But what was parson Wingfold to do in the matter? Was he to allow the simple sheep of his flock to think him afraid of the squire's lady? or was he to venture an uproar in the church on a Sunday morning? His wife and he had often talked the thing over, but had arrived at no conclusion. He went to her now, and told her all that had passed.
“Isn't it time to do something?” she said.
“Indeed I think so—but what?” he answered. “I wish you would show me what I ought to do! Let me see it, and I will do it.” She was silent for a moment.
“Couldn't you preach at her?” she said, with a laugh in which was an odd mingling of doubt and merriment.
“I have always thought that a mean thing, and have never done it—except by dwelling on broadest principles. That an evil principle has an advocate present, is no reason for sparing it: what am I there for? But to preach that the many may turn on the one—that I never could do!”
“This case is different from any other. The wrong is done continuously, in the very eyes of the congregation, and for the sake of its being seen,” Mrs. Wingfold answered. “Neither would you be the assailant; you would but accept, not give the challenge. For I don't know how many Sundays, she has been pitting her position in the pew against yours in the pulpit! Believing it out of your power to do anything, she flaunts her French novel in your face; and those that can't see her, see her yellow novel in your eyes, and think about her and you, instead of the things you are saying to them! For the sake of the work given you, for the sake of your influence with the people, you must do something!”
“It is God she defies, not me.”
“I think she defies you to say an honest word on his behalf. Your silence must seem to her an acknowledgment that she is right.”
“That cannot be, after what I have said to her more than once in her own house.”
“Then at least she must think that either you have no authority to drive from the little temple one of the cows of Bashan, or are afraid of her horns.”