"In that case you will find her in her room. She occasionally comes down to the garden, and sits under the shade of our linden. She has no right to the garden, but she is a poor girl, sweet and quiet. I pity her. Do you know her, monsieur?"

"Very little, hardly at all; but I have been sent by the family," said Jacob, somewhat embarra.s.sed.

"Her family! At last, then, they have remembered the poor abandoned one. Oh, my good monsieur, she has suffered greatly! Go! Take the stairs. You will find a bell near her room; but if you prefer it, I will announce you. Your name? Perhaps she will refuse to see you."

"She will not recognize my name," replied Jacob.

"In that case, do as you think best, monsieur; to the right."

The staircase was old and dirty, with broken and uneven steps, and in place of a bal.u.s.trade a rope was strung from one end to the other.

Through the open doors of the rooms he could see large c.h.i.n.ks in the walls through which came the heat and rain in summer, the cold and snow in winter.

Jacob knocked two or three times at the door; receiving no response, he decided to open it gently. The spectacle which met his eyes was heartrending. A chamber, or rather a miserable garret, dest.i.tute of furniture, was dimly lighted by a little window sunk in the wall. In one corner was a pallet, and by its side an old broken-down cradle which had done service for several generations. With her head leaning on a table a young woman slept. She had evidently been overcome suddenly by fatigue, for she still held in her hand some coa.r.s.e cloth on which she had been working. Her feet touched the cradle in which reposed a feeble and sickly babe. The nourishment that the poor little thing drew from the maternal breast was not sufficient to develop its strength and vitality.

Lia opened her eyes, swollen with slumber; she believed that the intruder had made a mistake in the room, and remained silent and inert.

Her sunken eyes and sad but calm expression denoted habitual suffering with resignation to misery.

Jacob stood on the threshold, undecided. Lia spoke at last and said: "Monsieur, what do you wish? Why do you come here? Who are you?"

"I come from your relations."

"I have no relations; I am an orphan," replied she apprehensively.

"I am sent for your good," said Jacob. "Do not be afraid. I do not bring bad news," said he tenderly.

"I do not expect news from anybody," cried she; "leave me, I implore you!"

With these words her terror increased, yet her slightest movement was graceful, full of candour and charm.

Jacob commenced by speaking of her native place. She began to weep bitterly.

"They have forgotten me there," murmured she. "Oh, do not try to deceive me! Yet," added she, looking at him fixedly, "you have the appearance of a good and honest man. Why should I fear you?"

"You have no occasion for fear, my poor girl."

Just then the babe awoke and commenced to stretch out its little arms.

The mother forgot her sorrows and the presence of a stranger; she leaned over the cradle, over the only link that bound her to life, and caressed the frail creature, smiled, and spoke to him in a language which listeners do not comprehend, but which is intelligible to babies before they can speak. In this dark picture it seemed like a ray of sunshine. The infant soon slept again, soothed by his mother's caresses. During this scene Lia's beautiful hair became unloosed; it fell over her shoulders in thick tresses whose length denoted that she was unmarried, for the Jewish law obliges married women to wear their hair short. She blushingly repaired the disorder of her toilet and offered her visitor the only chair in the room, while she sat down timidly on the edge of the bed.

In the meanwhile Jacob had examined the room; a few iron pots on the little stove showed that Lia did her own cooking; stretched on a ladder against the wall some linen was drying. In spite of poverty the room was exquisitely clean, and from the open window could be seen the trees, while the birds sang in the garden.

"Your family have sent me," said Jacob. "Your friends have perhaps been too severe, but they still love you. You are in want of"--

"No, I am very well where I am. The house is quiet, no one disturbs me, no one questions me; at first it was a little trying, but now I am accustomed to it."

"If not for yourself, it is necessary for your child that you should leave this unwholesome place. That is the object of my visit; you must take a better lodging and a maid to help you."

Lia looked at Jacob, and her eyes filled with tears.

"But I desire nothing," said she.

"I bring you money," replied Jacob.

"I will not have it. I refuse this charity. I can work for my baby and myself."

"Your work will kill the poor little one who is dying for want of nourishment."

"Why should he live with my shame graven on his brow? He is my consolation, my only joy, but how much better would it have been for him never to have been born!"

"Do not despair; have confidence in divine goodness. You have been deceived by a wicked man."

"Wicked! Ah, yes, very wicked! I, who believed his words; I, who loved him so--perhaps he has sent you?"

"No."

"Swear it!" cried Lia.

"I swear it," replied Jacob.

"Then who is the charitable person?"

"It is enough for you to know that it is not he. As for the person from whom I come, it is a near relation, but you must not ask the name; I am not permitted to tell you. Confide in me. I will find you a quiet house where you will be protected."

"Oh, no! no protector, I wish to be alone."

"As you please; but at least you must leave here, and permit me to leave you a small sum for your immediate expenses."

"G.o.d is merciful, but man is wicked! I cannot believe that I can find a better place than this, where I am concealed and ignored; elsewhere they may be curious."

"Do not fear. I a.s.sure you I will find an asylum as retired as this, but more commodious."

"G.o.d is merciful!" repeated Lia. She kissed the infant's brow, and held out to Jacob a wasted hand, wasted by fatigue and poverty.

"I have been deceived once," said she; "but notwithstanding all that, I have confidence in you. Some one has thought of me enough to send you; perhaps they weep and love me still; but if it were not for my baby I would not leave this place. I cannot earn enough for two. I have had frightful days: only a cup of water, a crust of dry bread, and not a cent for milk. I knew not where to find work. I lost my head. I wished to die, yet the child demanded life. What terrible nights have I pa.s.sed in cold and hunger while the child tore my heart with its cries. Oh, you cannot imagine greater torture!"

"You will be delivered now," said Jacob gently. "But one thing that I cannot understand is why you did not demand of the seducer aid for his child."

"I!" cried she. "I accept anything from that wretch! Before doing that I would a thousand times rather die, and see my child die. He wished to give me an income for life, and I threw his money in his face. He is a stranger to me, and my child shall never know him; he would have reason to blush for his father. Never shall my lips utter his cursed name, and I will efface it from my memory."

Jacob soothed her, and gradually rea.s.sured she asked:--

"Have you come from my house? Have you seen the old man whose name I dare not utter, the old man with a white beard, and the afflicted mother, and the sister who suffers for my shame, and the house where all were so happy before my folly converted it into a house of mourning and covered it with shame?"

"No, I have not been there recently."

"I believe I recognize you now. I saw you once when we were all so happy. You came one Sabbath, did you not? and you had a long and serious interview with the aged man."

"Yes. And I have not been there since that time."