FullReads

“Vanilla, tell Olivia to bring Jessamine here.”

“Yes’m.”

“Now Mrs. a–what is your name?”

“Brown, Dorcas Brown; my husband and I–“

“Never mind, that’s sufficient, Mrs. a–Brown,” said the reclining Mrs. Pompaliner. “I wish to know if anybody is permitted to touch or handle any of my wardrobe, my linen, handkerchiefs, hose, gloves, laces, etc., in your house?”

“Tetch ’em!” echoes the rotund laundress; “why of course we’ve got to tetch ’em, or how’d we get ’em ironed and put in your baskets, ma’am?”

“Do you pretend to say, Mrs. a–Brown–O dear! dear! I am afraid you have ruined all my clothes!”

“Ruined ’em?” quoth Mrs. Brown, coloring up, like a fresh and lively lobster immersed in a pot of highly caloric water.

“I want to know if the things ain’t been done this week as well as I ever did ’em, could do ’em, or anybody could do ’em on this mighty yeath (earth), ma’am!”

“Come, come, don’t get me flustered, woman,” cries the poor, faint Mrs. Pompaliner. “Don’t come here to worry me; answer me and go.”

“So I can go, ma’am!” said Mrs. Brown, with a vigorous toss of her bullet head.

“Stop, will you understand me, Mrs.–a–“

“Brown, ma’am, Brown’s my name. I ain’t afeard to let anybody know it!” responded the spunky laundress.

The arrival of Olivia, who ushered in Jessamine, turned the current of affairs.

“Jessamine, your gloves on, dear?”

“Yes’m.”

“Then go to my boudoir, open the rose-wood clothes case, bring down the skirts, a dozen or two of the mouchoirs, the laces and hose.”

The girl departed, and soon returned with a ponderous paper box, laden with the articles required.

“Now,” said Mrs. Pompaliner, “now, Brown, look at those articles; don’t you see that they have been touched?”

“Tetched! lord-a-massy, ma’am, how’d you get ’em ironed, folded and brought home, ma’am, without tetching ’em?”

“Olivia, Vanilla, where are you? Jessamine, dear, bring me a fresh handkerchief, ignite a pastile, there’s such an odor in the room. Do you smell, Mrs. a–Brown, that horrid lavender or rose, or, or,–do you smell it, Brown?”

“Lord-a-massy, ma’am,” said the old woman of suds, “I ollers smell a dreadful smell here; them parfumeries o’ yourn, I often tell my Augusty, I wonder them stinkin’–“

“O! O! dear!” cries Mrs. Pompaliner, going off “into a spell;” recovering a little, Mrs. Pompaliner proceeds to state that for some time past, she had been troubled with a presentiment, that her fine clothes had been tampered with after leaving the smoothing iron, and how fatal to her would be the fact of any mortal daring to use, in the remotest manner, any fresh garment or personal apparel of hers! Suspicion had been aroused, the articles before the parties were now diligently examined, when, lo! a spot, not unlike a slight smear of vermilion, was discovered upon a splendid handkerchief–it gave Mrs. P. an electric shock; but, O horror! the next thing turned up was a spangle, big as a half dime, upon one of Mrs. P.’s most superb skirts! This awful revelation, connected with the smell of vile lavender and worse patchouly, upon another piece of woman gear, threw Mrs. Pompaliner into spasms, between the motions of which she gasped:

“You have a daughter, Mrs. Brown?”

“Yes, I have.”

“How old is she?”

“About seventeen, ma’am.”

“And she a–?”

“Dances in the theatre, ma’am!”

The whole thing was out: the sacred garments of Mrs. P. had not only been touched by sacrilegious hands, but had had an airing, and smelt the lamps of the play-house! Mrs. Pompaliner was so shocked, that four first-class physicians tended her for a whole season.

Mrs. Brown lost a profitable customer, and well walloped her ballet-nymph daughter Augusty, for attiring herself in the finery of her most possibly particular and sensitive customer! It was awful!