Ilbrahim was the unconscious possessor of much skill in physiognomy,
and it would have deterred him in other circumstances from attempting
to make a friend of this boy. The countenance of the latter
immediately impressed a beholder disagreeably, but it required some
examination to discover that the cause was a very slight distortion of
the mouth and the irregular, broken line and near approach of the
eyebrows. Analogous, perhaps, to these trifling deformities was an
almost imperceptible twist of every joint and the uneven prominence of
the breast, forming a body regular in its general outline, but faulty
in almost all its details. The disposition of the boy was sullen and
reserved, and the village schoolmaster stigmatized him as obtuse in
intellect, although at a later period of life he evinced ambition and
very peculiar talents. But, whatever might be his personal or moral
irregularities, Ilbrahim's heart seized upon and clung to him from the
moment that he was brought wounded into the cottage; the child of
persecution seemed to compare his own fate with that of the sufferer,
and to feel that even different modes of misfortune had created a sort
of relationship between them. Food, rest and the fresh air for which
he languished were neglected; he nestled continually by the bedside of
the little stranger and with a fond jealousy endeavored to be the
medium of all the cares that were bestowed upon him. As the boy became
convalescent Ilbrahim contrived games suitable to his situation or
amused him by a faculty which he had perhaps breathed in with the air
of his barbaric birthplace. It was that of reciting imaginary
adventures on the spur of the moment, and apparently in inexhaustible
succession. His tales were, of course, monstrous, disjointed and
without aim, but they were curious on account of a vein of human
tenderness which ran through them all and was like a sweet familiar
face encountered in the midst of wild and unearthly scenery. The
auditor paid much attention to these romances and sometimes
interrupted them by brief remarks upon the incidents, displaying
shrewdness above his years, mingled with a moral obliquity which
grated very harshly against Ilbrahim's instinctive rectitude. Nothing,
however, could arrest the progress of the latter's affection, and
there were many proofs that it met with a response from the dark and
stubborn nature on which it was lavished. The boy's parents at length
removed him to complete his cure under their own roof.
Ilbrahim did not visit his new friend after his departure, but he made
anxious and continual inquiries respecting him and informed himself of
the day when he was to reappear among his playmates. On a pleasant
summer afternoon the children of the neighborhood had assembled in the
little forest-crowned amphitheatre behind the meeting-house, and the
recovering invalid was there, leaning on a staff. The glee of a score
of untainted bosoms was heard in light and airy voices, which danced
among the trees like sunshine become audible; the grown men of this
weary world as they journeyed by the spot marvelled why life,
beginning in such brightness, should proceed in gloom, and their
hearts or their imaginations answered them and said that the bliss of
childhood gushes from its innocence. But it happened that an
unexpected addition was made to the heavenly little band. It was
Ilbrahim, who came toward the children with a look of sweet confidence
on his fair and spiritual face, as if, having manifested his love to
one of them, he had no longer to fear a repulse from their society. A
hush came over their mirth the moment they beheld him, and they stood
whispering to each other while he drew nigh; but all at once the devil
of their fathers entered into the unbreeched fanatics, and, sending up
a fierce, shrill cry, they rushed upon the poor Quaker child. In an
instant he was the centre of a brood of baby-fiends, who lifted sticks
against him, pelted him with stones and displayed an instinct of
destruction far more loathsome than the bloodthirstiness of manhood.
The invalid, in the mean while, stood apart from the tumult, crying
out with a loud voice, "Fear not, Ilbrahim; come hither and take my
hand," and his unhappy friend endeavored to obey him. After watching
the victim's struggling approach with a calm smile and unabashed eye,
the foul-hearted little villain lifted his staff and struck Ilbrahim
on the mouth so forcibly that the blood issued in a stream. The poor
child's arms had been raised to guard his head from the storm of
blows, but now he dropped them at once. His persecutors beat him down,
trampled upon him, dragged him by his long fair locks, and Ilbrahim
was on the point of becoming as veritable a martyr as ever entered
bleeding into heaven. The uproar, however, attracted the notice of a
few neighbors, who put themselves to the trouble of rescuing the
little heretic, and of conveying him to Pearson's door.
Ilbrahim's bodily harm was severe, but long and careful nursing
accomplished his recovery; the injury done to his sensitive spirit was
more serious, though not so visible. Its signs were principally of a
negative character, and to be discovered only by those who had
previously known him. His gait was thenceforth slow, even and unvaried
by the sudden bursts of sprightlier motion which had once corresponded
to his overflowing gladness; his countenance was heavier, and its
former play of expression—the dance of sunshine reflected from moving
water—was destroyed by the cloud over his existence; his notice was
attracted in a far less degree by passing events, and he appeared to
find greater difficulty in comprehending what was new to him than at a
happier period. A stranger founding his judgment upon these
circumstances would have said that the dulness of the child's
intellect widely contradicted the promise of his features, but the
secret was in the direction of Ilbrahim's thoughts, which were
brooding within him when they should naturally have been wandering
abroad. An attempt of Dorothy to revive his former sportiveness was
the single occasion on which his quiet demeanor yielded to a violent
display of grief; he burst into passionate weeping and ran and hid
himself, for his heart had become so miserably sore that even the hand
of kindness tortured it like fire. Sometimes at night, and probably in
his dreams, he was heard to cry, "Mother! Mother!" as if her place,
which a stranger had supplied while Ilbrahim was happy, admitted of no
substitute in his extreme affliction. Perhaps among the many
life-weary wretches then upon the earth there was not one who combined
innocence and misery like this poor broken-hearted infant so soon the
victim of his own heavenly nature.
While this melancholy change had taken place in Ilbrahim, one of an
earlier origin and of different character had come to its perfection
in his adopted father. The incident with which this tale commences
found Pearson in a state of religious dulness, yet mentally disquieted
and longing for a more fervid faith than he possessed. The first
effect of his kindness to Ilbrahim was to produce a softened feeling,
an incipient love for the child's whole sect, but joined to this, and
resulting, perhaps, from self-suspicion, was a proud and ostentatious
contempt of their tenets and practical extravagances. In the course of
much thought, however—for the subject struggled irresistibly into his
mind—the foolishness of the doctrine began to be less evident, and
the points which had particularly offended his reason assumed another
aspect or vanished entirely away. The work within him appeared to go
on even while he slept, and that which had been a doubt when he laid
down to rest would often hold the place of a truth confirmed by some
forgotten demonstration when he recalled his thoughts in the morning.
But, while he was thus becoming assimilated to the enthusiasts, his
contempt, in nowise decreasing toward them, grew very fierce against
himself; he imagined, also, that every face of his acquaintance wore a
sneer, and that every word addressed to him was a gibe. Such was his
state of mind at the period of Ilbrahim's misfortune, and the emotions
consequent upon that event completed the change of which the child had
been the original instrument.
In the mean time, neither the fierceness of the persecutors nor the
infatuation of their victims had decreased. The dungeons were never
empty; the streets of almost every village echoed daily with the lash;
the life of a woman whose mild and Christian spirit no cruelty could
embitter had been sacrificed, and more innocent blood was yet to
pollute the hands that were so often raised in prayer. Early after the
Restoration the English Quakers represented to Charles II. that a
"vein of blood was open in his dominions," but, though the displeasure
of the voluptuous king was roused, his interference was not prompt.
And now the tale must stride forward over many months, leaving Pearson
to encounter ignominy and misfortune; his wife, to a firm endurance of
a thousand sorrows; poor Ilbrahim, to pine and droop like a cankered
rose-bud; his mother, to wander on a mistaken errand, neglectful of
the holiest trust which can be committed to a woman.
A winter evening, a night of storm, had darkened over Pearson's
habitation, and there were no cheerful faces to drive the gloom from
his broad hearth. The fire, it is true, sent forth a glowing heat and
a ruddy light, and large logs dripping with half-melted snow lay ready
to cast upon the embers. But the apartment was saddened in its aspect
by the absence of much of the homely wealth which had once adorned it,
for the exaction of repeated fines and his own neglect of temporal
affairs had greatly impoverished the owner. And with the furniture of
peace the implements of war had likewise disappeared; the sword was
broken, the helm and cuirass were cast away for ever: the soldier had
done with battles, and might not lift so much as his naked hand to
guard his head. But the Holy Book remained, and the table on which it
rested was drawn before the fire, while two of the persecuted sect
sought comfort from its pages.
He who listened while the other read was the master of the house, now
emaciated in form and altered as to the expression and healthiness of
his countenance, for his mind had dwelt too long among visionary
thoughts and his body had been worn by imprisonment and stripes. The
hale and weatherbeaten old man who sat beside him had sustained less
injury from a far longer course of the same mode of life. In person he
was tall and dignified, and, which alone would have made him hateful
to the Puritans, his gray locks fell from beneath the broad-brimmed
hat and rested on his shoulders. As the old man read the sacred page
the snow drifted against the windows or eddied in at the crevices of
the door, while a blast kept laughing in the chimney and the blaze
leaped fiercely up to seek it. And sometimes, when the wind struck the
hill at a certain angle and swept down by the cottage across the
wintry plain, its voice was the most doleful that can be conceived; it
came as if the past were speaking, as if the dead had contributed each
a whisper, as if the desolation of ages were breathed in that one
lamenting sound.
The Quaker at length closed the book, retaining, however, his hand
between the pages which he had been reading, while he looked
steadfastly at Pearson. The attitude and features of the latter might
have indicated the endurance of bodily pain; he leaned his forehead on
his hands, his teeth were firmly closed and his frame was tremulous at
intervals with a nervous agitation.
"Friend Tobias," inquired the old man, compassionately, "hast thou
found no comfort in these many blessed passages of Scripture?"
"Thy voice has fallen on my ear like a sound afar off and indistinct,"
replied Pearson, without lifting his eyes. "Yea; and when I have
hearkened carefully, the words seemed cold and lifeless and intended
for another and a lesser grief than mine. Remove the book," he added,
in a tone of sullen bitterness; "I have no part in its consolations,
and they do but fret my sorrow the more."
"Nay, feeble brother; be not as one who hath never known the light,"
said the elder Quaker, earnestly, but with mildness. "Art thou he that
wouldst be content to give all and endure all for conscience' sake,
desiring even peculiar trials that thy faith might be purified and thy
heart weaned from worldly desires? And wilt thou sink beneath an
affliction which happens alike to them that have their portion here
below and to them that lay up treasure in heaven? Faint not, for thy
burden is yet light."
"It is heavy! It is heavier than I can bear!" exclaimed Pearson, with
the impatience of a variable spirit. "From my youth upward I have been
a man marked out for wrath, and year by year—yea, day after day—I
have endured sorrows such as others know not in their lifetime. And
now I speak not of the love that has been turned to hatred, the honor
to ignominy, the ease and plentifulness of all things to danger, want
and nakedness. All this I could have borne and counted myself blessed.
But when my heart was desolate with many losses, I fixed it upon the
child of a stranger, and he became dearer to me than all my buried
ones; and now he too must die as if my love were poison. Verily, I am
an accursed man, and I will lay me down in the dust and lift up my
head no more."
"Thou sinnest, brother, but it is not for me to rebuke thee, for I
also have had my hours of darkness wherein I have murmured against the
cross," said the old Quaker. He continued, perhaps in the hope of
distracting his companion's thoughts from his own sorrows: "Even of
late was the light obscured within me, when the men of blood had
banished me on pain of death and the constables led me onward from
village to village toward the wilderness. A strong and cruel hand was
wielding the knotted cords; they sunk deep into the flesh, and thou
mightst have tracked every reel and totter of my footsteps by the
blood that followed. As we went on—"