He knew that his heart was dead toward the woman who awaited his return.  He felt that it was almost painfully alive toward the one he had left behind him, and it was with the embarrassment of conscious guilt that he rang the bell at his own door, and stiffened himself to meet the honest woman who had borne his children.  Even the graceless touch of an intriguing woman’s power—­even the excitement of something like love toward one who was unworthy of his love—­had softened him, so that his conscience could move again.  He felt that his eyes bore a secret, and he feared that his wife could read it.  And yet, who was to blame?  Was anybody to blame?  Could anything that had happened have been helped or avoided?

He entered, determining to abide by Mrs. Dillingham’s injunction of silence.  He found the servants extinguishing the lights, and met the information that Mrs. Belcher had retired.  His huge pile of trunks had come during his absence, and remained scattered in the hall.  The sight offended him, but, beyond a muttered curse, he said nothing, and sought his bed.

Mr. Belcher was not in good humor when he rose the next morning.  He found the trunks where he left them on the previous evening; and when he called for the servants to carry them upstairs, he was met by open revolt.  They were not porters, and they would not lift boxes; that sort of work was not what they were engaged for.  No New York family expected service of that kind from those who were not hired for it.

The proprietor, who had been in the habit of exacting any service from any man or woman in his employ that he desired, was angry.  He would have turned every one of them out of the house, if it had not been so inconvenient for him to lose them then.  Curses trembled upon his lips, but he curbed them, inwardly determining to have his revenge when the opportunity should arise.  The servants saw his eyes, and went back to their work somewhat doubtful as to whether they had made a judicious beginning.  They were sure they had not, when, two days afterward, every one of them was turned out of the house, and a new set installed in their places.

He called for Phipps, and Phipps was at the stable.  Putting on his hat, he went to bring his faithful servitor of Sevenoaks, and bidding him find a porter in the streets and remove the trunks at Mrs. Belcher’s direction, he sat down at the window to watch for a passing newsboy.  The children came down, cross and half sick with their long ride and their late dinner.  Then it came on to rain in a most dismal fashion, and he saw before him a day of confinement and ennui.  Without mental resource—­unable to find any satisfaction except in action and intrigue—­the prospect was anything but pleasant.  The house was large, and, on a dark day, gloomy.  His humor was not sweetened by noticing evidences of tears on Mrs. Belcher’s face.  The breakfast was badly cooked, and he rose from it exasperated.  There was no remedy but to go out and call upon Mrs. Dillingham.  He took an umbrella, and, telling his wife that he was going out on business, he slammed the door behind him and went down the steps.