Cecilia; Or, Memoirs of an Heiress — Volume 1Burney, Fanny
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Cecilia; Or, Memoirs of an Heiress — Volume 1
Burney, Fanny
England -- Fiction; Inheritance and succession -- Fiction; Love stories; Young women -- Fiction
Before this question could be answered, an offensive smell of soot,
making everybody look around the room, the chimney-sweeper already
mentioned by Miss Larolles was perceived to enter it. Every way he moved
a passage was cleared for him, as the company, with general disgust,
retreated wherever he advanced.
He was short, and seemed somewhat incommoded by his dress; he held his
soot-bag over one arm, and his shovel under the other. As soon as he
espied Cecilia, whose situation was such as to prevent her eluding him,
he hooted aloud, and came stumping up to her; “Ah ha,” he cried, “found
at last;” then, throwing down his shovel, he opened the mouth of his
bag, and pointing waggishly to her head, said, “Come, shall I pop
you?--a good place for naughty girls; in, I say, poke in!--cram you up
the chimney.”
And then he put forth his sooty hands to reach her cap.
Cecilia, though she instantly knew the dialect of her guardian Mr
Briggs, was not therefore the more willing to be so handled, and started
back to save herself from his touch; the white domino also came forward,
and spread out his arms as a defence to her, while the devil, who was
still before her, again began to growl.
“Ah ha!” cried the chimney-sweeper, laughing, “so did not know me? Poor
duck! won't hurt you; don't be frightened; nothing but old guardian; all
a joke!” And then, patting her cheek with his dirty hand, and nodding
at her with much kindness, “Pretty dove,” he added, “be of good heart!
shan't be meddled with; come to see after you. Heard of your tricks;
thought I'd catch you!--come o' purpose.--Poor duck! did not know me!
ha! ha!--good joke enough!”
“What do you mean, you dirty dog,” cried the Turk, “by touching that
lady?”
“Won't tell!” answered he; “not your business. Got a good right. Who
cares for pearls? Nothing but French beads.” Pointing with a sneer to
his turban. Then, again addressing Cecilia, “Fine doings!” he continued,
“Here's a place! never saw the like before! turn a man's noddle!--All
goings out; no comings in; wax candles in every room; servants thick as
mushrooms! And where's the cash? Who's to pay the piper? Come to more
than a guinea; warrant Master Harrel thinks that nothing!”
“A guinea?” contemptuously repeated the Turk, “and what do you suppose a
guinea will do?”
“What? Why, keep a whole family handsome a week;--never spend so much
myself; no, nor half neither.”
“Why then, how the devil do you live? Do you beg?”
“Beg? Who should I beg of? You?--Got anything to give? Are warm?”
“Take the trouble to speak more respectfully, sir!” said the Turk,
haughtily; “I see you are some low fellow, and I shall not put up with
your impudence.”
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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