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_From Mrs. Proudie to Mrs. Quiverful_.
The Palace, Barchester, July 22.
DEAR LETITIA,—My hand trembles so with indignation that I can hardly
direct my pen. Pray _burn_ my letter of July 17 at once, if you have not
already done so. {60b} We have been _deceived_ in that woman! She is a
brazenfaced, painted daughter of Heth, and has no more right to the title
of Lady Crawley than _you_ have. I am told that she was at one time the
paramour of Lord Steyne, and that her conduct made it impossible for her
husband to live with her. And this is the woman who has come within the
gates of the palace of a Christian prelate; nay, more, who has secured
his signature to a cheque of very considerable value. I think my
suspicions were first excited by the disappearance of the brandy in the
liqueur-stand, and by meeting “her ladyship’s” maid carrying the bottle
up to her room! I spoke to the Bishop, but he would not listen to
me—quite unlike himself; and even turned on me in her defence.
Entering his study hastily on the following day, I found her kneeling at
his feet, her yellow hair (dyed, no doubt, for she must be sixty if she
is a day) about her shoulders, doing what do you suppose—? _Confessing
herself to the Bishop of Barchester_!
And he was listening to her “confession” with an appearance of interest,
and with one of her hands in his.
“Serpent!” I said—and her green eyes glittered just like one—“unhand his
lordship!” She gave a little laugh and said, “Dear Mrs. Proudie, do not
let me monopolise the Bishop’s time. Perhaps I am in the way?”
“And you shall go out of it,” I said. “You are one of those who cause
Israel to sin. You bring the Confessional, for it is no better, into the
house of a Prelate of the Protestant Church of England!” Would you
believe that she had the assurance to answer me with a passage from the
Prayer Book, which I have often felt certain must be _mistranslated_?
“Pack, madam,” said I; “we know who can quote Scripture for his own
ends!”
And I pretty soon saw her out of the house, though _not in time_; for the
infatuated Bishop had already given her a cheque for a sum which I cannot
bring myself to tell you, for the Funds of the Destitute Orange-Girls.
Not a penny of it will they ever see; nor do I approve of such
ostentatious alms in any case.—Yours in haste,