"She refused Sir Pitt," cried the victim. "Speak at once. Don't drive me mad."
"O Ma'am—prepare her, Miss Briggs—she's married to Rawdon Crawley."
"Rawdon married Rebecca—governess—nobod— Get out of my house, you fool, you idiot—you stupid old Briggs—how dare you? You're in the plot—you made him marry, thinking that I'd leave my money from him—you did, Martha," the poor old lady screamed in hysteric sentences.
"I, Ma'am, ask a member of this family to marry a drawing-master's daughter?"
"Her mother was a Montmorency," cried out the old lady, pulling at the bell with all her might.
"Her mother was an opera girl, and she has been on the stage or worse herself," said Mrs. Bute.
Miss Crawley gave a final scream, and fell back in a faint. They were forced to take her back to the room which she had just quitted. One fit of hysterics succeeded another. The doctor was sent for—the apothecary arrived. Mrs. Bute took up the post of nurse by her bedside. "Her relations ought to be round about her," that amiable woman said.
She had scarcely been carried up to her room, when a new person arrived to whom it was also necessary to break the news. This was Sir Pitt. "Where's Becky?" he said, coming in. "Where's her traps? She's coming with me to Queen's Crawley."
"Have you not heard the astonishing intelligence regarding her surreptitious union?" Briggs asked.
"What's that to me?" Sir Pitt asked. "I know she's married. That makes no odds. Tell her to come down at once, and not keep me."