_Rather Late In Life To Be Still Nameless._
On the morrow following our ride into Almaville on the passenger train,
toward twilight Ensal Ellwood sat upon the front porch of his pretty
little home, a sober look in his firm, kindly eyes. By his side sat his
aged mother, whose sweet dark face of regular features was crowned with
hair that was now white from the combined efforts of time and sorrow.
Her usually placid countenance wore a look of positive alarm. She had
just been a listener to a conversation between her son and Gus Martin.
Gus Martin was a Negro of brownish hue, whose high cheek bones, keen
eyes, coarse black hair and erect carriage told plainly of the Indian
blood in his veins. Gus was a great admirer of both Ensal and Earl
Bluefield and the three had gone to the Spanish-American war together,
Ensal, who was a minister, as chaplain, Gus and Earl as soldiers. These
three were present at the battle of San Juan Hill, and Gus, who was
himself notoriously brave, scarcely knew which to admire the more,
Ensal's searching words that inspired the men for that world-famous dash
or Earl's enthusiastic, infectious daring on the actual scene of
conflict.
Gus could read and write in a fashion, but was by no means as well
educated as either Ensal or Earl, his friends, and consequently looked
to them largely for guidance.
Earl had made efforts to secure promotion upon the record of his
services in battle, but had failed, because, according to common
opinion, of the disinclination of the South to have Negro officers in
the army. Gus Martin took Earl's failure to secure promotion more to
heart than did Earl himself. Gus was a follower but not a member of the
church of which Ensal was pastor, and he had come to pour forth his
sentiments to Ensal anent the failure of his friend Earl to be rewarded.
Ordinarily the well-known tractability of the Negro seemed uppermost in
him, but this evening all of his Indian hot blood seemed to come to the
fore. His voice was husky with passion and his black eyes flashed
defiance. He questioned the existence of God, and, begging pardon,
asserted that the Gospel was the Negro's greatest curse in that it
unmanned the race. As for the United States government, he said, "The
flag aint any more to me than any other dirty rag. I fit fur it. My
blood run out o' three holes on the groun' to keep it floatin', and
whut will it do fur me? Now jes' tell me whut?"
Ensal endeavored to show that the spirit of the national government was
very correct and that the lesser governments within the government
caused the weakness. He held that in the course of time the national
government would mould the inner circles of government to its way of
thinking.
"Excuse me, Elder; but that kind o' talk makes me sick. You are a good
Christian man, I really think; but like most cullud people you are too
jam full o' patience an' hope. I'll be blessed if I don't b'lieve Job
was a cullud man. I ganny, I got Indian blood in me and if they pester
this kid they are goin' to hear sump'in' drap."
It was to this conversation that Ensal's mother had listened with
disturbed feelings. She believed firmly in God and her only remedies for
all the ills of earth were prayer and time. Therefore it ruffled her
beyond measure to have a new spirit appearing in the race.
"Ensal, there isn't any good in that Gus Martin," said she, in earnest,
tremulous tones, nodding her head in the direction of the departing Gus.
"I may be dead, my son, but you will see that the devil will be to pay
this side of hearing the last of him," she continued.
Ensal did not look in his mother's direction, but stole one of her thin
worn hands and placed it between his own. He felt that his mother's
prediction with regard to Gus Martin was only too likely to be
fulfilled.
At this juncture two young women appeared at the gate and entered. They
were Foresta Crump and the young woman whom we saw taken to Foresta's
home on the preceding evening. Being informed that the stranger desired
a conference with him, Ensal retired to his study, lighted the room and
invited her to enter. Foresta remained upon the porch and entertained
Mrs. Ellwood, with whom she was a favorite, because of her peculiarly
lovable disposition and her attention to the aged.
When the young woman was seated, Ensal took a seat and looked in her
direction, saying, "Consider me at your service, please." There was an
air of unnatural calm about the young woman. She now removed her hat
from her head and Ensal noted that her hair was so arranged as to allow
her face to fully stand as nature gave it to her, unrelieved. He also
noticed that her attire was of a simple order throughout, though good
taste and ample means were needed to produce the results attained by her
dress. The light of the train that had told Ensal that she was
beautiful, had only hinted at the attractiveness of form and feature as
disclosed upon closer inspection.
The young woman seemed in no haste to begin the conversation about the
matter that had brought her there, and chatted with Ensal in a
desultory manner. She was studying Ensal and was affording him an
opportunity to study her. Ensal had been so highly spoken of to her, and
in her present state of mind she was so anxious to meet such a person as
he was represented to be that she was calling into requisition all the
powers of intuition of which her soul was capable.
At length an instant of quiet on the part of his visitor told Ensal that
she was now to approach the matter that had given rise to her call.
"Mr. Ellwood," began the young woman, "it sometimes happens in the
course of human life that we are compelled to appeal to the faith that
people have in us. Life is more or less a matter of faith anyway, but
ordinarily there is some sort of buttress for our faith in surrounding
circumstances. To-night, I bring not one shred of circumstance, not one
bit of history from my past life, and yet I appeal to you for faith in
me, absolute unquestioning faith."
Her earnest tones and the pleading look in her beautiful eyes and the
trembling of her form burned those words into Ensal's memory:
"I have the necessary faith," said Ensal, earnestly and quietly.
"I have come to Almaville to begin life anew. This has become necessary
through no act of my own. This is all I care to say on that point, and I
do not promise to ever break the seal of silence with regard to the
past. I wish to find a name and I wish to find friends among the really
good people of Almaville, the good Negroes. I am lately from New York
and I am your friend. With these facts and only these, can you name me,
can you place me in touch with your friends?" said the young woman.
[Illustration: "'Name me as I was named when a babe. The name that I have
borne shall know me no more,' replied the young woman."
(40-41.)]
"Name you?" enquired Ensal.
"Name me as I was named when a babe. The name that I have borne shall
know me no more," replied the young woman.
As pastor of a Negro church at a period when almost the entire
leadership of the race was centered in that functionary, Ensal was
accustomed to having all sorts of matters placed before him, but the
present requirement was rather unique in all of his experience as a
pastor. He arose from the chair and began to walk slowly to and fro
across the room, having asked the indulgence of the young woman for
resorting to his favorite method of procedure when engaged in serious
reflection. If we must tell the truth of this young man, the question
which he was debating most was somewhat at variance with those raised by
her requests.
Ensal had come to the conclusion many years previous that marriage was
not for him, and hitherto woman had had no entrance into the inner
chambers of his thoughts. And this beautiful stranger, nameless and
homeless, had almost wrested the door of his heart from its hinges,
without even an attempt thereat, and the young man was trying to
grapple with the new experiences born into his consciousness.
Finding that he lost ground by trying to reason with his heart, Ensal
let the wilful member alone and engaged in the more honest task of
naming his visitor. Turning toward the young woman, glad that he had
something to say, so that he might look into her beautiful face again,
he said:
"I name you Tiara."
Ensal assigned the name with so much warmth that Tiara dropped her eyes,
and the faintest symptoms of a smile appeared on her face.
"You have forgotten the latter part of my name," she remarked.
Ensal resumed his walking. Happening to look up at the top of his desk
he caught sight of a sculptured bust of Frederick Douglass. He paused,
and pointing to the bust, said:
"Behold one whose distinctive mission in the world was to serve as a
harbinger for his race! A star of the first magnitude, he rose in the
night of American slavery, attracted the admiring gaze of the civilized
world, and so thrilled the hearts of men that they broke the chains of
all his kind in the hope of further enriching the firmament of lofty
human endeavor with stars like unto him. I name you Tiara Douglass."
Ensal turned to Tiara, his face enkindled with enthusiasm. He stepped
back, threw up his hands, and plainly showed in his eyes the unbounded
surprise which he felt at the way in which Tiara had received his
suggestion for a surname. There Tiara sat, tears evidently long pent-up
freely flowing and her body shaking with, emotion.
To find a word expressive of Ensal's bewildered state of mind is a
problem to be handed over to the type of man engaged in the search for
perpetual motion and does not come within the purview of a simple
author. Man who tames the lion, harnesses the winds, makes a whimperer
of steam and cowers the lightning--this same vainglorious, triumphant
man is simply helpless in the presence of a woman's tears! Ensal stole
quietly to his seat and sat there in a state of amazement.
Tiara looked up through her tears, a few pretty locks of hair having now
fallen in beautiful disorder across her brow.
"Mr. Ellwood, I cannot endure the name Douglass and I cannot explain,"
said she.
Ensal now perceived that this name Douglass had somehow made the girl's
thoughts touch upon the very core of her life's troubles.
"Douglass, Douglass, Douglass; no not Douglass," repeated Tiara in
passionate tones, evidently trying to accept the name for Ensal's sake
and yet being unable to do so.
"Your name shall be Tiara Merlow," said Ensal.
"Merlow--Merlow. I like that," said Tiara.
"I will arrange for you to stop with Mrs. Helen Crawford," said Ensal.
"Thank you," said Tiara.
Tiara now arose to go, but it was evident that there was something yet
unspoken. As she reached the door of the room she turned around and
looked Ensal directly in the face. Ensal had been following her to the
door, and the two now stood near each other.
"She is just tall and large enough to be grand in appearance, which,
coupled with her beauty of face and symmetry of form, make her fit to
set a new standard of loveliness in woman," mentally observed Ensal.
"Mr. Ellwood," said Tiara, "I perceive that you are an admirer of
Frederick Douglass. Do you approve of his marriage to a white woman?"
Ensal was about to answer, when something in Tiara's look told him that
he was somehow about to pass final judgment upon himself. He looked at
Tiara to see if he could glean from her countenance a hint of her
leaning, but her countenance was purposely a blank. He now tried to
recall the tone in which she asked the question, but as he remembered
it, that, too, was noncommittal. He was not seeking to divine Tiara's
opinion with a view to shaping his own accordingly. If it was apparent
that he and she agreed, he was of course ready to answer. If they were
to differ, he preferred to postpone answering until such a time as he
might be able to accompany his answer with his reason for the same.
Ensal now said smilingly, "Practice suspension of judgment in my case.
In some way I may let you know my views on the matter later on."
"All right," said Tiara, slowly turning to leave.
It was evident to Ensal that further progress in her favor was largely
contingent upon his answer, and the marriage of Frederick Douglass to a
white woman became an exceedingly live question with him. He accompanied
Tiara and Foresta home and the moonlight and starlight never before
appeared so glorious to him or nature so benign.
After all the heart makes its world.