The gentle cause of all this disturbance in the bosom and domestic arrangements of Major Oldschool was utterly unconscious of the effect she had produced; nor did she reciprocate the feelings of that gentleman. It is true, she was much struck with his kindness to herself and to her father during their trouble, and that she did not hesitate to confess she thought him a very nice old gentleman indeed; and whenever the Major had formed the subject of conversation with her family during his absence, she had always spoken warmly of his kindness and attention to them; but this the girl had done on every occasion, frankly and without a blush.
Mrs. Coddle, however, who was sufficiently well skilled in the development of the gentle passion, from the budding, as it were, to the blossoming of the orange flowers—not having lived all her years, as she said, for nothing,—soon required no prophetic vane to tell her which way the wind blew in the front parlour of Mrs. Fokesell’s establishment, and did not hesitate to confess as much to the landlady herself. She knew how it would all turn out from the very first time the Major set eyes on the “chit” a-snivelling in the passage. His going out without his tea was quite enough for her: and of all artful young husseys, Miss Sandboys was the wust she ever come a-nigh. She couldn’t abear to see such scheming and planning as there was with young gals, now-a-days, to get well settled in life—no matter to them what poor cretur they threw out of bread by it: and she had no doubt that after all she had done for the Major, she’d be thrown o’ one side, like an old shoe, when she wasn’t wanted no longer. But she could tell the pair on ’em that she wasn’t agoing to be got rid on quite so easy; and if they didn’t know their dooty, and had never given it so much as a thought what was to become of her, why, she’d just let them see what she considered was her rights. It made her quite ill to think of the deceit there was in the world; and what business had that “bit of a girl” to come turning her out of house and home—especially when she thought she were comfortable settled for life—was all she wanted to know.
Thus matters went on, the hatred of Mrs. Coddle toward Elcy Sandboys increasing in a direct ratio with the liking of the Major for the same person, and when the housekeeper learnt that the intended visit of the Sandboys to the Exhibition, in company with the Major, had been postponed by the amputation of his wooden leg, she was as delighted at first as she was annoyed on hearing afterwards that the Cumberland folk had been prevailed upon by the Major to remain in London until such time as he could get his leg repaired, and fulfil his engagement with them.
Indeed the Major, much to Mrs. Coddle’s discomfort, would not listen to the departure of his friends, and promised to make all haste in providing himself with a new limb, expressly for their visit to the Crystal Palace. Accordingly, he set himself to work, thinking what kind of a new leg he should have, and whom he should get to make it. This time he made up his mind he would employ a person who had some experience in the line, for the last leg he had made was by a mere novice, and had cost him no little trouble; at first the manufacturer had constructed it of too great a length, and it had made him lean on one side, for all the world like a human tower of Pisa,—then the man cut it down too short, and he had been thrown from one side to the other, like a fresh-water sailor in a heavy swell,—then, too, the fellow had manufactured the thing out of green stuff, and it had warped so, that the wooden leg positively looked bandy.
Having by these cogent reasons convinced himself that it would be far better to place his leg in the hands of an experienced artificer, the Major next began to debate within himself as to what should be the style and material of the limb. One thing he had made his mind up to; he was not going to continue in the Greenwich pensioner style any longer, hobbling about on a leg that was as straight, and had no more symmetry in it than a stork’s. No! he would have a cork one. He had often seen in the shops some beautiful fellows, with a black silk stocking over them, and a calf as plump as a footman’s in high life. Yes! he would despatch a letter that moment to the very place where he remembered having seen one worthy of a fashionable physician in the window. Accordingly, he hopped along to his desk, as best he could, and scribbled a hasty summons to the artificial limb-maker.
It was not long before the human centipede—the modern Briaræus—the Argus of the nineteenth century, made his appearance; and having learnt from the Major the nature of the accident, proceeded to describe to the gentleman the quality of the several artifices at present in vogue for supplying the various defects in the human frame. The limb-maker had an odd way with him of describing the respective artificial appurtenances of his business, as if they were his own individual possessions, and formed part of his own frame, instead of his stock in trade.
“Yes, sir, I believe I may say, without vanity,” observed the loquacious Frankenstein of 1851, “that I have been long celebrated for the make of my legs. It is universally allowed that there are not such legs as mine in all Europe, sir. A lady of quality had one of my legs—the right leg it was—and she danced the polka in it as well as ever she could have done it with her own, sir.”
Major Oldschool threw up his eyebrows with astonishment, while he smiled with delight.
“I can assure you, sir,” continued the man, rubbing his hands as if he were washing them in phantom soap and water, “you will find my knees not at all stiff nor shaky; not like the cheap slop articles, that—if you will permit me to say so—are very much in the hackney-coach-horse style. Then, doubtlessly, you may have heard of the superior quality of my arms and hands, sir. Only the other day I sent home an arm to a general officer, with a dessert service fitted up inside, knife and fork, table-spoon, tea-spoon, meerschaum pipe, cork-screw, and boot-hooks, and the fingers made to take a pinch of snuff positively with an air of grace, sir—an air of grace, I may say, sir.”
Major Oldschool was too glad to listen, and therefore refrained from saying a word that might interrupt the strain of the tradesman’s boastings.