How different would have been their thoughts had they known that the children were Gudule's sole comfort. What their father had never heard from her, she poured into their youthful souls. No tear their mother shed was un.o.bserved by them; they knew when their father had lost, and when he had won; they knew, too, all the varying moods of his unhinged mind; and in this terrible school of misery they acquired an instinctive intelligence, which in the eyes of strangers seemed mere precocity.

The two children, however, had early given evidence of a marked difference in disposition. Ephraim's nature was one of an almost feminine gentleness, whilst Viola was strong-willed and proudly reserved.

"Mother," she said one day, "do you think he will continue to play much longer?"

"Viola, how can you talk like that?" Ephraim cried, greatly disturbed.

Thereupon Viola impetuously flung her arms round her mother's neck, and for some moments she clung to her with all the strength of her pa.s.sionate nature. It was as though in that wild embrace she would fain pour forth the long pent-up sorrows of her blighted childhood.

"Mother!" she cried, "you are so good to him. Never, never shall he have such kindness from me!"

"Ephraim," said Gudule, "speak to your sister. In her sinful anger, Viola would revenge herself upon her own father. Does it so beseem a Jewish child?"

"Why does he treat you so cruelly, then?" Viola almost hissed the words.

Soon after fell the final crushing blow. Ascher had been away from home for some weeks, when one day Gudule received a letter, dated from a prison in the neighborhood of Vienna.

In words of genuine sympathy the writer explained that Ascher had been unfortunate enough to forge the signature to a bill. She would not see him again for the next five years. G.o.d comfort her! The letter was signed: "A fellow-sufferer with your husband."

As it had been with her old father, after he had bidden her a last farewell, so it was now with Gudule. From that moment her days were numbered, and although not a murmur escaped her lips, hour by hour she wasted away.

One Friday evening, shortly after the seven-branched Sabbath lamp had been lit, Gudule, seated in her arm-chair, out of which she had not moved all day, called the two children to her. A bright smile hovered around her lips, an unwonted fire burned in her still beautiful eyes, her bosom heaved... in the eyes of her children she seemed strangely changed. "Children," said she, "come and stand by me. Ephraim, you stand here on my right, and you, dear Viola, on my left. I would like to tell you a little story, such as they tell little children to soothe them to sleep. Shall I?"

"Mother!" they both cried, as they bent towards her.

"You must not interrupt me, children," she observed, still with that strange smile on her lips, "but leave me to tell my little story in my own way.

"Listen, children," she resumed, after a brief pause. "Every human being--be he ever so wicked--if he have done but a single good deed on earth, will, when he arrives above, in the seventh heaven, get his _Sechus_, that is to say, the memory of the good he has done here below will be remembered and rewarded bountifully by the Almighty." Gudule ceased speaking. Suddenly a change came over her features: her breath came and went in labored gasps; but her brown eyes still gleamed brightly.

In tones well-nigh inaudible she continued: "When Jerusalem, the Holy City, was destroyed, the dead rose up out of their graves... the holy patriarchs Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob... and also Moses, and Aaron his brother... and David the King... and prostrating themselves before G.o.d's throne they sobbed: 'Dost Thou not remember the deeds we have done?...

Wouldst Thou now utterly destroy all these our children, even to the innocent babe at the breast?' But the Almighty was inexorable.

"Then Sarah, our mother, approached the Throne... When G.o.d beheld her, He covered His face, and wept. 'Go,' said He, 'I cannot listen to thee.'... But she exclaimed... 'Dost Thou no longer remember the tears I shed before I gave birth to my Joseph and Benjamin... and dost Thou not remember the day when they buried me yonder, on the borders of the Promised Land... and now, must mine eyes behold the slaughter of my children, their disgrace, and their captivity?'... Then G.o.d cried: 'For _thy_ sake will I remember thy children and spare them.'..."

"Would you like to know," Gudule suddenly cried, with uplifted voice, "what this _Sechus_ is like? It has the form of an angel, and it stands near the Throne of the Almighty.... But, since the days of Rachel, our mother, it is the _Sechus_ of a mother that finds most favor in G.o.d's eyes. When a mother dies, her soul straightway soars heavenward, and there it takes its place amid the others.

"'Who art thou?' asks G.o.d, 'I am the _Sechus_ of a mother,' is the answer, 'of a mother who has left children behind her on earth.' 'Then do thou stand here and keep guard over them!' says G.o.d. And when it is well with the children, it is the _Sechus_ of a mother which has caused them to prosper, and when evil days befall them... it is again the Angel who stands before G.o.d and pleads: 'Dost Thou forget that these children no longer have a mother?'... and the evil is averted...."

Gudule's voice had sunk to a mere whisper. Her eyes closed, her head fell back, her breathing became slower and more labored. "Are you still there, children?" she softly whispered.

Anxiously they bent over her. Then once again she opened her eyes, "I see you still"--the words came with difficulty from her blanched lips--"you, Ephraim, and you, my little Viola.... I am sure my _Sechus_ will plead for you... for you and your father." They were Gudule's last words. When her children, whose eyes had never as yet been confronted with Death, called her by her name, covering her icy hands with burning kisses, their mother was no more....

Who can tell what influence causes the downtrodden blade to raise itself once more! Is it the vivifying breath of the west wind, or a mysterious power sent forth from the bosom of Mother Earth? It was a touching sight to see how those two children, crushed as they were beneath the weight of a twofold blow, raised their heads again, and in their very desolation found new-born strength. And it filled the Ghetto with wonder. For what were they but the offspring of a gambler? Or was it the spirit of Gudule, their mother, that lived in them?

After Gudule's death, her eldest brother, the then owner of the grange, came over to discuss the future of his sister's children. He wished Ephraim and Viola to go with him to his home in Lower Bohemia, where he could find them occupation. The children, however, were opposed to the idea. They had taken no previous counsel together, yet, upon this point, both were in perfect accord,--they would prefer to be left in their old home.

"When father comes back again," said Eph-raim, "he must know where to find us. But to you, Uncle Gabriel, he would never come."

The uncle then insisted that Viola at least should accompany him, for he had daughters at home whom she could a.s.sist in their duties in the house and on the farm. But the child clung to Ephraim, and with flaming eyes, and in a voice of proud disdain, which filled the simple farmer with something like terror, she cried:

"Uncle, you have enough to do to provide for your own daughters; don't let _me_ be an additional burden upon you; besides, sooner would I wander dest.i.tute through the world than be separated from my brother."

"And what do you propose to do then?" exclaimed the uncle, after he had somewhat recovered from his astonishment at Viola's vehemence.

"You see, Uncle Gabriel," said Ephraim, a sudden flush overspreading his grief-stricken features, "you see I have thought about it, and I have come to the conclusion that this is the best plan. Viola shall keep house, and I... I 'll start a business."

"_You_ start a business?" cried the uncle with a loud laugh. "Perhaps you can tell me what price I 'll get for my oats next market day? A business!... and _what_ business, my lad?"

"Uncle," said Ephraim, "if I dispose of all that is left us, I shall have enough money to buy a small business. Others in our position have done the same... and then..."

"Well, and then?" the uncle cried, eagerly antic.i.p.ating his answer.

"Then the _Sechus_ of our mother will come to our aid," Ephraim said softly.

The farmer's eyes grew dim with moisture; his sister had been very dear to him.

"As I live!" he cried, brushing his hand across his eyes, "you are true children of my sister Gudule. That's all _I_ can say."

Then, as though moved by a sudden impulse, he quickly produced, from the depths of his overcoat, a heavy pocketbook. "There!"... he cried, well-nigh out of breath, "there are a hundred gulden for you, Ephraim.

With that you can, at all events, make a start; and then you need n't sell the few things you still have. There... put the money away... oats have n't fetched any price at all to-day, 't is true; but for the sake of Gudule's children, I don't mind what I do... Come, put it away, Ephraim... and may G.o.d bless you, and make you prosper."

"Uncle!" cried Ephraim, as he raised the farmer's hand to his lips, "is all this to be mine? All this?"

"Yes, my boy, yes; it _is_ a deal of money is n't it?"... said Gudule's brother, accompanying his words with a sounding slap on his ma.s.sive thigh. "I should rather think it is. With that you can do something, at all events... and shall I tell you something? In Bohemia the oat crop is, unfortunately, very bad this season. But in Moravia it's splendid, and is two groats cheaper.... So there's your chance, Ephraim, my child; you 've got the money, buy!" All at once a dark cloud overspread his smiling face.

"It's a lot of money, Ephraim, that I am giving you... many a merchant can't lay his hands on it," he said, hesitatingly; "but if... you were to... gam--"

The word remained unfinished, for upon his arm he suddenly felt a sensation as of a sharp, p.r.i.c.king needle.

"Uncle Gabriel!" cried Viola--for it was she who had gripped his arm--and the child's cheeks were flaming, whilst her lips curled with scorn, and her white teeth gleamed like those of a beast of prey. "Uncle Gabriel!" she almost shrieked, "if you don't trust Ephraim, then take your money back again... it's only because you are our mother's brother that we accept it from you at all.... Ephraim shall repay you to the last farthing.... Ephraim doesn't gamble... you sha 'n't lose a single penny of it."

With a shake of his head the farmer regarded the strange child. He felt something like annoyance rise within him; an angry word rose to the lips of the usually good tempered man. But it remained unsaid; he was unable to remove his eyes from the child's face.

"As I live," he muttered, "she has Gudule's very eyes."

And with another thumping slap on his leg, he merrily exclaimed:

"All right, we'll leave it so then.... If Ephraim does n't repay me, I 'll take _you_, you wild thing... for you've stood surety for your brother, and then I 'll take you away, and keep you with me at home. Do you agree... you little spit-fire, eh?"

"Yes, uncle!" cried Viola.

"Then give me a kiss, Viola."

The child hesitated for a moment, then she laid her cheek upon her uncle's face.

"Ah, now I 've got you, you little spit-fire," he cried, kissing her again and again. "Are n't you ashamed now to have snapped your uncle up like that?"

Then after giving Ephraim some further information about the present price of oats, and the future prospects of the crops, with a side-shot at the chances of wool, skins, and other merchandise, he took his leave.