“Why,” said the perturbed cleric, “he doesn’t want you.”
“‘E doesn’t know what ’e wants,” returned Sophronia, grimly; “if women waited for men to find out w’en they wanted wives, there’d be more old maids than there is. If you’ll be good enough to take your book in your ’and, sir, I’ll see to ’im.”
Bilson made one last faint protest.
“‘Twouldn’t be right, Sophronia,” he wailed; “I ain’t wot I was; I’m a wuthless and a busted wreck. I can’t tie no woman to me for life. It ain’t doin’ justice to neither.”
“If you’re what you say you are,” said Sophronia, imperturbably, “and you know better than I do, you should be glad to take wot you can get. If I’m suited, don’t you complain.”
“Mrs. Huckins,” the young clergyman broke in, feebly asserting himself, “this is utterly irregular.”
“I know it is,” said Sophronia; “and we’re a-waitin’ for you to set it straight.”
The two chore-girls giggled. A warm flush mounted to Mr. Chizzy’s pale face. He hesitated a second; then nervously opened his book, and began the service. Sophronia stood by the bedside, clasping Bilson’s hand in a grasp which no writhing could loosen.
“Dearly beloved,” Mr. Chizzy began, addressing the two chore-girls; and with a trembling voice he hurried on to the important question:
“Wilt thou have this woman to be thy wedded wife?—“