ight from sea to marsh and from marsh to creek, and more
necessary for the human being to observe. But when Ellen tried to rescue
her mind from mersion into this excess of beauty and to fix it on the
small, warmly-coloured pattern of the domestic life within the room it
was lost as completely and disastrously, so far as following its own
ends went, in the not less excessive view of the spiritual world
presented by this woman's face.

Marion should not have lived in a room so full of light. The tragic
point of her was pressed home too well. The spectator must forget his
own fate in looking on this fine ravaged landscape and wondering what
extremities of weather had made it what it was, and how such a noble
atmosphere should hang over conformations not of the simple kind
associated with nobility but subtle as villainy. Ellen knew that she
would never have a life of her own here. She would all the time be
trying to think out what had happened to Marion. She would never be able
to look at events for what they were in themselves and in relation to
the destiny she was going to make with Richard; but would wonder, if
they were delights, whether their delightfulness would not seem
heartless as laughter in a house of mourning to this woman whose delight
lay in a grave, and if they were sorrows, whether coming to a woman who
had wept so much they would not extort some last secretion more
agonising than a common tear.

"But she is old! She will die!" she thought, aghast at this tragic
tyranny. "Mother died!" she assured herself hopefully. Instantly she was
appalled at her thoughts. She was ashamed at having had such an ill wish
about this middle-aged woman who was sitting there rather lumpishly in
an armchair and evidently, from her vague wandering glance and the twist
of her eyebrows and her mouth, trying to think of something nice to say
and regretting that she failed. And as she looked at her and her
repentance changed into a marvel that this stunned and stubborn woman
should be the wonderful Marion of whom Richard spoke, she realised that
her death was the event that she had to fear above all others possible
in life. For she did not know what would happen to Richard if his mother
died. He cared for her inordinately. When he spoke of her, black fire
would burn in his eyes, and after a few sentences he would fall silent
and look away from Ellen and, she was sure, forget her, for he would
then stretch out for her hand and give i