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There was so much in you that charmed me that I felt I must tell you something about yourself. I thought how tragic it would be if you were wasted. For there is such a little time that your youth will last such a little time. The common hill-flowers wither, but they blossom again. The laburnum will be as yellow next June as it is now.
"I can take a hint," said I. "I wish you'd take warning," said Mrs. Hilary. "I will take my leave," said I and I did, leaving Mrs. Hilary in a tragic attitude in the middle of the room. Never again shall I go out of my way to lull Mrs. Hilary's suspicions. A day or two after this very trying interview, Lady Mickleham's victoria happened to stop opposite where I was seated in the park.
"Won't you make a fight for it?" "No!" he said brutally. The girl bent her head again over her knitting. But her white fingers remained idle. After a long while, staring at her intently, he saw her lip quiver. "Don't do that!" he broke out harshly. "What the devil do you care?" Then she lifted her tragic white face. And he had his answer. "My God!" he faltered, springing to his feet.
Art is certainly no teacher or educator of practical conduct: the artist is never in this sense an instructor or adviser; the things after which a tragic hero strives are not necessarily worth striving after. As in a dream so in art, the valuation of things only holds good while we are under its spell.
These tragic hills, this cold lake, this white moon, were the same when Caesar lived, and would still be the same when we who gazed upon them now were all gone into the Unknown. It seemed difficult to try and realise this obvious fact so difficult as to be almost unnatural.
"Farnum," he found chance to whisper, at last, "something tragic has happened to the boys, at last. What on earth can it be? Whatever it is, we're utterly powerless to help them!" Fifteen minutes more dragged by. "Where's your show, Mr. Farnum?" "Something has gone wrong, eh?" The correspondents were pressing about the worried builder and the uneasy inventor.
And so Soolsby, in his own way, made him understand; for who knew them both better than this old man, who had shared in David's destiny since the fatal day when Lord Eglington had married Mercy Claridge in secret, had set in motion a long line of tragic happenings?
This kind of literature, comic or tragic, disseminated as it everywhere is among impulsive and passionate Russian readers, has been anything but morally healthful. One might as rationally go about and poison wells. And the Russian youth are sophisticated to a degree that seems to us almost startling.
What the girl had said seemed mere sound, sound without meaning. He could not grasp its significance. And yet he knew it was tragic. It was something that had made the girl what she was. It explained all Tunis had been unable heretofore to understand about Sheila Macklin. That timidity, that whispering shyness, the shrinking from observation and from any attention, were all explained.
Suppose you saw evil gathering head against you, that you found yourself left utterly alone, and that even God seemed to be silent in this hour of tragic failure. Here are your enemies triumphant at the gate, thirsting for your blood. Beyond that gate, betrayal, torture, and public shame are waiting for you.
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