Babylon. Volume 1. Allen Grant

the Hopkinsite Confession in secret to his upper chamber? Was he meditatin’ makin’ a public profession afore the Assembly?

      The deacon glowered and marvelled. Creeping, still quite silently, up to the bedhead, he looked with an inquiring glance over poor Hiram’s unsuspecting shoulder. A sea of words swam vaguely before his bewildered vision; words, not running into long orthodox paragraphs, like the Elder’s Ezekiel, but cut up, oh horror, into distinct sentences, each indicating a separate part in a conversation. The deacon couldn’t clearly make it all out; for it was a dramatic dialogue, a form of composition which had not largely fallen in the good man’s way: but he picked up enough to understand that it was a low pothouse scene, where one Falstaff was bandying improper language with a person of the name of Prince (given name, Henry) – language that made even the deacon’s sallow cheek blush feebly with reflected and vicarious modesty. For a moment he endeavoured, like a Christian man, to retain his wrath; and then paternal feeling overcame him, and he caught Hiram such a oner on his ears as he flattered himself that boy wouldn’t be likely to forgit in any very partickler hurry.

      Hiram looked round, amazed and stunned, his ear tingling and burning, and saw the gaunt apparition of his father, standing silent and black-browed by the bare bed-head. For a moment those two glared at one another mutely and defiantly.

      At last Hiram spoke: ‘Wal!’ he said simply.

      ‘Wal!’ the deacon answered, with smothered wrath. ‘Hiram, I am angry and sin not. What do you go an’ take them bad books up to read for? Who give ‘em you? Whar did you get ‘em? Oh, you sinful, bad boy, whar did you get ‘em?’ And he administered another sound cuff upon Hiram’s other ear.

      Hiram put his hand up to the stinging spot, and cried a minute silently: then he answered as well as he was able: ‘This aint a bad book: this is called “The Complete Dramattic Works of William Shakespeare.” Sam lent it to me, an’ it’s Sam’s book, an’ ther ain’t no harm in it, anyhow.’

      The deacon was plainly staggered for a moment, for even he had dimly heard the name of William Shakespeare; and though he had never made any personal acquaintance with that gentleman’s works, he had always understood in a vague, indefinite fashion that this here Shakespeare was a perfectly respectable and recognised writer, whose books were read and approved of even by Hopkinsite ministers edoocated at Bethabara Seminary. So he took the volume in his hand incredulously and looked it through casually for a few minutes. He glanced at a scene or two here or there with a critical eye, and then he flung the volume from him quickly, as a man might fling and crush some loathsome reptile. By this time Sam was half-awake, and sat up in bed to inquire sleepily, what all thik ther row could be about at thik time of evenin’?’ The deacon answered by going savagely to Sam’s box, and taking out, one by one, for separate inspection, the volumes he found there. He held up the candle (stuck in an empty blacking-bottle) to each volume in succession, and, as soon as he had finally condemned them each, he flung them down in an untidy pile on the bare floor of the little bedroom. Most of them he stood stoically enough; but the Vicar of Wakefield was at last quite too much for his stifled indignation. Sitting down blankly on the bed he fired off his volley at poor Hiram’s frightened head, with terrible significance.

      ‘Hiram Winthrop,’ he said solemnly, ‘you air a son of perdition. You air more a’most ‘n I kin manage with. Satan’s openin’ the door for you on-common wide, I kin tell you, sonny. It makes me downright scar’t to see you in company along of sech books. Your mother’ll be awful took back about it. I don’t mind this ‘ere about the Pirates of the Caribbean Sea, so much; that’s kinder hist’ry, that is, and mayn’t do you much harm: but sech things as this Peter Simple, an’ Wakefield, and Pickwick’s Papers – why, I wonder the roof don’t fall in on ‘em an’ crush us in the lot altogether. I’m durned ef I could have thought you’d bin wicked enough to read ‘em, sech on-principled literatoor. I sha’n’t chastise you to-night, sonny; it’s late, now, and we’ve read chapter: but to-morrer, Hiram, to-morrer, you shall pay for them thar books, take my word for it. You shall be chastened in the manner that’s app’inted. Ef I was you, I should spend the rest of the evenin’ in wrestlin’ for forgiveness for the sin you’ve committed.’

      And yet in the chapter the deacon had read at family worship that evening there was one little clause which said: ‘Quench not the Spirit.’

      Hiram slept but little that night, with the vague terror of to-morrow’s whipping overshadowing him through the night watches. But he had at least one comfort: Sam Churchill had got out and gathered up his books, and locked them carefully in his box again.

      ‘If the boss tries to touch they books again, I tell ‘ee, Hiram,’ he said bi-lingually (for absorbent America was already beginning to assimilate him), ‘’e’ll vind ‘isself a-lyin’ longways on the vloor, afore he do know it, I promise ‘ee.’ Hiram heard, and was partly comforted. At least he would still have the books to read, somehow, at some time. For in his own heart, unregenerate or otherwise, he couldn’t bring himself to believe that there could be really anything so very wicked in Henry the Fourth or Peter Simple.

      CHAPTER IV. PROFESSIONAL SOCIETY

      The deacon’s cowhide cut deep; but the thrashing didn’t last long: and after it was all over, Hiram wandered out aimlessly by himself, down the snowclad valley of Muddy Creek, and along to the wooded wilds and cranberry marshes near the Ontario debouchure, to forget his troubles and the lasting smart of the weals in watching the beasts and birds among the frozen lowlands. He had never been so far from home before, but the weather and the ice were in his favour, enabling him to get over an amount of ground he wouldn’t have tried to cover in the dry summer time. He had his skates with him, and he skated where possible, taking them off to walk over the intervening land necks or drifted snow-sheets. The ice was glare in many places, so that one could skate on it gloriously; and before he had got half-way down to Nine-Mile Bottom he had almost forgotten all about the deacon, and the sermon, and the beating, and the threatened ten chapters of St. John (the Gospel of Love the deacon called it) to be learned by heart before next Lord’s day, in expiation of the heinous crime of having read that pernicious work the ‘Vicar of Wakefield.’ It was the loveliest spot he had ever seen in all his poor unlovely little existence.

      Close under the cranberry trees, by a big pool where the catfish would be sure to live in summer, Hiram heard men’s voices, whispering low and quiet to one another. A great joy filled his soul. He could see at once by their dress and big fur caps what they were. They were trappers! One piece of romance still survived in Geauga County, among the cranberry swamps and rush beds where the flooded creek flowed sluggishly into the bosom of Ontario; and on that one piece of romance he had luckily lighted by pure accident. Trappers! Yes, not a doubt of it! He struck out on his skates swiftly but noiselessly toward them, and joined the three men without a word as they stood taking counsel together below their breath on the ice-bound marshland.

      ‘Hello, sonny!’ one of the men said in a low undertone. ‘Say whar did you drop from? What air you comin’ spyin’ out a few peaceable surveyors for, eh? Tell me.’

      ‘I didn’t think you was surveyors,’ Hiram answered, a little disappointed. ‘I thought you was trappers.’ And at the same time he glanced suspiciously at the peculiar little gins that the surveyors held in their great gauntleted hands, for all the world like Oneida traps for musk-rats.

      The man noticed the glance and laughed to himself a smothered laugh – the laugh of a person accustomed always to keep very quiet. ‘The young un has spotted us, an’ no mistake, boys,’ he said, laughing, to the others. ‘He’s a bit too ‘cute to be took in with the surveyor gammon. What do you call this ‘ere, sonny?’

      ‘I calc’late that’s somewhar near a mink trap,’ Hiram answered, breathless with delight.

      ‘Wal, it is a mink trap,’ the trapper said slowly, looking deep into the boy’s truthful eyes. ‘Now, who sent you down here to track us out and peach upon us; eh, Bob?’

      ‘Nobody sent me,’ Hiram replied, with his blue eyes looking deep back into the trapper’s keen restless grey pair. ‘I kem out all o’ my own accord, ‘cos father gave me a lickin’ this mornin’, an’