Part 6

He seemed moody and distrait all the evening, and several times Gus caught him glaring at Wilbur with the unmistakable light of hatred in his eyes. Wilbur spent nearly all of his evenings with Edith, and made no secret of his devotion to her. Gus was puzzled to account for Arthur’s manner toward Wilbur; that he hated him was very evident, but it certainly was not from jealousy, as he showed not the slightest love for Edith; on the contrary, he appeared actually to dislike and avoid her. Several times during the evening he sank into such gloomy abstraction as not to notice when he was addressed; at an early hour he left the parlor and went to his room, with not even an excuse or a good-night.

Edith looked pained, but Gus was too outspoken to keep silence:

“I do believe that Arthur is going insane; I never saw such a change in any one!”

He was again absent the next morning; but he was away so frequently that no one even spoke of it; but when a week passed without his return Gus began to be vaguely alarmed and suspicious; the reason for the latter feeling being that Arthur had drawn large sums of money on his personal check within the previous week. Only the day before this last departure he had taken out several thousand dollars.

On his way to his sleeping room that night, Gus, from some impulse unexplainable, tried the door of Arthur’s room. He did not know what he expected to discover, he was simply uneasy.

To his surprise he found the door unlocked; heretofore Arthur had been more than careful to keep his privacy secure. Gus entered and turned on the light, everything seemed as usual; he opened the door of the wardrobe, and looked within, it gave him a start to find it empty. Gus turned giddy; had his prediction come true? A prophecy which was born of vexation, instead of insight. Arthur had taken away all of his clothing; no interpretation could be put upon that action, but that he intended to abandon his home; but why should he do so, unless mentally unbalanced?

As he turned to extinguish the light he saw, placed conspicuously on the dresser, a letter; trembling with undefinable fear he caught it up; without address it abruptly commenced:

“When you find this I shall be far away. I have taken five thousand dollars in cash and the diamonds which were in my safe-deposit drawer, which amount to twenty thousand more. The balance of the money and the real estate I have turned over to Wilbur; I hate him, but he has a right to the property.

“You do not understand, and will wonder; I will explain.

“You remember the time when, to all appearances, Arthur Lombard dropped dead; amid great, apparent grief, and much excitement he was carried to this house where he lay silent and motionless for three days.

“At the same instant in which he fell in his elegantly appointed office, almost in the same manner, fell Antoni Petronelli, one of a band of roving gypsies, who dwelt in a fair southern country, with no covering save the waving arms of the forest trees, or at most a house of boughs for shelter at night or in storm. As Edith and Gus mourned over Arthur Lombard, so Andalusia Varana mourned over Antoni—yet not the same—the cool blood of your race cannot realize the fierce love and desperate grief of the untrammeled children of the South.

“At the very instant that Arthur Lombard awoke to life again, that same instant arose as one from the dead, Antoni Petronelli.

“Now comes the really strange, and tragic part of the story. When these 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.