two souls were loosed from the body and entered space, they drifted
without knowledge of their destination; but that an intelligent power
directed them is proved by this; although so far apart, the soul of
Arthur Lombard sought the body of the gypsy Petronelli; and the spirit
of Petronelli was forced to enter the effeminate body of Arthur Lombard.
“I can speak only of my own impression; I, the soul of the gypsy,
Petronelli, and the body of the aesthetic banker, Arthur Lombard. When I
regained consciousness I had but a confused mingling of ideas; some
things—impressions, knowledge, thoughts—which had been the property of
Lombard, haunted me; it was as though these things had been photographed
on the brain, to be brought forth and used by the occupant of the body
as occasion required. I did not understand the use of this knowledge; I
detested the fair-skinned body; I hated the limitations of his
life—which you call refinements; the greatest trial of all was that for
a long time I did not know what I was fighting against. I knew only that
I was miserably unhappy.
“I hated the soft, cool caresses of Edith; I was tormented with a misty
memory—which I could not drive from my mind—of arms which had encircled
my neck, and had set my being on fire. I hated the reproof in Edith’s
calm eyes, and the low voice which grew so cool as I pushed away her
hands, or answered her roughly; she was offended in such a grand, cold
way. My Andalusia would have upbraided me with hot words, uttered in her
shrill, sweet voice; she would have given me blow for blow, then we
should have kissed with fond words, and loved better than ever. I hated
the house with its elegant furnishings, its heavy, hot carpets, and
close, stifling atmosphere.
“I longed for the cool, leafy woods; for the carpet of green grass. I
felt an insane desire to crush the globes on the incandescent lights,
which parodied the light of the moon; that soft southern moon, which,
with its coterie of stars, looked down upon my bed of boughs while I
slept in that happy time before disaster came.
“For a long time I could not put these feelings into words, or even into
thoughts; I knew only that these things I hated, and I madly desired to
get away; it was like the restlessness of some caged animal. During all
of this time those teachings which had left their impression upon the
brain matter tortured me, suggesting and urging other thoughts so at
variance with those rebellious feelings that it almost drove me mad.
“Then when Wilbur came it seemed as though my soul must leap out of the
hateful body which held it in limitation. Instantly I recognized my own,
my hands have many times itched to throttle the usurper of my person, so
that I might seize that which belonged by right to me. Oh, how I hate
this milk-and-water flesh! These soft muscles, and dainty palms!
“With his coming—Wilbur, by the way, is but an assumed name—it seemed to
give that hazy sense of something gone before, something half
remembered, like a dream of the night—a shock. I concentrated every
effort of my being until scenes from my former life began to float
before my mental vision; dense woods, with leaves of a glossy, dark
green; lilies standing tall and white; a great bay of water reflecting
the blue of a cloudless sky and the green of the trees on its placid
bosom. There was ever the vague shadow of a form which filled my veins
with fire, and my whole soul with longing, but it floated just beyond my
mental grasp. Many a time as I walked under the stars I could have cried
aloud, it seemed so near, and yet—eluded me I could not remain within
the walls of that elegantly furnished room which was called mine; so at
night I wandered far, and lay on the cool, dew wet grass, and strove to
solve the tormenting problems.
“That evening when Andalusia followed us, I had been more than usually
unsettled and troubled; there was a softness in the atmosphere; a mellow
light shed by the descending sun; a faint, odorous stirring of the warm
wind, which made my brain throb as though it would burst, so suggestive
were all things of that half remembered southern land. When Andalusia
brushed past us, and the light of her eyes entered my soul, the final
knowledge came to me, as had that other; I remembered all, and in a
transport of joy I called out her name. It was well for _him_ that I
cried out—my body would have been a vacant tenement otherwise; but
unless I also was released from this hateful bondage it would have been
useless, as I could not, unless through the same condition which at
first existed, have reclaimed my own.
“Andalusia sought Wilbur, thinking herself deserted by me; she was mad
with jealousy long before he fled; she frightened him with her ardent
love, and I suppose when angered repelled him by her wild bursts of
passion; his cold nature could not appreciate the tropical love of my
Andalusia.
“That evening on the street, when I cried out ‘Andalusia,’ she
recognized my voice, but thought it some trick to deceive her; you know
that in our land, and especially among our people, there are many
incredible and wonderful things done to cheat the imagination; but when
I said in Romany, which seemed to drop from my tongue without my will:
“Be at the entrance of the park to-night at twelve; I, your Antoni, will
meet you;” she swept me a burning gaze of wondering doubt, and
disappeared. I met her as I promised, but could not convince her that I
spoke the truth; she scornfully taunted me with the eyes, which she
declared that I had stolen from the summer sky, an open page whereon to
print all my baby passions; she lifted herself to look over my head, and
mock me with her shrill laughter; one thing only consoled me; I knew
when she promised again to meet me, that though she derided, she was not
quite sure. It seemed that Wilbur—Ugh! I cannot call him Petronelli—he
has no right to the name, he stole my body, but—I am I, in spite of it!
Well, he utterly refused her love; he resisted her caresses, and showed
such unmistakable aversion that he drove her wild; she upbraided him
fiercely, and—like a coward—he fled from her.
“What led him here? Was it the hand of the All Wise, or the homing
instinct implanted in man? He came, and you know how he filled the
place, and how perfectly the place fitted him.
“For long weeks I failed to convince Andalusia; weeks that were filled
with the madness of despair, with the agony of vain pleading, of being
scorned and taunted with my baby skin, until every time that I looked at
Wilbur, I could scarcely restrain my hands.
“Andalusia watched his every movement; that night when she fired the
pistol she thought that she had found her rival, and had she been less
angry would have killed her; her emotion, only, rendering her hand
unsteady.
“I followed her and appointed a place of meeting; at first she would not
listen, but finally consented; saying that old Martini Sistine was with
her, hidden in the shrubbery. I was rejoiced, for old Martini knows much
that is hidden from all the rest of the world; she can talk familiarly
with those who have departed this life; and to her the stars are as an
open book. Martini knew that I spoke the truth, and in trying to
convince Andalusia she also explained much which I had been unable to
grasp. Andalusia at first would hear nothing of it, but cried
scornfully, touching the fair hair as though it were some vile thing,
and prodding my flushed cheek viciously:
“‘_This_ is not my Antoni!’ Then said Martini severely:
“Daughter of the South, born in the wild wood among nature’s sweetest
mysteries, do you doubt the first one which touches you? For shame! If
you saw a branch lopped off the tree under which you sat, would you cry
out that this was no longer the same tree? If you should lose your fair
right arm, are you not still Andalusia? If you were bereft of both limbs
and arms, and nothing but the disfigured trunk remained, you would still
be Andalusia. It is the within, which is in reality the personality.
Your Antoni is the same, but he is unfortunate in having to bear this
effeminate body; have you no pity for his misfortune?”
“Then my Andalusia wept on my neck, and begged forgiveness for all her
unkind words; and though she cried continually: ‘Poor Antoni!’ I was so
happy that for a time I forgot all about my hateful body.
“We are going to our own land; Martini, my Andalusia and I. Wilbur can
take the cool-blooded Edith and welcome; their placid imitation of love
is like ice to fire as compared to the glorious tumult of passion which
swells in the hearts of the unfettered children of the free wild wood.
“I have taken this money and the diamonds, yet—I am no thief! That
portion of myself, known to the sight as Arthur Lombard—the hateful
body, thrust upon me without my consent—I am compelled to retain against
my will; that body has a right to maintenance, and I have taken of
Arthur Lombard’s money to care for it. I have left the balance to the
soul of Arthur Lombard; and as a last request, I ask him to be kind to
the body of poor, cheated Antoni Petronelli.”
LIMITATIONS.
A brown faced, tangle-haired, barefooted little girl; a long country
road, its yellow clay beaten into powder, which rose with every gust of
wind into whirling eddies, and spitefully enveloped each passer-by in a
grimy cloak, and followed after each vehicle like an abhorrent specter.
Long rows of maple cast their cool shadows from either side; raspberries
and blackberries grew in the corners of the old rail fence; a narrow
footpath cut like a yellow thread into the thick green sod; here and
there a sweet-william held up its fragrant head; and in the field beyond
the long rows of corn rustled their broad leaves, and murmured together.
Thella swung her sunbonnet by the strings, and gave a little
hop-skip-and-jump for very joy of living. She stopped instantly, as she
heard, “Thella! Thella!” called in a fretful, rasping tone.
“Yes’m,” answered she, at the top of a high-pitched, young voice, as she
ran rapidly toward a stout, red-faced woman, who stood leaning over the
top of the gate.
“I declare to goodness, you make me think of a turkey! It’s no wonder
that you are the ugliest young one living! Look at that mop of hair, and
that slit in your dress!” said she, her voice raised to a shrill scream.
Thella dropped her head, and drew her black brows together sullenly.
“Why don’t you put that sunbonnet on your head? Oh, drat you, get out of
my sight, you little imp!”
Thella had been digging one brown toe in the dust, but at the conclusion
of the tirade she darted past the woman, dextrously dodged a blow and
ran into the house. She flew upstairs into the attic; there was a little
square window, draped over with cobwebs; Thella had rubbed the grime off
the lower panes, but she left the cobwebs—she called them her curtains,
and the spiders her little lace makers. From out the rubbish she had
long ago hunted a mirror, with a very wavy surface. She crouched on the
floor with her head bowed upon the window-sill, sobbing bitterly; the
most forlorn little thing imaginable.
Her stepmother’s voice faintly reached her:
“Thella! Thella! Drat the child! she’d wear the patience out of a
saint!” whether she intended to imply that she was a saint or not, I do
not know.
Thella only gave a little flout: “You can split your old throat for all
that I care.”
Anger dried her tears; she softly crept across the loose boards of the
floor, and brought her looking-glass to the window. She sat looking at
herself mournfully; it was not a pretty picture upon which she gazed; a
grimy, tear-stained face, as brown as a coffee-berry, heavy black
eyebrows, arched over a pair of intense gray eyes; the wavy glass had a
trick of elongating the visage which made it very comical; added to
this, her hair hung like a black cloud all about her face. She threw
down the glass in disgust:
“Thella Armitage, you do look like a little Indian! Oh, what shall I
do?” her chin beginning to quiver again; but presently she rested her
face on her hand, and sat gazing at the fleecy clouds chasing each other
across the sky, and wandered off into dreamland; these were her
soldiers, and the great white cloud with a rose-colored border was her
chariot, and she was going:
“Thella! Thella Armitage! If you don’t come down here and wash these
dishes I’ll skin you,” called her stepmother, up the stairs.
“All right, maybe a decent skin would grow on then,” muttered Thella.
She went down into the hot kitchen and washed the dishes; but every
minute she stole a glance at her pretty clouds through the open window.
“What are you gawping at? ’tend to your work,” said Mrs. Armitage
crossly. She did not mean to be actually unkind, but she had no
appreciation of another’s feelings, much less of Thella’s dreamy, poetic
temperament. Thella shot her an angry look, and sullenly went on with
her work, the beauty all taken out of the clouds, her fairylike day
dreams buried in gloom.
No sooner were the dishes washed than Thella was set to knit her stint;
oh, how she hated that interminable stocking! The rounds seemed endless;
and if she thought about something nice for just one little minute the
stitches would drop and run away down; then Mrs. Armitage would angrily
yank the stocking out of her hand, pull the needles out, and ravel out
all her evening’s work. When at last the hateful task was accomplished,
and the old clock sitting in its little niche in the wall—like a
miniature shrine for the Virgin Mary—rang out its nine slow strokes, she
would run up to the old east chamber where she slept, in an agony of
stifled rage.
Mrs. Armitage would allow her only a small bit of candle: “You’re not
going to read those good-for-nothing books; you jest go to bed and go to
sleep; I want you to be fit for something in the morning.”
So she was forced to hurry in between the sheets, after blowing out the
light, often to lie there wakeful; dreaming such lovely, impossible
dreams by the hour. On moonless nights the skurry of a rat, or the
cracking of the old timbers in cold weather, would send little shivers
creeping up and down her back; but when the silvery moon shone in at the
curtainless window she would lie wide-eyed, riding to strange, unheard
of countries on its silver bars.
One happy day a neighbor loaned her the “Arabian Knights;” she hurried
through her tasks, which were neither short nor easy, and ran joyously
up to the garret; a pane of glass had been broken, and a pewee had flown
in and built her nest in an old basket suspended from the rafters. So
careful was Thella not to frighten the mother bird, that she fearlessly
sat on the window-sill and called to her four little children: “Phebe!
Phebe!”
Thella rested her chin on her hand thoughtfully:
“I don’t see how you know them apart if they are all named Phebe,” said
she.
She was far away in an enchanted land with Alladin, and did not hear
Mrs. Armitage creep up to her; the first intimation she had of her
presence was an awful blow on the ear which made her see stars, and
knocked the book half across the room.
“You lazy, trifling trollope! I’ll learn you to spend your time reading
such trash. Now you march downstairs, and if you can’t find anything
else to do go out in the garden and weed them onion beds,” saying which
she pounced viciously upon the book.
“Pa said I need not weed them until the sun went down, and it got
cooler,” faltered Thella.
“Your father is learnin’ you to be as lazy as he is himself,” snapped
Mrs. Armitage; “you march, now, and no more of your sass.”
Thella rose and pushed back her heavy hair, preparatory to following
her.
“Will you please let me put away the book?” she said.
“I’ll please put it in the fire,” she replied viciously.
“Oh, no, no! Don’t, it isn’t mine!” she cried frantically as she made a
vain endeavor to reach it.
Mrs. Armitage gave her another resounding slap: “There, take that, you
little cat!”
As she commenced descending the stairs Thella darted before her, and
hurriedly ran to the field to her father; she caught hold of his hands
and pulled the hoe away from him.
“Don’t daughter, ma will be mad if I don’t keep to work,” he said
pathetically.
“Oh, pa, I’ll hoe in your place; do go and take my book away from her,
she’s going to burn it, and it isn’t mine at all; it’s Willie Burt’s!”
she cried in agitated incoherence. “Oh, hurry, pa! Don’t let her burn
it,” her voice full of tears. He stooped for one instant and laid his
hand caressingly upon her head.
“Poor little Thella,” he murmured, then walked hurriedly up to the
house. Thella looked after him sorrowfully:
“Poor pa!” she said, with a quiver in her voice.
Presently he came slowly back through the broiling sunshine and took the
hoe from her hand.
“Well?” said Thella interrogatively.
He shook his head: “’Twasn’t no use, she had it in the stove.”
“The mean, old thing—” began Thella.
“Tut-tut; she’s your mother,” said pa gently.
“She isn’t _my_ mother; my little mother is dead!” She began very hotly,
but ended with choking sobs.
“I wouldn’t cry, little daughter; we must make the very best of things
when we can’t change them,” he said with a sad resignation more pathetic
by far than tears. He took his old red bandana from his pocket and wiped
the drops from her flushed cheeks, compassionately.
“Well! You are the shif’lesses pair I ever did see,” said Mrs. Armitage
shrilly. “Thella, if you don’t go at that onion bed I’ll take a strap to
you.”
Thella gave her a look of bitter hatred, and walked sullenly to her
work. The sun beat down with terrible force; Thella knelt unprotected on
the edge of the bed, and pulled the offending weeds; her father hoed the
long rows of corn steadily, only pausing to wipe away the perspiration
as it trickled down his face. Mrs. Armitage, under the shade of an apple
tree whose boughs bent low with yellow fruit, gossiped with a neighbor.
“Pa! pa!” called Thella softly, he paused and looked at her. “Can’t I
have an apple? I’m so warm and thirsty.”
Low as was the call, Mrs. Armitage heard it; “’Tend to your work; you
always want to be chankin’ something. Warm! it’s just nice and
pleasant.”
Pa dropped his hoe between the long rows, and gathering half a dozen
apples off the tree, called Thella to him: “It is nice and cool here,
under the shade of the tree.”
He sat on the green bank, and took his little daughter on his knee; he
pushed the thick hair from her warm face; she ate her apple, her head
lying contentedly on her father’s shoulder. Mrs. Armitage went on
gossiping with the neighbor, interspersing her remarks with flings about
“People too lazy to breathe—humoring that good-for-nothing,” etc. If Pa
Armitage heard, he made no sign, beyond pressing his arm a little closer
about Thella’s waist.
Time went on. Thella was fourteen; her life was a horrible routine—up
before dawn in the winter, and before the sun in summer, to milk and
churn, cook and scrub; no thoughts expressed in her hearing except those
relating to eating, working, and the continuous bad conduct of the
neighbors—this last always sufficient for a whole day’s tirade. In
summer it was not so bad; there were always the whispering trees, and
the fragrant flowers; the green grass, and the busy booming of the
bumble bees; the lowing of the solemn-eyed cows, that came at her call.
Best of all was the walk down the long, shady lane, through the grassy
dell, where, in the limpid brook, the funny crabs crawled backward; and
the saucy, gray squirrel chattered at her from the beech and chestnut
trees on the hillside; still an added joy when “pa” followed his little
girl, telling her of his coming by putting his crooked little finger in
his mouth, and thus whistling shrilly. Fast as her nimble feet could
carry her she ran to him, and nestling her hand in his begged him to
tell her of her very own mamma. Oh, the delightful walks and talks; the
sun hanging low in the west and the soft wind just stirring the leaves;
a little later the softly falling dew, the gathering shadows, a belated
bird hopping from branch to branch with drowsy chirp; a rabbit darting
across the path, causing Thella to glance over her shoulder in quick
affright and cling a little closer to “pa’s” hand at sight of the dark
shadows all around her; then the great red moon lifting his round face
above the treetops, lighting up the openings, and leaving the shadows
darker by contrast. The sweet silence seemed deepened by the shrill cry
of the cicada, and the plaintive call of the whip-poor-will; at last pa
would say, “We must hurry home, we shall get a scolding.”
Thella would sigh and answer: “Yes, pa, but this is so nice,” with a
loving cuddle closer to his side.
Well they knew the remark Mrs. Armitage was sure to make about their
“trapezing” all over the fields.
Not long after this, all through the day Thella had been working very
hard, and in the edge of the evening sat down on the porch to rest. Pa
had just come in from the field looking worn out; Thella’s heart ached
as she looked at him: “Poor pa, you are tired out,” she said.
“Yes, pretty tired, daughter!” he answered; hearing Mrs. Armitage coming
they said no more.
She was in a fearful humor; she had quarreled with one of the neighbors,
and seemed to think that the fight extended to her own family. It was
quite dark on the porch, and Thella sat in the shadow so that she did
not observe her.
“Where is Thella?” she angrily asked of pa, as she came in.
“Not very far away, I guess,” he answered mildly.
“Out trapezing somewhere, I suppose! I seen her whispering to that Judd
Tompkins, more’n once; she’ll come to no good, I’ll tell you!”
“Sho! Sho! What’s the use of bein’ so hard, ma? Didn’t you never talk to
the boys when you was young?” asked pa very mildly.
“I wish to goodness I’d never seen a pesky man; of all the shif’less,
onery things a man’s the wust; and you’re about the laziest of the whole
bilin’.”
Pa made no reply, but Thella rose up, white and wrathful; it is not the
great things which rouse us to the depth of feeling, but the continued
pin-pricking; the nag-nagging which drives us to desperation. Thella
could take anything directed against herself; she thought many times
that she had grown so used to it that it did not hurt much, but pa, poor
pa, she could not hear the good patient soul nagged so, without a word
of protest.
“You just let pa alone! You can abuse me all you like, but you needn’t
misuse him on my account, he is not to blame for my shortcomings;” she
sidled up to him, and clasped his arm with her two hands.
“Hoity-toity! I’m glad I have your permission to express my feelings to
you, my high-flown miss; and with or without your consent, I’ll say what
I please to your pa—you little trollope, you!”
She made an angry dive at Thella, who only threw up her arm and warded
off the blow: “You had best not strike me,” she said in a peculiarly
quiet tone.
“Come away, come away, daughter; don’t quarrel with her. Make the best
of it! We can’t seem to alter things, so let’s make the best of it,”
said the old man tremulously.
Thella was trembling with anger; she realized that she had made it worse
for pa instead of helping him, and her heart was filled with regret and
bitterness.
“Pa, you don’t have to endure such abuse; set your foot down and make
her behave herself.”
“Oh, Thella, I couldn’t! Don’t you see, daughter, that I can’t quarrel
with a woman? Let us take a walk down the lane,” and hand in hand they
went. Nothing further was said on the subject until they turned to go
in; pa drew a long sigh: “I wish your ma had a lived, but I made my
bed—” he broke off abruptly, then continued in a trembling tone, “I
thought I was doing the best for my little girl to give her a new ma—you
see, a man that’s had a good wife is lonely, and beside, he don’t know
just what to do for a little girl—and I thought—I thought—” the old
voice quavered into silence piteously.
Thella stopped short and laid her hands upon his shoulders
affectionately: “Yes, I know—dear pa, you are so kind; but pa—you are
mistaken—you are not making the best of it; there is no good at all in
this way of living; it’s just slavery for the bite you eat, and a bed to
sleep in—that’s full of thorns; even your food is thrown at you as
though you were a dog, and where are all the books we used to have? One
might as well be a fool, if they can have no use for their brains,” she
ended bitterly.