It is more pleasant to talk of the Whichello-Pansey war. 'Bella matronis detestata,' saith the Latin poet, who knew little of the sex to make such a remark. To be sure, he was talking of public wars, and not of domestic or social battles; but he should have been more explicit. Women are born fighters—with their tongues; and an illustration of this truth was given in Beorminster when Miss Whichello threw down the gage to Mrs Pansey. The little old lady knew well enough that when George and Mab were married, the archdeacon's widow would use her famous memory to recall the scandals she had set afloat nearly thirty years before. Therefore, to defeat Mrs Pansey once and for all, she called on that good lady and dared her to say that there was any disgrace attached to Mab's parentage. Mrs Pansey, anticipating an easy victory, shook out her skirts, and was up in arms at once.
'I know for a fact that your sister Ann did not marry the man she eloped with,' cried Mrs Pansey, shaking her head viciously.
'Who told you this fact?' demanded Miss Whichello, indignantly.
'I—I can't remember at present, but that's no matter—it's true.'
'It is not true, and you know it is an invention of your own spiteful mind, Mrs Pansey. My sister was married on the day she left home, and I have her marriage certificate to prove it. I showed it to Bishop Pendle, because you poisoned his mind with your malicious lies, and he is quite satisfied.'
'Oh, any story would satisfy the bishop,' sneered Mrs Pansey; 'we all know what he is!'
'We do—an honourable Christian gentleman; and we all know what you are—a scandalmongering, spiteful, soured cat.'
'Hoity-toity! fine language this.'
'It is the kind of language you deserve, ma'am. All your life you have been making mischief with your vile tongue!'
'Woman,' roared Mrs Pansey, white with wrath, 'no one ever dared to speak like this to me.'