MR. NEEFIT AND HIS FAMILY.
Mr. Neefit was a breeches-maker in Conduit Street, of such
repute that no hunting man could be said to go decently into the
hunting field unless decorated by a garment made in Mr. Neefit's
establishment. His manipulation of leather was something marvellous;
and in latter years he had added to his original art,--an art which
had at first been perfect rather than comprehensive,--an exquisite
skill in cords, buckskins, and such like materials. When his trade
was becoming prosperous he had thought of degenerating into a tailor,
adding largely to his premises, and of compensating his pride by the
prospects of great increase to his fortune; but an angel of glory had
whispered to him to let well alone, and he was still able to boast
that all his measurements had been confined to the legs of sportsmen.
Instead of extending his business he had simply extended his price,
and had boldly clapped on an extra half-guinea to every pair that he
supplied. The experiment was altogether successful, and when it was
heard by the riding men of the City that Mr. Neefit's prices were
undoubtedly higher than those of any other breeches-maker in London,
and that he had refused to supply breeches for the grooms of a
Marquis because the Marquis was not a hunting man, the riding men
of the City flocked to him in such numbers, that it became quite a
common thing for them to give their orders in June and July, so that
they might not be disappointed when November came round. Mr. Neefit
was a prosperous man, but he had his troubles. Now, it was a great
trouble to him that some sporting men would be so very slow in paying
for the breeches in which they took pride!
Mr. Neefit's fortune had not been rapid in early life. He had begun
with a small capital and a small establishment, and even now his
place of business was very limited in size. He had been clever enough
to make profit even out of its smallness,--and had contrived that
it should be understood that the little back room in which men were
measured was so diminutive because it did not suit his special
business to welcome a crowd. It was his pride, he said, to wait upon
hunting men,--but with the garments of the world at large he wished
to have no concern whatever. In the outer shop, looking into Conduit
Street, there was a long counter on which goods were unrolled for
inspection; and on which an artist, the solemnity of whose brow and
whose rigid silence betokened the nature of his great employment,
was always cutting out leather. This grave man was a German, and
there was a rumour among young sportsmen that old Neefit paid
this highly-skilled operator £600 a year for his services! Nobody
knew as he did how each morsel of leather would behave itself
under the needle, or could come within two hairbreadths of him
in accuracy across the kneepan. As for measuring, Mr. Neefit did
that himself,--almost always. To be measured by Mr. Neefit was as
essential to perfection as to be cut out for by the German. There
were rumours, indeed, that from certain classes of customers Mr.
Neefit and the great foreigner kept themselves personally aloof. It
was believed that Mr. Neefit would not condescend to measure a retail
tradesman. Latterly, indeed, there had arisen a doubt whether he
would lay his august hand on a stockbroker's leg; though little
Wallop, one of the young glories of Capel Court, swears that he is
handled by him every year. "Confound 'is impudence," says Wallop;
"I'd like to see him sending a foreman to me. And as for cutting,
d'you think I don't know Bawwah's 'and!" The name of the foreign
artist is not exactly known; but it is pronounced as we have written
it, and spelt in that fashion by sporting gentlemen when writing to
each other.
Our readers may be told in confidence that up to a very late date
Mr. Neefit lived in the rooms over his shop. This is certainly not
the thing for a prosperous tradesman to do. Indeed, if a tradesman
be known not to have a private residence, he will hardly become
prosperous. But Neefit had been a cautious man, and till two years
before the commencement of our story, he had actually lived in
Conduit Street,--working hard, however, to keep his residence a deep
secret from his customers at large. Now he was the proud possessor of
a villa residence at Hendon, two miles out in the country beyond the
Swiss Cottage; and all his customers knew that he was never to be
found before 9.30 A.M., or after 5.15 P.M.
As we have said, Mr. Neefit had his troubles, and one of his great
troubles was our young friend, Ralph Newton. Ralph Newton was a
hunting man, with a stud of horses,--never less than four, and
sometimes running up to seven and eight,--always standing at the
Moonbeam, at Barnfield. All men know that Barnfield is in the middle
of the B. B. Hunt,--the two initials standing for those two sporting
counties, Berkshire and Buckinghamshire. Now, Mr. Neefit had a very
large connexion in the B. B., and, though he never was on horseback
in his life, subscribed twenty-five pounds a year to the pack. Mr.
Ralph Newton had long favoured him with his custom; but, we are sorry
to say, Mr. Ralph Newton had become a thorn in the flesh to many a
tradesman in these days. It was not that he never paid. He did pay
something; but as he ordered more than he paid, the sum-total against
him was always an increasing figure. But then he was a most engaging,
civil-spoken young man, whose order it was almost impossible to
decline. It was known, moreover, that his prospects were so good!
Nevertheless, it is not pleasant for a breeches-maker to see the
second hundred pound accumulating on his books for leather breeches
for one gentleman. "What does he do with 'em?" old Neefit would
say to himself; but he didn't dare to ask any such question of
Mr. Newton. It isn't for a tradesman to complain that a gentleman
consumes too many of his articles. Things, however, went so far that
Mr. Neefit found it to be incumbent on him to make special inquiry
about those prospects. Things had gone very far indeed,--for Ralph
Newton appeared one summer evening at the villa at Hendon, and
absolutely asked the breeches-maker to lend him a hundred pounds!
Before he left he had taken tea with Mr. and Mrs. and Miss Neefit
on the lawn, and had received almost a promise that the loan should
be forthcoming if he would call in Conduit Street on the following
morning. That had been early in May, and Ralph Newton had called,
and, though there had been difficulties, he had received the money
before three days had passed.
Mr. Neefit was a stout little man, with a bald head and somewhat
protrusive eyes, whose manners to his customers contained a
combination of dictatorial assurance and subservience, which he had
found to be efficacious in his peculiar business. On general subjects
he would rub his hands, and bow his head, and agree most humbly with
every word that was uttered. In the same day he would be a Radical
and a Conservative, devoted to the Church and a scoffer at parsons,
animated on behalf of staghounds and a loud censurer of aught in the
way of hunting other than the orthodox fox. On all trivial outside
subjects he considered it to be his duty as a tradesman simply to
ingratiate himself; but in a matter of breeches he gave way to no
man, let his custom be what it might. He knew his business, and was
not going to be told by any man whether the garments which he made
did or did not fit. It was the duty of a gentleman to come and
allow him to see them on while still in a half-embryo condition. If
gentlemen did their duty, he was sure that he could do his. He would
take back anything that was not approved without a murmur;--but after
that he must decline further transactions. It was, moreover, quite
understood that to complain of his materials was so to insult him
that he would condescend to make no civil reply. An elderly gentleman
from Essex once told him that his buttons were given to breaking.
"If you have your breeches,--washed,--by an old woman,--in the
country,"--said Mr. Neefit, very slowly, looking into the elderly
gentleman's face, "and then run through the mangle,--the buttons will
break." The elderly gentleman never dared even to enter the shop
again.
Mr. Neefit was perhaps somewhat over-imperious in matters relating to
his own business; but, in excuse for him, it must be stated that he
was, in truth, an honest tradesman;--he was honest at least so far,
that he did make his breeches as well as he knew how. He had made up
his mind that the best way to make his fortune was to send out good
articles,--and he did his best. Whether or no he was honest in adding
on that additional half guinea to the price because he found that
the men with whom he dealt were fools enough to be attracted by a
high price, shall be left to advanced moralists to decide. In that
universal agreement with diverse opinions there must, we fear, have
been something of dishonesty. But he made the best of breeches, put
no shoddy or cheap stitching into them, and was, upon the whole, an
honest tradesman.
From 9.30 to 5.15 were Mr. Neefit's hours; but it had come to be
understood by those who knew the establishment well, that from
half-past twelve to half-past one the master was always absent. The
young man who sat at the high desk, and seemed to spend all his time
in contemplating the bad debts in the ledger, would tell gentlemen
who called up to one that Mr. Neefit was in the City. After one it
was always said that Mr. Neefit was lunching at the Restaurong. The
truth was that Mr. Neefit always dined in the middle of the day at a
public-house round the corner, having a chop and a "follow chop," a
pint of beer, a penny newspaper and a pipe. When the villa at Hendon
had been first taken Mrs. Neefit had started late dinners; but that
vigilant and intelligent lady had soon perceived that this simply
meant, in regard to her husband, two dinners a day,--and apoplexy.
She had, therefore, returned to the old ways,--an early dinner for
herself and daughter, and a little bit of supper at night. Now,
one day in June,--that very Saturday on which Sir Thomas Underwood
brought his niece home to Fulham, the day after that wicked kiss on
the lawn at Fulham, Ralph Newton walked into Neefit's shop during the
hour of Mr. Neefit's absence, and ordered,--three pair of breeches.
Herr "Bawwah," the cutter, who never left his board during the day
for more than five minutes at a time, remained, as was his custom,
mute and apparently inattentive; but the foreman came down from his
perch and took the order. Mr. Neefit was out, unfortunately;--in the
City. Ralph Newton remarked that his measure was not in the least
altered, gave his order, and went out.
"Three pair?--leather?" asked Mr. Neefit, when he returned, raising
his eyebrows, and clearly showing that the moment was not one of
unmixed delight.
"Two leather;--one cord," said the foreman. "He had four pair last
year," said Mr. Neefit, in a tone so piteous that it might almost
have been thought that he was going to weep.
"One hundred and eighty-nine pounds, fourteen shillings, and nine
pence was the Christmas figure," said the foreman, turning back to a
leaf in the book, which he found without any difficulty. Mr. Neefit
took himself to the examination of certain completed articles which
adorned his shop, as though he were anxious to banish from his
mind so painful a subject. "Is he to 'ave 'em, Mr. Neefit?" asked
the foreman. The master was still silent, and still fingered the
materials which his very soul loved. "He must 'ave a matter of twenty
pair by him,--unless he sells 'em," said the suspicious foreman.
"He don't sell 'em," said Mr. Neefit. "He ain't one of that sort. You
can put 'em in hand, Waddle."
"Very well, Mr. Neefit. I only thought I'd mention it. It looked
queer like, his coming just when you was out."
"I don't see anything queer in it. He ain't one of that sort. Do
you go on." Mr. Waddle knew nothing of the hundred pounds, nor did
he know that Ralph Newton had,--twice drank tea at Hendon. On both
occasions Mrs. Neefit had declared that if ever she saw a gentleman,
Mr. Newton was a gentleman; and Miss Neefit, though her words had
been very few, had evidently approved of Mr. Newton's manners. Now
Miss Neefit was a beauty and an heiress.
Mr. Waddle had hardly been silenced, and had just retired with
melancholy diligence amidst the records of unsatisfactory commercial
transactions, before Ralph Newton again entered the shop. He shook
hands with Mr. Neefit,--as was the practice with many favourite
customers,--and immediately went to work in regard to his new order,
as though every Christmas and every Midsummer saw an account closed
on his behalf in Mr. Neefit's books. "I did say just now, when I
found you were out, that last year's lines would do; but it may be,
you know, that I'm running a little to flesh."
"We can't be too particular, Mr. Newton," said the master.
"It's all for your sake that I come," said the young sportsman,
walking into the little room, while Mr. Neefit followed with his
scraps of paper and tapes, and Waddle followed him to write down the
figures. "I don't care much how they look myself."
"Oh, Mr. Newton!"
"I shouldn't like 'em to wrinkle inside the knee, you know."
"That isn't likely with us, I hope, Mr. Newton."
"And I own I do like to be able to get into them."
"We don't give much trouble in that way, Mr. Newton."
"But the fact is I have such trust in you and the silent gentleman
out there, that I believe you would fit me for the next twenty years,
though you were never to see me."
"Oh, thank you, Mr. Newton,--2, 4, and 1/8th, Waddle. I think Mr.
Newton is a little stouter. But, perhaps, you may work that off
before November, Mr. Newton. Thank you, Mr. Newton;--I think that'll
do. You'll find we shan't be far wrong. Three pair, Mr. Newton?"
"Yes;--I think three pair will see me through next season. I don't
suppose I shall hunt above four days, and I have some by me."
Some by him! There must be drawers full of them,--presses full of
them, chests full of them! Waddle, the melancholy and suspicious
Waddle, was sure that their customer was playing them false,--raising
money on the garments as soon as they were sent to him; but he did
not dare to say anything of this after the snubbing which he had
already received. If old Neefit chose to be done by a dishonest young
man it was nothing to him. But in truth Waddle did not understand men
as well as did his master;--and then he knew nothing of his master's
ambitious hopes.
"The bishops came out very strong last night;--didn't they?" said
Ralph, in the outer shop.
"Very strong, indeed, Mr. Newton;--very strong."
"But, after all, they're nothing but a pack of old women."
"That's about what they are, Mr. Newton."
"Not but what we must have a Church, I suppose."
"We should do very badly without a Church, Mr. Newton. At least that
is my opinion." Then Ralph left the shop, and the breeches-maker
bowed him out of the door.
"Fifty thousand pounds!" said Ralph Newton to himself, as he walked
into Bond Street and down to his club. When a man is really rich
rumour always increases his money,--and rumour had doubled the
fortune which Mr. Neefit had already amassed. "That means two
thousand a year; and the girl herself is so pretty, that upon my
honour I don't know which is the prettier,--she or Clary. But fancy
old Neefit for one's father-in-law! Everybody is doing it now; but I
don't think I'd do it for ten times the money. The fact is, one has
got to get used to these things, and I am not used to it yet. I soon
shall be,--or to something worse." Such was the nature of Ralph's
thoughts as he walked away from Mr. Neefit's house to his club.
Mr. Neefit, as he went home, had his speculations also. In making
breeches he was perfect, and in putting together money he had proved
himself to be an adept. But as to the use of his money, he was quite
as much at a loss as he would have been had he tried to wear the
garments for which he measured his customers so successfully. He
had almost realised the truth that from that money he himself could
extract, for himself, but little delight beyond that which arose
simply from the possession. Holidays destroyed him. Even a day
at home at Hendon, other than Sunday, was almost more than he
could endure. The fruition of life to him was in the completing of
breeches, and its charm in a mutton-chop and a pipe of tobacco. He
had tried idleness, and was wise enough to know almost at the first
trial that idleness would not suit him. He had made one mistake in
life which was irreparable. He had migrated from Conduit Street to a
cold, comfortless box of a house at a place in which, in order that
his respectability might be maintained, he was not allowed to show
his face in a public-house. This was very bad, but he would not make
bad worse by giving up so much of Conduit Street as was still left to
him. He would stick to the shop. But what would he do with his money?
He had but one daughter. Thinking of this, day after day, month after
month, year after year, he came slowly to the conclusion that it was
his duty to make his daughter a lady. He must find some gentleman
who would marry her, and then would give that gentleman all his
money,--knowing as he did so that the gentleman would probably never
speak to him again. And to this conclusion he came with no bitterness
of feeling, with no sense of disappointment that to such an end must
come the exertions of his laborious and successful life. There was
nothing else for him to do. He could not be a gentleman himself. It
seemed to be no more within his reach than it is for the gentleman to
be an angel. He did not desire it. He would not have enjoyed it. He
had that sort of sense which makes a man know so thoroughly his own
limits that he has no regret at not passing them. But yet in his eyes
a gentleman was so grand a thing,--a being so infinitely superior to
himself,--that, loving his daughter above anything else, he did think
that he could die happy if he could see her married into a station
so exalted. There was a humility in this as regarded himself and an
affection for his child which were admirable.
The reader will think that he might at any rate have done better than
to pitch upon such a one as Ralph Newton; but then the reader hardly
knows Ralph Newton as yet, and cannot at all realise the difficulty
which poor Mr. Neefit experienced in coming across any gentleman
in such a fashion as to be able to commence his operations. It is
hardly open to a tradesman to ask a young man home to his house
when measuring him from the hip to the knee. Neefit had heard of
many cases in which gentlemen of money had married the daughters of
commercial men, and he knew that the thing was to be done. Money,
which spent in other directions seemed to be nearly useless to him,
might be used beneficially in this way. But how was he to set about
it? Polly Neefit was as pretty a girl as you shall wish to see,
and he knew that she was pretty. But, if he didn't take care, the
good-looking young gasfitter, next door to him down at Hendon, would
have his Polly before he knew where he was. Or, worse still, as
he thought, there was that mad son of his old friend Moggs, the
bootmaker, Ontario Moggs as he had been christened by a Canadian
godfather, with whom Polly had condescended already to hold something
of a flirtation. He could not advertise for a genteel lover. What
could he do?
Then Ralph Newton made his way down to the Hendon villa,--asking for
money. What should have induced Mr. Newton to come to him for money
he could not guess;--but he did know that, of all the young men who
came into his back shop to be measured, there was no one whose looks
and manners and cheery voice had created so strong a feeling of
pleasantness as had those of Mr. Ralph Newton. Mr. Neefit could not
analyse it, but there was a kind of sunshine about the young man
which would have made him very unwilling to press hard for payment,
or to stop the supply of breeches. He had taken a liking to Ralph,
and found himself thinking about the young man in his journeys
between Hendon and Conduit Street. Was not this the sort of gentleman
that would suit his daughter? Neefit wanted no one to tell him that
Ralph Newton was a gentleman,--what he meant by a gentleman,--and
that Wallop the stockbroker was not. Wallop the stockbroker spoke
of himself as though he was a very fine fellow indeed; but to the
thinking of Mr. Neefit, Ontario Moggs was more like a gentleman than
Mr. Wallop. He had feared much as to his daughter, both in reference
to the handsome gasfitter and to Ontario Moggs, but since that second
tea-drinking he had hoped that his daughter's eyes were opened.
He had made inquiry about Ralph Newton, and had found that the young
man was undoubtedly heir to a handsome estate in Hampshire,--a place
called Newton Priory, with a parish of Newton Peele, and lodges, and
a gamekeeper, and a park. He knew from of old that Ralph's uncle
would have nothing to do with his nephew's debts; but he learned now
as a certainty that the uncle could not disinherit his nephew. And
the debts did not seem to be very high;--and Ralph had come into some
property from his father. Upon the whole, though of course there must
be a sacrifice of money at first, Neefit thought that he saw his way.
Mr. Newton, too, had been very civil to his girl,--not simply making
to her foolish flattering little speeches, but treating her,--so
thought Neefit,--exactly as a high-bred gentleman would treat the
lady of his thoughts. It was a high ambition; but Neefit thought that
there might possibly be a way to success.
Mrs. Neefit had been a good helpmate to her husband,--having worked
hard for him when hard work on her part was needed,--but was not
altogether so happy in her disposition as her lord. He desired to
shine only in his daughter,--and as a tradesman. She was troubled
by the more difficult ambition of desiring to shine in her own
person. It was she who had insisted on migrating to Hendon, and
who had demanded also the establishment of a one-horse carriage.
The one-horse carriage was no delight to Neefit, and hardly gave
satisfaction to his wife after the first three months. To be driven
along the same roads, day after day, at the rate of six miles an
hour, though it may afford fresh air, is not an exciting amusement.
Mrs. Neefit was not given to reading, and was debarred by a sense of
propriety from making those beef-steak puddings for which, within her
own small household, she had once been so famous. Hendon she found
dull; and, though Hendon had been her own choice, she could not keep
herself from complaining of its dulness to her husband. But she
always told him that the fault lay with him. He ought to content
himself with going to town four times a week, and take a six weeks'
holiday in the autumn. That was the recognised mode of life with
gentlemen who had made their fortunes in trade. Then she tried to
make him believe that constant seclusion in Conduit Street was bad
for his liver. But above all things he ought to give up measuring his
own customers with his own hands. None of their genteel neighbours
would call upon his wife and daughter as long as he did that. But
Mr. Neefit was a man within whose bosom gallantry had its limits.
He had given his wife a house at Hendon, and was contented to take
that odious journey backwards and forwards six days a week to oblige
her. But when she told him not to measure his own customers, "he cut
up rough" as Polly called it. "You be blowed," he said to the wife
of his bosom. He had said it before, and she bore it with majestic
equanimity.
Polly Neefit was, as we have said, as pretty a girl as you shall wish
to see, in spite of a nose that was almost a pug nose, and a mouth
that was a little large. I think, however, that she was perhaps
prettier at seventeen, when she would run up and down Conduit Street
on messages for her father,--who was not as yet aware that she had
ceased to be a child,--than she became afterwards at Hendon, when she
was twenty. In those early days her glossy black hair hung down her
face in curls. Now, she had a thing on the back of her head, and her
hair was manoeuvred after the usual fashion. But her laughing dark
eyes were full of good-humour, and looked as though they could be
filled also with feeling. Her complexion was perfect,--perfect at
twenty, though from its nature it would be apt to be fixed, and
perhaps rough and coarse at thirty. But at twenty it was perfect. It
was as is the colour of a half-blown rose, in which the variations
from white to pink, and almost to red, are so gradual and soft as
to have no limits. And then with her there was a charm beyond that
of the rose, for the hues would ever be changing. As she spoke or
laughed, or became serious or sat thoughtless, or pored over her
novel, the tint of her cheek and neck would change as this or that
emotion, be it ever so slight, played upon the current of her
blood. She was tall, and well made,--perhaps almost robust. She was
good-humoured, somewhat given to frank coquetry, and certainly fond
of young men. She had sense enough not to despise her father, and was
good enough to endeavour to make life bearable to her mother. She was
clever, too, in her way, and could say sprightly things. She read
novels, and loved a love story. She meant herself to have a grand
passion some day, but did not quite sympathise with her father's
views about gentlemen. Not that these views were discussed between
them, but each was gradually learning the mind of the other. It
was very pleasant to Polly Neefit to waltz with the good-looking
gasfitter;--and indeed to waltz with any man was a pleasure to Polly,
for dancing was her Paradise upon earth. And she liked talking to
Ontario Moggs, who was a clever man and had a great deal to say about
many things. She believed that Ontario Moggs was dying for her love,
but she had by no means made up her mind that Ontario was to be the
hero of the great passion. The great passion was quite a necessity
for her. She must have her romance. But Polly was aware that a great
passion ought to be made to lead to a snug house, half a dozen
children, and a proper, church-going, roast-mutton, duty-doing manner
of life. Now Ontario Moggs had very wild ideas. As for the gasfitter
he danced well and was good-looking, but he had very little to say
for himself. When Polly saw Ralph Newton,--especially when he sat out
on the lawn with them and smoked cigars on his second coming,--she
thought him very nice. She had no idea of being patronised by any
one, and she was afraid of persons whom she called "stuck-up" ladies
and gentlemen. But Mr. Newton had not patronised her, and she had
acknowledged that he was--very nice. Such as she was, she was the
idol of her father's heart and the apple of his eye. If she had asked
him to give up measuring, he might have yielded. But then his Polly
was too wise for that.
We must say a word more of Mrs. Neefit, and then we shall hope that
our readers will know the family. She had been the daughter of a
breeches-maker, to whom Neefit had originally been apprenticed,--and
therefore regarded herself as the maker of the family. But in truth
the business, such as it was now in its glory, had been constructed
by her husband, and her own fortune had been very small. She was a
stout, round-faced, healthy, meaningless woman, in whom ill-humour
would not have developed itself unless idleness,--that root of all
evil,--had fallen in her way. As it was, in the present condition of
their lives, she did inflict much discomfort on poor Mr. Neefit. Had
he been ill, she would have nursed him with all her care. Had he
died, she would have mourned for him as the best of husbands. Had he
been three parts ruined in trade, she would have gone back to Conduit
Street and made beef-steak puddings almost without a murmur. She was
very anxious for his Sunday dinner,--and would have considered it to
be a sin to be without a bit of something nice for his supper. She
took care that he always wore flannel, and would never let him stay
away from church,--lest worse should befall him. But she couldn't let
him be quiet. What else was there left for her to do but to nag him?
Polly, who was with her during the long hours of the day, would not
be nagged. "Now, mamma!" she'd say with a tone of authority that
almost overcame mamma. And if mamma was very cross, Polly would
escape. But during the long hours of the night the breeches-maker
could not escape;--and in minor matters the authority lay with her.
It was only when great matters were touched that Mr. Neefit would
rise in his wrath and desire his wife "to be blowed."
No doubt Mrs. Neefit was an unhappy woman,--more unfortunate as a
woman than was her husband as a man. The villa at Hendon had been
heavy upon him, but it had been doubly heavy upon her. He could
employ himself. The legs of his customers, to him, were a blessed
resource. But she had no resource. The indefinite idea which she had
formed of what life would be in a pretty villa residence had been
proved to be utterly fallacious,--though she had never acknowledged
the fallacy either to husband or daughter. That one-horse carriage
in which she was dragged about, was almost as odious to her as her
own drawing-room. That had become so horrible that it was rarely
used;--but even the dining-room was very bad. What would she do
there, poor woman? What was there left for her to do at all in this
world,--except to nag at her husband?
Nevertheless all who knew anything about the Neefits said that they
were very respectable people, and had done very well in the world.