“Quite right, Nelly!” cried the rector; “you are quite right. Only you don't give me a hint what to do!”
“Am I not saying as plain as I can that you must preach at her?”
“H'm! I didn't expect that of you!”
“No; for if you could have expected it of me, you would have thought of it yourself! But just think! A public scandal requires public treatment. You will not be dragging her before the people; she has put herself there! She is brazen, and must be treated as brazen—set in the full glare of opinion. And I think, if I were a clergyman, I should know how to do it!”
Wingfold was silent. She must be right! Something glimmered before him—something possible—he could not see plainly what.
“It is all very well to make such a clamour about her boy,” continued his wife, “but every one knows that she quarrelled with him dreadfully—that for days at a time they would be cat and dog with each other. Her animal instinct lasted it out, and she did not come to hate him; but I can't help thinking it must have been in a great measure because her husband favoured the other that she took up this one with such passion. I have been told she would abuse him in language not fit to repeat, the little wretch answering her back, and choking with rage that he could not tear her.”
“Who told you?” asked the parson.
“I would rather not say.”
“Are you sure it is not mere gossip?”
“Quite sure. To be gossip, a thing must go through two mouths at least, and I had it first-mouth. I tell it you because I think it worth your knowing.”