measure, prepared her. Yet, the ultimately truthful news that the war was over made her almost physically ill. For the girl’s ardent religious fervour had consumed her emotional energy during the incessant excitement of the past three years. But now, for this natural ardour, there was no further employment. There was no outlet for mind or heart so lately on fire with spiritual fervour. God was no more; her friend was dead. And now the war had ended. And nobody in the world had any need of her––any need of this woman who needed the world––and love––spiritual perhaps, perhaps profane.
The false peace demonstration, which set the bells of Shadow Hill clanging in the wintry air and the mill whistles blowing from distant villages, left her tired, dazed, indifferent. The later celebration, based on official news, stirred her spiritually even less. And she felt ill.