“This,” said Sophronia, pointing at the clergyman as though he were a wax-figure in a show, “this is to wed you and me, Samuel Bilson, and them” (she indicated the scullery maids,) “them witnesses it.”
“Witnesses wot?” Mr. Bilson inquired, in a yell.
“Witnesses our marriage, Samuel Bilson. Nuss you I can not, both bein’ single, and nussed you must and shall be. Now set up and be marri’d quiet.”
Mr. Bilson’s physical condition forbade him to leap from the bed; but his voice leaped to the rafters above him.
“Marri’d!” he shouted: “I’ll die fust!”
“Die you will,” said Sophronia, calmly but sternly, “if married you ain’t, and that soon.”
“Sophronia!” Bilson’s voice was hollow and deeply reproachful; “you ’ave throwed me over.”
“I ’ave,” she assented.
“And ’ere I am.”