Chapter VI: Mr. Lewis Nathan Introduces Himself

A few words are necessary to fill up the gap in our story. Directly Mr. Hart arrived home, he sought out William Smith's mother, and executed his friend's commission. This done, to the extravagant delight of the old woman (you may be sure that Mr. Hart was not sparing in his praises of William Smith), Mr. Hart and Margaret set off for Devonshire. Years ago, when his darling Lucy was a little child, he had confided her to the care of friends, so called, who had promised to look after her as a daughter. How they had fulfilled their trust may be judged by the circumstance that when, after his long absence, her father was announced, the gentle girl ran into his arms, sobbing, and begged him never again to leave her. He then discovered that she had for the last two years led an unhappy life in the house, and that she was nothing less than a dependent there. He chid her gently for allowing him to remain in ignorance of the true state of affairs, and he released her at once from her bondage.

"We will never be parted again, my darling," he said, with fond caresses; "your father will protect you now."

She clung to him affectionately. The old man was proud of his daughter, and already she was proud of him.

"I will make you happy, child," he said.

"Will you, papa?" she asked, with a little sob; but seeing that this made him look sorrowful, she dried her tears, and gazed into his face with a smile on her lips.

"That's right, my darling," he said; "be brave, be brave."

She shook her head seriously.

"Ah! but I am not brave," she replied; "not a bit--not a little tiny bit! That is why I am so glad you have come home to take care of me."

He took her at once to Margaret, and told her that Lucy was his pride, his heart, the flower of his life. Before they were in each other's company an hour, these two girls--for Margaret, although a woman in sorrow, was but a girl in years--were like sisters. Mr. Hart's face was radiant as he saw them sitting together, and observed their affectionate demeanour. Their natures, however, were different. Margaret, as you have seen in her happier days, was sparkling, vivacious, restless; Lucy was timid, yielding, more passive. The passions that agitated Margaret's breast were at once seen on the surface, in all their strength; those by which Lucy was moved were unrevealed except to the eyes of love in their quieter aspect, whether of joy or sorrow. These two girls fell immediately into their natural positions. Margaret assumed the office of protector, and Lucy, to whom dependence was a pleasure, accepted with gratefulness the shield which her new friend threw before her. Each, in her way, thanked Mr. Hart for giving her such a friend.

They had lodgings in the heart of Plymouth. Margaret and Mr. Hart, setting out in quest of them, saw in a shop-window the announcement that rooms were to be let in that house. The shop was a clothes-shop of not the best kind, and at the door stood a man of Jewish aspect, who was evidently attracted by Margaret's face.

"Did you notice how that man stared at you, Margaret?" asked Mr. Hart.

"No," was the reply, in an indifferent tone.

She turned, and saw the man still staring at her. He was loosely and somewhat slovenly dressed, but his eyes were so wonderfully sparkling, and his handsome face (although he was at least fifty years of age) wore such a cheerful and almost philanthropic expression, that the chances were if your eyes rested once upon him you would turn again to look.

The man came forward.

"I beg your pardon," he said, in a slightly guttural tone, "but you are strangers in Plymouth?"

He did not look at Mr. Hart.

"We are strangers," replied Mr. Hart.

"I thought so--I thought so. Can I do anything for you?

"No, thank you," said Mr. Hart, "we don't want any clothes."

"That's a pity; I could have served you cheap. But I didn't mean in that way, though I'm always ready for business--always ready. I know a customer when I see one. I'm an old resident here, and there is something you might want to know."

"We are looking for lodgings."

The shopkeeper replied eagerly, "I have the very thing you want, the very thing. Two rooms or four--made for you, made for you."

"You sell all your things ready-made," observed Mr. Hart, with a humorous look.

"Yes, yes," said the shopkeeper, with a good-humoured smile, rubbing his hands slowly over one another, as though he were washing them with invisible soap; "all ready-made, all ready-made."

What most attracted you towards this man were his eyes. They fairly sparkled with humour. But for their remarkable brightness Mr. Hart would have passed on, had he been allowed to do so; for the matter of that, however, the shopkeeper might have barred his way, being, as are all of his race, singularly tenacious in the negotiation of a bargain. And here there was a bargain in question; the strangers wanted lodgings; he had lodgings to let. To hesitate with such a man is to be lost. Mr. Hart hesitated.

"Come and see them," said the shopkeeper, and did not wait for acquiescence in words, but led the way.

They followed him, like sheep. There was magnetism in the man. He would make you buy a thing if you did not want it. That you did not want it did not matter to him; he had it to sell. To sell it was his business; and in his business he, as a representative man, beat the world.

Mr. Hart and Margaret walked through the shop, the shelves of which bent beneath the weight of ready-made clothes, up a flight of stairs to the first floor. There were four rooms on the floor comfortably furnished.

The shopkeeper revelled in his description of the rooms; to have heard him you would have believed the house was a palace. "Look at the view," said he, pointing to the dingy other side of the way, and making it bright by a magic wave of his hands; "look at the furniture; look at the couch--sit on it, it won't hurt you; real horsehair. Now just oblige me, and sit in this arm-chair--just to oblige me! What do you think of it? Is it easy, is it comfortable? Look at the pictures; look at the piano--run your fingers over it; look at the carpet. Here! sound the walls" (as though there was music in them); "look at the loftiness" (as though there was magic in the ceiling); "look at the ornaments; look at the fireplace."

And all the while he dilated upon the excellences of the apartments he washed his hands with invisible soap, and his face beamed with geniality. Such capital fellows at a bargain as he never betray anxiety.

"They are really very comfortable," said Mr. Hart, apart, to Margaret; "what do you say to them?"

"If you are satisfied, I am," she replied listlessly.

She could not be roused to take interest in anything.

"I am afraid he is a Jew," said Mr. Hart in a confidential whisper.

The shopkeeper heard the remark, and he smiled--a superior smile.

"Don't be afraid," he said good-humouredly, showing a fine set of white teeth. "I _am_ a Jew, but I shan't bite you."

Mr. Hart was remorseful; he had no wish to hurt the man's feelings.

"I beg your pardon," he said, flushing up.

"For what?" asked the shopkeeper. "For saying you were afraid I was a Jew? My dear sir, I'm proud of it, proud of it." And then he made this singular statement: "If I hadn't been a Jew, I shouldn't have spoken to this young lady."

"Indeed!" exclaimed Mr. Hart, in a tone which invited an explanation.

"You wouldn't take me for a Jew from my appearance," continued the shopkeeper, thus giving utterance to a strange hallucination indulged in by many of the race, for the speaker's Jewish cast of features was unmistakable; "but perhaps my name over the shop-door was enough for you?"

"No," said Mr. Hart; "I did not observe your name."

"The letters are big enough any way; every man and woman in Plymouth knows Lewis Nathan."

Margaret looked up with a sudden exclamation of surprise, and advanced a step towards Mr. Nathan.

"What name did you say?" she asked, with a strange fluttering at her breast.

"Lewis Nathan, my dear," he replied, in an earnest fatherly tone; and then, more earnestly still, "Have you heard it before, my dear?"

She did not reply to him, but drew Mr. Hart aside, and whispered a few words to him in an agitated manner. His countenance expressed surprise.

"We will take the rooms," he said to Mr. Nathan, "if the terms are suitable; we are bound to consider our circumstances, for we are not rich. We have only been in England a few days, and we don't know how long we may stop; so we cannot take them for any definite time."

"The terms will suit you; I'll make them suit you," said Mr. Nathan, with a strange obliviousness of self-interest. "You can take possession at once--you and your daughter."

"This lady is not my daughter. I have a daughter who will live with us; I will bring her here to-day."

"And is that all--only three?"

"Only three of us. You seem disappointed that there are no more."

"I thought--I thought," said Mr. Nathan, hesitating, "that this young lady had a mother."

"She he is dead, poor soul!" murmured Margaret, with tears.

Mr. Nathan turned aside, trembling somewhat, and when he addressed them again, his voice was softer and his eyes were dim.

"Don't think me impertinent, my dear," he said drawing closer to Margaret, "but was your mother--God rest her soul!--ever in Plymouth?"

"She lived here for a long time."

"I have lived here all my life; I thought I recognised your face, though you are taller, but not prettier. No, my dear, not prettier. Did she--forgive me if I am wrong--did she have anything to do with the stage?"

"She was an actress, sir, and I have often heard her mention your name."

"Kindly, my dear?"

"Always kindly, always."

Mr. Nathan sat down, and hid his face. Margaret approached him, and placed her hand on his shoulder; he looked up with tears in his eyes.

"And you're her daughter," he said, taking her hand and kissing it. "She was a good creature, rest her soul! What is your name?"

"You must call me Margaret."

"So I will, my dear, so I will. Why, it's like old times come again What a piece of luck it is that you passed my shop! I'm as pleased as if I'd done a fine day's business."

* * * * * *

It was in this way that Margaret came to the house of her mother's Jewish lover; and there they lived together, she and Lucy and Lucy's father, for many weeks before the day on which Mr. Hart discovered where the sign of the Silver Flagon was hung, and on which he met with the old friend of his youth. Those few weeks were full of anxieties. Margaret was still very despondent; his daughter Lucy was growing thin and pale, and his own funds were running short. The prospect was not a cheerful one, and he scarcely knew which way to turn. Fortunately for all of them, at this juncture an unexpected friend presented himself in the person of Mr. Lewis Nathan. When he had possessed himself of the true state of affairs, he offered to lend Mr. Hart money to go on with, and offered it without interest, be it stated.

"Suppose I am not able to pay you?" asked the old man.

"It wouldn't break my heart," was the reply.

"No," said Mr. Hart, without any expression of surprise at the offer, for he had already learned to estimate Mr. Nathan at his proper worth, "I'll not borrow money from you yet awhile. I am able to earn it--or should be."

"In what way?"

"I am an actor," replied Mr. Hart; and thereupon, to Mr. Nathan's great delight, related to him the history of Hart's Star Dramatic Company.

"I know the proprietor of the theatre here," then said Mr. Nathan; "I often lend him costumes. Margaret's mother played on his stage. I'll get an engagement for you."

He was as good as his word, and once more Mr. Hart was on the boards, playing old men this time; while Mr. Nathan sat in front and led the applause. He played under the assumed name of Hunter, and kept it as long as he could from Lucy and Margaret. One night he found them both waiting outside the theatre. Mr. Nathan was with him.

"I've a good mind never to forgive you," said Margaret to Mr. Nathan.

Mr. Nathan would have meekly borne the blame, but that Mr. Hart told Margaret the real state of affairs. "My purse was almost empty, Margaret, and Mr. Nathan wanted to fill it. But I couldn't accept his money while I was able to work. And really the engagement is not a bad one, and I am already a great favourite with the audience and the company."

"I should think you were," she cried; "who could help loving you?"

"Nay, nay, my dear child----"

She interrupted him impetuously. "I mean it! I mean it! You are always doing noble things--always! Do you think I shall ever forget how you risked your own life to save that of my darling Philip? In vain, alas! in vain. And before that too! Did you not save him from being stung to death? But if you are strong enough to work, how much stronger am I? I will go on the stage again, and earn money for us. I will! I will!"

He would scarcely listen to the proposition; but she was so determined that he could only pacify her by promising her that if they could not find Philip's father before the end of three months, she should be allowed to have her own way. When the contest was over, she went to Mr. Nathan, and took his face between her pretty hands and kissed him.

"I don't wonder my poor dear mother was fond of you," she said. "And now tell me why you have never married."

"I never saw any one but your mother that I cared for, my dear," replied Mr. Nathan; "she would have married me if I had turned Christian."

"And you would have married her if she had turned Jewess?"

"Yes, it is so."

"You are as good a man as any Christian," cried Margaret.

"I hope so, my dear," said Lewis Nathan, with outward meekness; believing in his heart, I have no doubt, that he was much better. But that's none of our business.

And here I must say some special words. Very few, if any one, of my readers would have supposed that Mr. Nathan was a Jew, if the fact had not been disclosed to them in the preceding lines. They would not have supposed so, simply because he speaks in fairly good English, and because it has hitherto been the invariable rule in English fiction to represent a Jew as speaking a kind of jargon, which has its source only in the imagination of the writers, who are either prejudiced or not well informed upon the matter. It is time the fallacy was exploded. The "S'help me's!" the "Ma tear's!" and the "Vell! vell! vell's!" which in English fiction and on the English stage are set down as indispensable in the portrayal of an English Jew are ridiculous perversions of fact. They do not belong even to the lowest class of English Jews, who, as a rule, speak their language pretty correctly. The English complain, with justice, that they are never properly represented upon the French stage; the English Jews may, with equal justice, and equal truth, assert that their position in English fiction is as much a caricature as is the representation of the typical Englishman in a French theatre.

Now, our Mr. Lewis Nathan spoke exceedingly good English, and small as is the part he plays in this fiction, it is quite worth while that he should be faithfully represented.