But when the magic words were spoken, when Imri Benalmar, whose unwavering piety and steady virtue had caused him to stand highest and dearest in the estimation of his fellows, young and old, conjured her with a respectful deference, which vainly sought to calm the passionate affection of his soul, to bless him with her love, her trust—the long-hidden feelings of Josephine were betrayed, their inmost depths revealed. Blessed, indeed, was that moment to them both. Fondly did Imri combat her arguments, that she had no right to burden him with the aged Asher and her helpless Aréli, yet from them she could never consent to part.
“Had not Aréli ever been dear to him as a brother—had he not always intended to prove himself such?” he asked, with many other arguments of love; and how might Josephine reply, save with tears of strong emotion to consent to become his bride?
Josef Asher heard of their engagement with delight; but he would not consent to burden them with his continued company. True, he was old, but neither infirm nor ailing. He would retain possession of his own dwelling, which had descended to him from many generations; but the nearer his children resided, the greater happiness for him.
Imri understood the hint, and, as if by magic, a picturesque little cottage, not two hundred yards from her native home, rose before the wondering eyes of Josephine; and Aréli, as he watched its progress, clapped his hands in childish joy, and sought to aid the workmen in their tasks. Presents from all, as is the custom of the Hebrew nation, were showered on the youthful couple, to enable them to commence housekeeping with comfort, or add some little ornament or useful article of furniture to the house or its adjoining lands. The more the fiancées were beloved, the greater source of public joy was a wedding in Eshcol.
The conversation which the commencement of our tale in part records took place a few evenings previous to the day fixed for the nuptials.
On leaving his sister and her betrothed, Aréli betook himself, as was his custom, ere he joined the evening meal, to his mother’s grave, to water the flowers around it, and peruse, in his simple and innocent devotion, the little Bible which Josephine and Imri’s love had rendered into the simplest Spanish, from the Hebrew Scriptures of their race. The shades of evening had already fallen around the leafy shadowed place of tombs, but there was sufficient light remaining for the boy to discern a cloaked and muffled figure prostrate before his mother’s grave, the head resting in a posture of inexpressible anguish on the cold marble of the tomb. The stranger’s form moved convulsively, and though Aréli could distinguish no sound, he knew that it was grief on which he gazed. Softly he approached and laid his little hand on that of the stranger, who started in evident alarm, looking upon that angelic face with a strange mixture of bewilderment and love. He spoke, but Aréli shook his head mournfully, putting his arm around his neck caressingly, as if beseeching him to take comfort; then, as if failing in his desired object, he hastily drew his tablets from his vest, and wrote rapidly—
“Poor Aréli cannot speak nor hear, but he can feel; do not weep, it is so sad to see tears in eyes like thine!”
“And why is it sad, sweet boy?” the stranger wrote in answer, straining him as he did so involuntarily closer to his bosom.
“Oh, man should not weep, and man like thee, who can list the sweet voice of nature, and the tones of all he loves; who can breathe forth all he thinks, and feels, and likes. Tears are for poor Aréli, and yet they do not come now as they did once, for I have a father who loves, and who can hear me too, though none else can.”
“A father?” wrote the stranger. “Who is thy father, gentle boy? Thou bearest a name I know not. Tell me who thou art.”