“Run for the doctor, Maggie,” said Sophia.
“How came ye to let him fall?” Mr. Critchlow demanded.
“I was out of the room. I just ran down into the shop—”
“Gallivanting with that young Scales!” said Mr. Critchlow, with devilish ferocity. “Well, you’ve killed yer father; that’s all!”
He must have been at his shop door and seen the entry of the traveller! And it was precisely characteristic of Mr. Critchlow to jump in the dark at a horrible conclusion, and to be right after all. For Sophia Mr. Critchlow had always been the personification of malignity and malevolence, and now these qualities in him made him, to her, almost obscene. Her pride brought up tremendous reinforcements, and she approached the bed.
“Is he dead?” she asked in a quiet tone. (Somewhere within a voice was whispering, “So his name is Scales.”)
“Don’t I tell you he’s dead?”
“Pail on the stairs!”
This mild exclamation came from the passage. Mrs. Baines, misliking the crowds abroad, had returned alone; she had left Constance in charge of Mr. Povey. Coming into her house by the shop and showroom, she had first noted the phenomenon of the pail—proof of her theory of Maggie’s incurable untidiness.
“Been to see the elephant, I reckon!” said Mr. Critchlow, in fierce sarcasm, as he recognized Mrs. Baines’s voice.