What he had seen that morning, and what he had done, where he had been, and why he had gone, were secrets to which his wife and children were not admitted.  The relations between himself and his wife were not new in the world.  He wished to retain her respect, so he never revealed to her his iniquities.  She wished as far as possible to respect him, so she never made uncomfortable inquiries.  He was bountiful to her.  He had been bountiful to many others.  She clothed and informed all his acts of beneficence with the motives which became them.  If she was ever shocked by his vulgarity, he never knew it by any word of hers, in disapproval.  If she had suspicions, she did not betray them.  Her children were trained to respect their father, and among them she found the satisfactions of her life.  He had long ceased to be her companion.  As an associate, friend, lover, she had given him up, and, burying in her heart all her griefs and all her loneliness, had determined to make the best of her life, and to bring her children to believe that their father was a man of honor, of whom they had no reason to be ashamed.  If she was proud, hers was an amiable pride, and to Mr. Belcher’s credit let it be said that he respected her as much as he wished her to honor him.

For an hour after breakfast, Mr. Belcher was occupied in his library, with his agent, in the transaction of his daily business.  Then, just as the church bell rang its preliminary summons for the assembling of the town-meeting, Phipps came to the door again with the rakish grays and the rakish wagon, and Mr. Belcher drove down the steep hill into the village, exchanging pleasant words with the farmers whom he encountered on the way, and stopping at various shops, to speak with those upon whom he depended for voting through whatever public schemes he found it desirable to favor.

The old town-hall was thronged for half-an-hour before the time designated in the warrant.  Finally, the bell ceased to ring, at the exact moment when Mr. Belcher drove to the door and ascended the steps.  There was a buzz all over the house when he entered, and he was surrounded at once.

“Have it just as you want it,” shaking his head ostentatiously and motioning them away, “don’t mind anything about me.  I’m a passenger,” he said aloud, and with a laugh, as the meeting was called to order and the warrant read, and a nomination for moderator demanded.

“Peter Vernol,” shouted a dozen voices in unison.

Peter Vernol had represented the district in the Legislature, and was supposed to be familiar with parliamentary usage.  He was one of Mr. Belcher’s men, of course—­as truly owned and controlled by him as Phipps himself.

Peter Vernol became moderator by acclamation.  He was a young man, and, ascending the platform very red in the face, and looking out upon the assembled voters of Sevenoaks, he asked with a trembling voice: 

“What is the further pleasure of the meeting?”