Above a bank of purple cloud,
she looked into depths of fathomless azure, star-sprinkled, with a light in
the southeast prophesying moonrise. Dark shapes of woods--the distant
sound of the little trout-stream, where it ran over a weir--a few notes of
birds--were the only sounds; otherwise the soul was alone with itself. Once
indeed she heard a sudden burst of voices far overhead, and a girl's
merry laugh. One of the young servants no doubt--on the top floor. How
remote!--and yet how near.
And far away over those trees was Newbury, smarting under the blow she had
given him--suffering--suffering. That poor woman, too, weeping out her last
night, perhaps, beside her husband. What could she do for her--how could
she help her? Marcia sat there hour after hour, now lost in her own grief,
now in that of others; realizing through pain, through agonized sympathy,
the energy of a fuller life.
She went to bed, and to sleep--for a few hours--toward morning. She was
roused by her maid, who came in with a white face of horror.
"Oh, miss!"
"What is the matter?"
Marcia sat up in bed. Was her mother ill?--dead?
The girl stammered out her ghastly news. Briggs the head gardener had just
brought it.
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