To say that Elder Brown suffered on this long journey back to Macon
would only mildly outline his experience. His early morning’s fall
had begun to make itself felt. He was sore and uncomfortable.
Besides, his stomach was empty, and called for two meals it had
missed for the first time in years.
When, sore and weary, the elder entered the city, the electric
lights shone above it like jewels in a crown. The city slept;
that is, the better portion of it did. Here and there, however,
the lower lights flashed out into the night. Moodily the elder
pursued his journey, and as he rode, far off in the night there
rose and quivered a plaintive cry. Elder Brown smiled wearily:
it was Balaam’s appeal, and he recognized it. The animal he rode
also recognized it, and replied, until the silence of the city was
destroyed. The odd clamor and confusion drew from a saloon near by
a group of noisy youngsters, who had been making a night of it.
They surrounded Elder Brown as he began to transfer himself to
the hungry beast to whose motion he was more accustomed, and in
the “hail fellow well met” style of the day began to bandy jests
upon his appearance. Now Elder Brown was not in a jesting humor.
Positively he was in the worst humor possible. The result was that
before many minutes passed the old man was swinging several of
the crowd by their collars, and breaking the peace of the city.
A policeman approached, and but for the good-humored party, upon
whom the elder’s pluck had made a favorable impression, would have
run the old man into the barracks. The crowd, however, drew him
laughingly into the saloon and to the bar. The reaction was too
much for his half-rallied senses. He yielded again. The reviving
liquor passed his lips. Gloom vanished. He became one of the boys.
The company into which Elder Brown had fallen was what is known as
“first-class.” To such nothing is so captivating as an adventure
out of the common run of accidents. The gaunt countryman, with his
battered hat and clawhammer coat, was a prize of an extraordinary
nature. They drew him into a rear room, whose gilded frames and
polished tables betrayed the character and purpose of the place,
and plied him with wine until ten thousand lights danced about him.
The fun increased. One youngster made a political speech from the
top of the table; another impersonated Hamlet; and finally Elder
Brown was lifted into a chair, and sang a camp-meeting song. This
was rendered by him with startling effect. He stood upright, with
his hat jauntily knocked to one side, and his coat tails ornamented
with a couple of show-bills, kindly pinned on by his admirers. In
his left hand he waved the stub of a cigar, and on his back was an
admirable representation of Balaam’s head, executed by some artist
with billiard chalk.
As the elder sang his favorite hymn, “I’m glad salvation’s free,”
his stentorian voice awoke the echoes. Most of the company rolled
upon the floor in convulsions of laughter.
The exhibition came to a close by the chair overturning. Again
Elder Brown fell into his beloved hat. He arose and shouted:
“Whoa, Balaam!” Again he seized the nearest weapon, and sought
satisfaction. The young gentleman with political sentiments was
knocked under the table, and Hamlet only escaped injury by beating
the infuriated elder into the street.
What next? Well, I hardly know. How the elder found Balaam is a
mystery yet: not that Balaam was hard to find, but that the old man
was in no condition to find anything. Still he did, and climbing
laboriously into the saddle, he held on stupidly while the hungry
beast struck out for home.
V
Hannah Brown did not sleep that night. Sleep would not come. Hour
after hour passed, and her wrath refused to be quelled. She tried
every conceivable method, but time hung heavily. It was not quite
peep of day, however, when she laid her well-worn family Bible
aside. It had been her mother’s, and amid all the anxieties and
tribulations incident to the life of a woman who had free negroes
and a miserable husband to manage, it had been her mainstay and
comfort. She had frequently read it in anger, page after page,
without knowing what was contained in the lines. But eventually the
words became intelligible and took meaning. She wrested consolation
from it by mere force of will.
And so on this occasion when she closed the book the fierce anger
was gone.
She was not a hard woman naturally. Fate had brought her conditions
which covered up the woman heart within her, but though it lay
deep, it was there still. As she sat with folded hands her eyes
fell upon—what?
The pink bonnet with the blue plume!
It may appear strange to those who do not understand such natures,
but to me her next action was perfectly natural. She burst into a
convulsive laugh; then, seizing the queer object, bent her face
upon it and sobbed hysterically. When the storm was over, very
tenderly she laid the gift aside, and bareheaded passed out into
the night.
For a half-hour she stood at the end of the lane, and then hungry
Balaam and his master hove in sight. Reaching out her hand, she
checked the beast.
“William,” said she, very gently, “where is the mule?”
The elder had been asleep. He woke and gazed upon her blankly.
“What mule, Hannah?”
“The mule you rode to town.”
For one full minute the elder studied her face. Then it burst from
his lips:
“Well, bless me! if I didn’t bring Balaam and forgit the mule!”
The woman laughed till her eyes ran water.
“William,” said she, “you’re drunk.”
“Hannah,” said he, meekly, “I know it. The truth is, Hannah, I—”
“Never mind, now, William,” she said, gently. “You are tired and
hungry. Come into the house, husband.”
Leading Balaam, she disappeared down the lane; and when, a few
minutes later, Hannah Brown and her husband entered through the
light that streamed out of the open door her arms were around him,
and her face upturned to his.