“As I was saying, Major, I met an old acquaintance who is housekeeper to Mr. Twaddleton, a bachelor gentleman, and the vicar of the parish. She tells me her master is downright adored in the place: though he must needs be a queer mortal, for she says he is so fond of antics that he won’t suffer a mop or broom in his house, lest, I suppose, it should spoil the hopping of the fleas, and put an end to the fly’s rope-dance upon a cobweb.”
“Jacob, Jacob, you are a wag, and had better go and offer your services to this merry parson; although, I fear, your asthmatic pipes would prove but a sorry accompaniment to his capering. But pshaw!--fiddlestick!--stuff and nonsense!--who ever heard of a vicar being fond of antics!--you are imposed upon, Jacob.”
“I am sure that how Annette told me as much. Ay, and she said he had all sorts of curiosities in his parlour--such as grinning faces, dogs with three heads, rusty swords, and I do not know what besides.”
“I see it!--see it all plainly!” exclaimed the Major; “and your story has so delighted me that I could almost dance myself.” This respectable clergyman, thought he, is, doubtless, an antiquary, a virtuoso--what a delightful companion will he prove! And a bachelor like myself!--what tête-à-têtes do I anticipate!
“Jacob,” exclaimed the Major, “you should have said that the vicar was fond of, or, to speak more correctly, devoted to antiques, not to antics. But, tell me whether there are any other agreeable persons in this village?”
“There’s the squire and his family,” answered the valet.
“The name, the name, Jacob?”
“Squire Seymour, and please you, Major.”
“Seymour, Seymour!” repeated the Major; “I seem to know that name--let me remember.”
The Major’s cogitations, however, were abruptly cut short by the entrance of the servant-maid, who informed him that Mr. Vicar Twaddleton had called.