On reaching home and his own study, the servant, Merton, presented
himself, and his master, too deeply excited to hear him then, appointed
the next day for the purpose. There was no contending against Marston's
peremptory will, and the man reluctantly withdrew. Here was, apparently,
a matter of no imaginable moment; whether this menial should be
discharged on that day, or on the morrow; and yet mighty things were
involved in the alternative.

There was a deeper gloom than usual over the house. The servants seemed
to know that something had gone wrong, and looked grave and mysterious.
Marston was more than ever dark and moody. Mrs. Marston's dimmed and
swollen eyes showed that she had been weeping. Mademoiselle absented
herself from supper, on the plea of a bad headache. Rhoda saw that
something, she knew not what, had occurred to agitate her elders, and was
depressed and anxious. The old clergyman, whom we have already mentioned,
had called, and stayed to supper. Dr. Danvers was a man of considerable
learning, strong sense, and remarkable simplicity of character. His
thoughtful blue eye, and well-marked countenance, were full of gentleness
and benevolence, and elevated by a certain natural dignity, of which
purity and goodness, without one debasing shade of self-esteem and
arrogance, were the animating spirit. Mrs. Marston loved and respected
this good minister of God; and many a time had sought and found, in his
gentle and earnest counsels, and in the overflowing tenderness of his
sympathy, much comfort and support in the progress of her sore and
protracted earthly trial. Most especially at one critical period in her
history had he endeared himself to her, by interposing, and successfully,
to prevent a formal separation which (as ending forever the one hope that
cheered her on, even in the front of despair) she would probably not long
have survived.