"I'll go dream of thee where there be a bank of flowers. Here let me lose myself in a delirium of sweets."
Choosing a fair position, he squatted down upon a ripe strawberry bed, and great was the dismay with which he beheld the entire ruin of his best puce-coloured breeches. So sudden was the dissipation of his complacency, that he determined to beat Hodge forthwith; to which thrifty employment we commend him, whilst we address ourselves to the further development of our story.
Near to the lower extremity of the village dwelt a maiden whose bloom had been wasted, and whose matchless hopes were always frustrated ere their accomplishment. Many a simpering look had she cast towards the goodly raiment of Master Anthony, and some incipient notion was entertained that the indweller at the big house was not averse to a peep, now and then, more tender than usual, at the window of Mrs Bridget Allport. When a boy, Anthony had been a sort of spoiled pet of the maiden, who was then opening into bloom, and the bud of promise breaking forth in all its pride and loveliness. While Anthony's legs were getting rounder, and his face and figure more plump and capacious, the person of Mistress Bridget was, alas! proceeding, unluckily, in a manner quite the reverse. Anthony's love had not quickened into fruition with his growth: but the lady kept a quick and wary eye upon his movements, and many a pang had his flattering favours caused in her too susceptible heart.
Distantly related to the family, she sometimes visited Lostock Hall; and at the period when our narrative begins she was located therein.
Kate had long been aware of her likings and mishaps, and was no stranger to her predilection for Master Anthony Hardcastle.
The first overt act of mischief resulting from the plots of Kate and her maid was a smart tap at the door of Mistress Bridget, her bed-chamber, where she was indulging in reverie and romance; but the day being hot, she had fallen asleep, and was dreaming of "hearts, darts, and love's fires." She started from this mockery of bliss at the summons.
"Prithee, Marian, what is it?"
"A billet from—I don't care to tell who!"
"A billet, sayest thou?—eh!—who can it be? What! It is—go away, my good Marian; I cannot—oh! when will my poor heart——'Waft a cargo of love to thy bosom.' 'Melt in the furnace.' Dear, delightful passion! How pure! Just like mine own, I declare. 'Harder than adamant.' Nay, thou wrongest me. Prithee, Marian, who—where is he?"
"A trusty messenger is below." She dropped a handsome curtsy.