“Whither wouldst thou go, Josephine, dearest Josephine? this is not well—whom wouldst thou seek?”
“My father,” she replied, in a voice whose low deep tone betrayed her emotion. “Shall he be lingering near, unheeded, uncared for by his child? Imri, stay me not; I must see him once again.”
“Thou must not, thou shalt not!” was Imri’s agonized reply, clasping her in his arms to prevent her progress. “Josephine, thy life is no longer thine own, to fling from thee thus as a worthless thing; it is mine—mine by thine own free gift; thou shalt not wrest it from me thus.”
“My child, seek not this stranger; draw not the veil aside which he has wisely flung around him. The penalty to both may not be waived—thou mayest not see him, save to proclaim—or die. My child, my child, leave me not in my old age alone.”
The mournful accents of the aged man completed what the passionate appeal had begun. Josephine sunk on a seat near him, and burst into an agony of tears. Aréli clung round her, terrified at the effect of his simple tale; and for him she roused herself, warning him to repeat the tale to none, but indeed to grant the stranger’s boon, and remember him in lowly prayers. Fearfully both Imri and Asher waited the morning, dreading lest its light should betray the stranger; and thankfully did they welcome the close of that day and the next without his reappearance. A very different feeling actuated the afflicted Aréli; he sought him with the longing wish to look on his face again, for it haunted his fancy, lingered on his love—and a yet more hallowed spot became his mother’s tomb.
The intervening days had passed, the affection of Imri bearing from the heart of Josephine its last lingering sadness, and enabling her to feel the anguish her impetuosity might have brought not only on her father and herself, but on all whom she loved. The first of May, her bridal morn, found her composed and smiling like herself. She had placed her future fate, without one doubt or fear, in the keeping of Imri Benalmar, for the tremors and emotions of modern brides were unknown to the maidens of Eshcol; once only her calmness had been disturbed, when her young brother had approached her, had clasped his arms about her neck, and with glistening eyes had written his boyish love.
“Look at the sun, sweet sister; how brightly and beautifully he shines, how soft and blue the sky, and the sweet flowers, and the little birds! Oh, they all love thee, and can smile and sing their joy! and gentle friends throng round thee, and speak loving words. Oh, why is poor Aréli alone silent, when his heart is so full? But he can pray, sweet sister; pray as thou hast taught him; and he will pray his Father to give back to thee all which thou hast done for him.”
Was it marvel that Josephine’s tears should fall over those fond words? But the boy’s caresses turned that dewy joy to softer smiles, as surrounded by her youthful companions she waited the entrance of her aged relative to conduct her to the temple.
Three hours after noon the nuptial party there assembled, marriages among the Hebrews seldom being performed at an earlier hour. Twenty young girls dressed alike, and half that number of matrons, attended the bride; and proudly did old Josef gaze upon her, as she leaned on his arm in all the grace and loveliness of beautiful womanhood, unconscious how well it contrasted with his sinewy and athletic form; his silvery beard and hair alone betrayed his four score and fourteen years. There was no shadow of age upon his features, beaming as they were, in his quick sympathy, with all around him. The path was strewed with the fairest flowers, and the freshest moss, of varied hues, while rich garlands, interwoven with the blushing fruits, festooned the trees. The whole village wore the aspect of rejoicing, and every shade passed from the brow of the young Aréli; the flush deepened on his fair cheek, the intense blue of his beautiful eye so sparkled in light, that the eyes of all were upon him, till they glistened in strange tears.
The bridegroom awaited the bride and her companions in the temple, attended by an equal number. The little edifice was filled, for marriages in Eshcol were ever solemnized in public; the number that attended evincing the feelings with which the betrothed were regarded. The ceremony commenced, and, save the voice of the officiating priest, there was silence so profound, that the faintest sound could have been distinguished.