The wickedness of maids was a trifle; the death of pets was a trifle.
But the reappearance of Gerald Scales!
That involved the possibility of consequences which could not even be named, so afflictive was the mere prospect to them.
Constance was speechless, and she saw that Sophia was also speechless.
Of course the event had been bound to happen.
People do not vanish never to be heard of again.
The time surely arrives when the secret is revealed.
So Sophia said to herself--now!
She had always refused to consider the effect of Gerald's reappearance.
She had put the idea of it away from her, determined to convince herself that she had done with him finally and for ever.
She had forgotten him.
It was years since he had ceased to disturb her thoughts--many years.
"He MUST be dead," she had persuaded herself.
"It is inconceivable that he should have lived on and never come across me.
If he had been alive and learnt that I had made money, he would assuredly have come to me.
No, he must be dead!"
And he was not dead!
The brief telegram overwhelmingly shocked her.
Her life had been calm, regular, monotonous.
And now it was thrown into an indescribable turmoil by five words of a telegram, suddenly, with no warning whatever.
Sophia had the right to say to herself: "I have had my share of trouble, and more than my share!"
The end of her life promised to be as awful as the beginning.
The mere existence of Gerald Scales was a menace to her.
But it was the simple impact of the blow that affected her supremely, beyond ulterior things.
One might have pictured fate as a cowardly brute who had struck this ageing woman full in the face, a felling blow, which however had not felled her.
She staggered, but she stuck on her legs.
It seemed a shame--one of those crude, spectacular shames which make the blood boil--that the gallant, defenceless creature should be so maltreated by the bully, destiny.
"Oh, Sophia!" Constance moaned.
"What trouble is this?"
Sophia's lip curled with a disgusted air.
Under that she hid her suffering.
She had not seen him for thirty-six years.
He must be over seventy years of age, and he had turned up again like a bad penny, doubtless a disgrace!
What had he been doing in those thirty-six years?
He was an old, enfeebled man now!
He must be a pretty sight!
And he lay at Manchester, not two hours away!
Whatever feelings were in Sophia's heart, tenderness was not among them.
As she collected her wits from the stroke, she was principally aware of the sentiment of fear.
She recoiled from the future.
"What shall you do?" Constance asked. Constance was weeping.
Sophia tapped her foot, glancing out of the window.
"Shall you go to see him?" Constance continued.
"Of course," said Sophia. "I must!"
She hated the thought of going to see him.
She flinched from it.
She felt herself under no moral obligation to go.
Why should she go?
Gerald was nothing to her, and had no claim on her of any kind.
This she honestly believed.