What was to be done?  Tell dear Constance?  No, this was not, at the moment, an affair for the younger generation.  It was too new and raw for the younger generation.  Moreover, capable, proud, and experienced as they were, they felt the need of a man’s voice, and a man’s hard, callous ideas.  It was a case for Mr. Critchlow.  Maggie was sent to fetch him, with a particular request that he should come to the side-door.  He came expectant, with the pleasurable anticipation of disaster, and he was not disappointed.  He passed with the sisters the happiest hour that had fallen to him for years.  Quickly he arranged the alternatives for them.  Would they tell the police, or would they take the risks of waiting?  They shied away, but with fierce brutality he brought them again and again to the immediate point of decision. ...  Well, they could not tell the police!  They simply could not.  Then they must face another danger. ...  He had no mercy for them.  And while he was torturing them there arrived a telegram, despatched from Charing Cross, “I am all right, Sophia.”  That proved, at any rate, that the child was not heartless, not merely careless.

Only yesterday, it seemed to Mrs. Baines, she had borne Sophia; only yesterday she was a baby, a schoolgirl to be smacked.  The years rolled up in a few hours.  And now she was sending telegrams from a place called Charing Cross!  How unlike was the hand of the telegram to Sophia’s hand!  How mysteriously curt and inhuman was that official hand, as Mrs. Baines stared at it through red, wet eyes!

Mr. Critchlow said some one should go to Manchester, to ascertain about Scales.  He went himself, that afternoon, and returned with the news that an aunt of Scales had recently died, leaving him twelve thousand pounds, and that he had, after quarrelling with his uncle Boldero, abandoned Birkinshaws at an hour’s notice and vanished with his inheritance.

“It’s as plain as a pikestaff,” said Mr. Critchlow.  “I could ha’ warned ye o’ all this years ago, even since she killed her father!”

Mr. Critchlow left nothing unsaid.

During the night Mrs. Baines lived through all Sophia’s life, lived through it more intensely than ever Sophia had done.

The next day people began to know.  A whisper almost inaudible went across the Square, and into the town:  and in the stillness every one heard it.  “Sophia Baines run off with a commercial!”

In another fortnight a note came, also dated from London.

“Dear Mother, I am married to Gerald Scales.  Please don’t worry about me.  We are going abroad.  Your affectionate Sophia.  Love to Constance.”  No tear-stains on that pale blue sheet!  No sign of agitation!

And Mrs. Baines said:  “My life is over.”  It was, though she was scarcely fifty.  She felt old, old and beaten.  She had fought and been vanquished.  The everlasting purpose had been too much for her.  Virtue had gone out of her—­the virtue to hold up her head and look the Square in the face.  She, the wife of John Baines!  She, a Syme of Axe!