With these words the old man wept bitterly, and in his despair tore his hair.
"You are," continued he, "honest and good; do not repulse me. Aid me. I am her father; honour demands that I keep aloof from my fallen child,--I who press the chaste lips of another daughter. My heart is broken, and I come to you."
"I am at your service," said Jacob gently. "Where is the unfortunate?"
"Here in Warsaw. But I am not permitted to see her; she dares not appear before me. The vile seducer has left her dishonoured. Who knows to what degree of misery she may fall! I have brought money for her; but, for her as for myself, there must be silence as to whence it comes. Will you take charge of it?"
"Certainly. I am at your service."
"I have the money with me. Take it and procure for her a shelter and a tranquil existence, where she at least can mourn in solitude, far from mocking sneers. Let her want for nothing. This is the service I beg you to do for me."
The old man took from his pocket a wallet, and tearing it open with trembling hands placed on the table several bank-notes of value, and a piece of paper bearing in Hebrew Lia's address.
Then embracing Jacob, "I leave for home to-day," murmured he, his voice broken by his sobs. "The air of this city oppresses me. Write to me. No, no! don't write. I will return. You will tell me all. Save her. The child is weak and accustomed to tenderness. Now she must meet misery, labour, suffering."
"Cease from lacerating your heart," said Jacob. "Trust me, I will be a faithful friend."
"Do not spare expense," cried the poor father. "Don't think of economy. I will supply you with more, but I beg of you not to let her know where it comes from; rather let her believe that distant relatives have aided her, that God has touched their hearts in her behalf."